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bandgie · 2 years ago

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Beast of a Man

Smut!Tarzan

Synopsis: You were on an expedition with a team to investigate ape behavior. After setting off a booby-trap accidentally, it's not your team that finds you, but an ape-like man. Is he the missing link anthropologists have been looking for? You need to take him back to camp, and you're thinking of luring him in by more than one way.

A/N: I dont give a fuck if this movie is older than me this man is HOT no one talks about him and im SICK of it.

3.9k words

You take a deep breath through your nose and exhale through your mouth. You were growing irritated. You were somewhere in West Africa sweating your balls off (if you had any) trying to follow where the shrewdness of apes went. They had a tendency to relocate to avoid predators, and they happened to the night you slept in.

You didn't bother asking your team to help you look. You all have been up doing your notes for your dissertation and you decided that they deserved some shut eye. You were tempted to ask the person who was guiding you through the jungles, but the language barrier made you decide not to. Too much work, but the apes couldn't have gone far right?

Since it was blazing, you decided to wear some white shorts and a tan button up shirt completed with a safari hat on top. You made sure your bag was packed with snacks and water before leaving. Of course, you also brought your hunting knife. You prayed it wouldn't be necessary to use, but being out in the open made you a prey to all sorts of things.

You started your journey, keeping close to the trail you were familiar with. You started East since that's where the sun rises, praying that they would be there. You weren't sure how long you walking for until you finally found a piece of ape hair. You gasp excitedly and bent down to grab it, you were getting close.

You wiped the sweat from your forearms and continued forward with new resolution. You were going to find the nest and since it's still early afternoon, you might even be able to see-

"Ahh!" you screamed. Something tightened around your foot and you went up in the air upside, hitting your head on the ground in the process. A pained groan left your lips as you opened your eyes. You were hanging upside down by one of your ankles.

"Aw shit..." you cursed, looking up to see your foot tangled in...vine? Your eyebrows furrowed, wouldn't it have been better to use rope? Maybe your team put this here as a trap, or maybe it was the locals to catch some animals. You felt stupid as you reached upwards to grab your foot and get yourself loose.

Which was much harder than you initially thought. It was too far for you too reach and when you did manage to grasp your ankle, pain would surge from your lower back to your neck as you continued to awkwardly bend your body. Your head was pounding, blood drumming your ears before you finally gave up. They'll find you, you just have to be patient.

"HELP!" You yelled, voice echoing in the trees. You started calling your team by names, then last names. You felt your eyes water in frustration, thinking about how stupid you were to travel alone.

Granted you couldn't be that far from the trail, maybe 6 miles. But you don't know how much longer you could stand being upside down. Then it hit you, your knife! A sound of relief escaped you as your reached behind your back to grab your knife. Only your bag wasn't there. It must've flown off when you were thrusted into the air because it was 20 feet away from you on the ground.

Now you were going to really cry. No, that won't help, you think, I just need to keep yelling, but should you? Here you are alone in the jungle, making all these noises. What if you attract a predator. The thought makes you stop.

You take deep breaths as a way to keep your cool. You'll be fine, they'll find you, you just need to wa- a crunch distracts your thoughts. Your eyes try to find from where the sound came from, turning your head frantically around.

"Hello?" You call, gentle. You're not sure if it's your people, but from the lack of response you doubt it is. The crunching gets faster and louder, you hold your breath in and prepare for an animals to jump our and devour you.

Instead, a man emerges from bushes, a naked man. Almost naked, save for the piece of cloth that wraps around his waist. You narrow your eyes, unable to comprehend what you're seeing. He doesn't look like he natives that live here. The main thing to give it away is the way he walks, or more like knuckle-walking. He scoots closer to your, eyes intensely staring at you. He quadrupedaly walks to you, and you scream.

He wildly moves back, hooting as a response. You thrash around, fear bubbling in your stomach. "No! Fuck off! Go away!"

He knuckle-walks around you, inspecting to see if you're an actual threat. You're not of course, you're tied and on the verge of fainting from being upside for so long. It doesn't take long for the ape-man to realize it and come within 3 inches of your face. You stop moving and stare into his eyes. He's actually... beautiful. Looking past the dirt on his body and his tangled hair, he had a strong jaw and a large nose with a bump at the bridge. He had high cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and deep eyes. Not to mention he was staring at you in the same way, only 100x more intense. He was looking at you like you're the only woman he's ever seen, maybe the only person he's ever seen period.

His hand reaches to touch your face, his fingers gently play with your features. Starting with the nose, eyes, eyelashes, ears, then your lips. He touches his own afterwards as if comparing them. He grunts to himself as if he's talking outloud.

His hands get more explosive, moving to your neck. His hands keep traveling until they feel your breasts, he stops. He feels his own chest and a look of confusion crosses his face. When he goes back to feel your body, you thrash.

"No!"

Your stern voice makes him take a step back, but he knows you're not a real threat. He moves back to his original place and touches your top, playing with the buttons. Sweat starts to drips off your neck to the ground, you don't know how much longer you can stand this position.

His hands discover that you can unbutton these little circles, and that's exactly was he does. He doesn't even notice the bra that holds your tits, his focus completely on the shirt. When he does, his hands take no shame in touching some more.

His touch is so gentle that you instinctively puff your chest closer to him. His fingertips travel from one breast to the other, not knowing your bra can also come off.

Wait, why are you thinking about him taking off your bra? You don't know this man, if he even is a man. But the way he touches you is addicting. You love the softness of it, how he touches you as if you're the most fragile thing on this Earth.

You gently use your hands to grasp his, he jumps at the contact and look back at your eyes. You guide him to the inside of your bra, having your tits spill out. His eyes widen is surprise, as if he's never seen such a complicated contraption. He looks at his chest quickly and back at yours. He starts grabbing them and kneading them, enjoying the softness you have.

He grunts in what seems like approval. He sees you nipples harden from his touches and he pinches them. You moan in response, though you think you're just groaning from pain. You're going to blame your behavior on the lack of blood supply in your brain, but right now the dampness in your underwear is more important.

You use your hands to take off the rest of your shirt and bra, completely topless to him. This man was so entranced by your body that you have to use your hands to make him look at your face. You point to the vine that has you hostage.

"Help me down, and I'll help you," you don't even know if he can understand you, but he must because he climbs a nearby tree and loosens the knot. You fall with a thud and groan, finally feeling the extra blood leave your head.

The man climbs on top of you and looks into your eyes as if he's asking something. You nod, already knowing what he wants. You guide the back of his head back to your tits and he gratefully pops a nipple in his mouth. His hands are on either side of you, possessively keeping you under him. Your hands tangle in his hair and he continues to suck.

You hum and squeeze your legs together, wetness gathering between your legs. He releases your boob with the small pop! and goes to the other side, letting his tongue roll over your nipple. You use your hand to grab his, placing it on your other boob. He gets the message and starts massaging your boob while keeping the other in his mouth.

You moan and grind your body against his, trying to get some friction. The need in your pussy is almost unbearable, you want it to to touched, paid attention to, but you hold back. You don't want to make a decision you would regret, but you're not sure if anything you're doing is helping with that.

He suddenly stops, a whine leaving your lips when he does. He closes his eyes and inhales, looking all over your body. His smells different parts of your body, shoving his nose between your breasts.

"What?" You ask, suddenly self-conscious. The beast of a man travels down you stomach, down your navel, occasionally sticking his tongue out to taste you. Then he stops at your shorts, eyes looking into yours.

He puts his attention back onto your clothes, attempting to take them off himself. He sees the familiar button on the top of your shorts and decides he should start there. You're amazed at his intelligence. He may not be verbal, but he has amazing innovative and cognitive ability.

Your thoughts are pulled away as he manages to do the same to your shorts. He tugs them all the way down to you ankles and stares at the spot he's been aching to devour. You know you must not have the best taste considering how much you were sweating but 30 minutes prior, but this man couldn't care less. He leaned down to your core and took a deep breath, groaning as he did. His hands gripped your thighs and he squeezed them. You whimpered at his touch, opening your legs to give him better access to your pussy.

You were soaking, you could feel you essence dripping down to your body and the way you're underwear felt cold against the wind. The ape-man went it, licking your wetness and widening your legs even more. He bent your legs forwards, folding your back so you knees were almost touching your face.

You squealed at the movement never being in this position. It was pretty uncomfortable, but the way his hands held your legs by your under thighs made your stomach coil in anticipation. He used his tongue more than anything, not knowing that he could so much more.

He used his muscle to collect the remaining drool your pussy produced, trying to find the source. He was beginning to get irritated, but little did he know that your underwear was covering his desire. A part of you loved watching him struggle, but the need for him directly on you was stronger. You reached your arms around your hips and moved your underwear to the side, using your thumb to rub yourself in circles.

You tapped your pussy, making sure it made wet noises to get his attention. "Here, do it here."

The man stopped for a second, bewitched by the sight of your dripping folds and pulsing pussy. He had never seen anything like it, like a rare cuisine he was lucky enough to stumble upon. He experimentally stuck his tongue out to taste you. You hummed in satisfaction and used your fingers to spread yourself. He let your taste settle on his tastebuds, licking his lips hungrily as he decided that this was the best meal he was ever going to have.

He pushed your legs further back and buried his face into you. You moaned as his tongue shot out all over your pussy, smearing both of you juices all around. The ape man moved his face up and down against you, his large nose occasionally touching the bud of your clit.

You squirmed when he did and he noticed your behavior. He moved his tongue up to flick your bundle of nerves and you jolted. An intrigued smile found his lips as he continued his movements. It was too much, you were too sensitive and you instinctively yanked on his hair to pull him away.

You moaned in relief, but the man above you was anything but. He grabbed your hands held them down to your sides, using his chest and face to keep you in your bent position. As if to show you that he wasn't happy with your action, he ate you out brutally. He used his teeth to gently scape against your clitoris, a move he shortly found out gave him the best response.

"No no it's too much! Stop im sorry im sorry!" You cry. You pleas fell on deaf ears. He sucked hard on your bud, stretching it as he pulled away. A loud cry left out lips and he finally stopped to look at you. Your legs were shaking, sweat all over your body, back aching, and tears falling.

He gently let your legs fall so you were flat on the ground. A small sob and thank you left you as your legs closed together. The man closely looked at your face and licked your tears away, an apology. His hands soothingly went through your hair with a look of slight worry on his face.

He had such an intense gaze, you thought he would kiss you if he knew how. You sat up and put your hands on his chest, having him lay on the ground this time. Your eyes found the tent that formed in his patch of cloth. You smiled and had your hands explore his chest. He eyes you warily, not used to being under anyone or anything.

A devious smile played on your lips as you leaned down and kissed his ear, "My turn."

You sat back up and scooted down so you could place yourself between his legs, eagerly lifting off his little wrap so you could see his glory. Your eyes widened at his cock. He was so thick, veins wrapping around his length. The tip was a pretty pink, a sharp contrast to his tanned dick. You felt you mouth salivate at him and you leaned down to place a kiss on his tip.

He groaned, thrusting his hips up to feel you more. You playfully tsked and shook your head, "So impatient."

You got on all fours to be face-to-face with him, hands playing his thighs. You kissed over his pelvis, his bush, his inner thighs, anywhere besides the one place where he wanted you most. His hands went outwards besides him to grasp onto the ground beneath him. You could tell from the way he was straining and groaning, he was holding back from grasping your head. You blushed at his consideration, he's kind of a gentleman.

You decide to thank him by finally taking him into your mouth, making sure your tongue covers his slit and slowly bobbing your head up and down. He thanks you by whining, a sound that's going to forever imprint in your brain. You use one hand to keep on his stomach and the other to wrap around his shaft. You worked in one fluid motion, tasting his salty pre-cum and feeling you spit dribble out of your mouth onto your hand.

You really wanted to test your limits to see how far you could take him, but know with his girth that would be difficult. You still decided to try anyway, moving your hand to play with his balls and pulling your mouth out. He huffed in protest and looked up at you, eyes hazy.

You made sure to gather enough spit and drool over his cock. You relaxed your jaw and went back in. You took a deep breath through your nose and keep sliding down. You gagged when his tip hit you throat, but he still more than halfway to go. You closed your eyes and willed your head forward, mouth opening almost painfully.

Your pussy throbbed in excitement, imagining that it was getting stretched out instead of your mouth. The man beneath you broke, hands grasping the sides of your head and shoving you down. You violently gagged around him, eyes pooling with tears. Your nose tickled his bushy pelvis. You looked up at him to plead to let you go, but seeing your begging eyes and cock covered mouth did the opposite to him. He used your mouth as a cock sleeve, harshly dragging your lips up and down his length.

Your hands gripped his thighs, he was going so hard and fast you started thinking you were going to throw up. You eyes rolled to the back of your head you felt your pussy drip down your thighs. You've never been used by this, and you never wanted it to stop. You could probably just cum from giving him head, but your need for air was starting to get the better of you.

It took both of your hands to rip away one of his before you finally popped your mouth off his dick, gasping and coughing for air. The ape-man sat up, finally recognizing that you were on the verge of passing out. He brushed the air out your face and cradled your face into his hands. He watched as you steadied your breath, holding you close to him.

Never had a man treated you with such care and such disregard at the same time, it went straight to your aching core. You adjusted so you were straddling his lap, hands gripping his shoulders. He wasn't sure what you were doing, but when he felt your folds grind against his cock he knew what you wanted.

You grabbed the base of cock, moved your underwear to the side, and smeared hit tip over your clit. Both of you hummed in unison, his grip tightening on your hips. You moved your legs so you were in a squatting position, preparing yourself to take him in.

He patiently waited as you dipped the tip of dick cock into your pussy, shivers enveloping your body. His face twisted in unfamiliar pleasure, teeth gritting. You put more of your weight on him, sinking more and more onto his cock before you finally felt him fully in your gut. Your eyes rolled back placed your head in the crook of his neck breathless. Once you adjusted, you softly bounced on him, feeling his teeth and tongue get a feel of you exposed neck and ear. He growled approvingly once you started moving more aggressively.

One of his large hands went into your scalp, yanking your hair back to bare your throat at him. A part of you grew scared, but the way he was drooling out of the corner of his lip made you bounce with more determination. He bit the base of your throat making you cry out, then licked it apologetically. He didn't know that his nips at your neck distracted you, so when you slowed your movements down he grew upset. Taking matter into his own hands, he grabbed your ass and slammed you down hard.

You yelped, picking your head up as you looked into his eyes. He has a certain glaze over his eyes, as if he wasn't really looking at you. You leaned back to show a better view of where your bodies connected, his eyes immediately went there.

This must've been some encouragement for him because he started thrusting upwards too. The pleasure was too much, twisting your gut and providing a fiery sensation in your stomach. You whimpered and wrapped your arms around his neck for better support. You let him abuse your pussy, not caring about how he ripped your underwear off to properly see himself pound into you.

"Fuuuuuck," you moaned, "you feel so good." He had no reaction to your words, but you didn't care. He was going to bruise your hips form how hard he was holding you, but you were so close to finishing that none of that mattered.

You used one of your hands to rub your clit, attempting to finish faster. Your whines got louder and more frequent, he did the same. You tried not being loud, but you almost screamed when you came. He felt the way your walls squeezed around him and how your juices flowed out. He watched as your body nearly went limp, putting all your weight against him.

He took his opportunity to slam his cock all the way down into you until you could feel him kiss your cervix. You don't know if the noises you were making could count as moaning, but he frankly couldn't give less of a shit.

Finally, you felt the sweet warmth of his orgasm filling you up. You squeezed around him again and he moaned, wrapping his arms around your torso to make sure you didn't move from him. He couldn't stop leaking inside you as you felt some of it dribble out and possible drip down his balls.

You could tell he didn't want to pull out, satisfied with letting his cock soften between your legs. The thought to let it happen was tempting, but you already let a strange man fuck and cum inside you. There had to be some morals left.

You lifted your head up from his neck and pushed away from him. He huffed in defiance, content with his current position. You untangled yourself form him and wobbled upwards, standing. He slowly got up and looked around as if he was looking for something. Then he crawled over to your torn underwear, grabbing and putting it up to his face. You laughed as he took a deep breath, inhaling your scent like he couldn't get enough.

Once you had your top on, you walked over to him and stuck your hand out for him to give it back. Rather than obeying he growled, not threateningly, but rather in resistance. You sighed and decided going comando would be your only option.

Then an idea popped into you mind. It would be such a waste to leave a man here who seemed to listen to almost your every word. Who you could mold into the perfect fuck. Plus, you needed to study apes anyway and he seemed like the perfect willing participant.

You squatted down to his level and gently ran your fingers through his long, tangled hair. He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch. Oh yeah, you think, a perfect candidate.

You gently tapped the underwear in his hands and his eyes shot back open into yours. "Ya know," you started, "I have more of those back at camp. Wanna see?"

a/n: part 2 here

#tarzan #tarzan of the apes #tarzan smut #smut #beast #beast smut #jungle smut #jungle #tarzan and his mate #tarzan x reader #tarzan 1999

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mxamalgam · 6 months ago

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The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain

Table of Contents

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer.............................................................................................................................1

Mark Twain....................................................................................................................................................2

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer 1

Mark Twain

P R E F A C E

MOST of the adventures recorded in this book really occurred; one or two were experiences of my own, the

rest those of boys who were schoolmates of mine. Huck Finn is drawn from life; Tom Sawyer also, but not from

an individual −− he is a combination of the characteristics of three boys whom I knew, and therefore belongs to

the composite order of architecture.

The odd superstitions touched upon were all prevalent among children and slaves in the West at the period of

this story −− that is to say, thirty or forty years ago.

Although my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys and girls, I hope it will not be shunned by

men and women on that account, for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once

were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes

engaged in.

THE AUTHOR.

HARTFORD, 1876.

T O M S A W Y E R

CHAPTER I

"TOM!"

No answer.

"TOM!"

No answer.

"What's gone with that boy, I wonder? You TOM!"

No answer.

The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the room; then she put them up and

looked out under them. She seldom or never looked THROUGH them for so small a thing as a boy; they were her

state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for "style," not service −− she could have seen through a pair of

stove−lids just as well. She looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but still loud enough for

the furniture to hear:

"Well, I lay if I get hold of you I'll −−"

She did not finish, for by this time she was bending down and punching under the bed with the broom, and so

she needed breath to punctuate the punches with. She resurrected nothing but the cat.

"I never did see the beat of that boy!"

She went to the open door and stood in it and looked out among the tomato vines and "jimpson" weeds that

constituted the garden. No Tom. So she lifted up her voice at an angle calculated for distance and shouted:

"Y−o−u−u TOM!"

There was a slight noise behind her and she turned just in time to seize a small boy by the slack of his

roundabout and arrest his flight.

"There! I might 'a' thought of that closet. What you been doing in there?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing! Look at your hands. And look at your mouth. What IS that truck?"

"I don't know, aunt."

"Well, I know. It's jam −− that's what it is. Forty times I've said if you didn't let that jam alone I'd skin you.

Hand me that switch."

The switch hovered in the air −− the peril was desperate −−

"My! Look behind you, aunt!"

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 2

The old lady whirled round, and snatched her skirts out of danger. The lad fled on the instant, scrambled up the

high board−fence, and disappeared over it.

His aunt Polly stood surprised a moment, and then broke into a gentle laugh.

"Hang the boy, can't I never learn anything? Ain't he played me tricks enough like that for me to be looking out

for him by this time? But old fools is the biggest fools there is. Can't learn an old dog new tricks, as the saying is.

But my goodness, he never plays them alike, two days, and how is a body to know what's coming? He 'pears to

know just how long he can torment me before I get my dander up, and he knows if he can make out to put me off

for a minute or make me laugh, it's all down again and I can't hit him a lick. I ain't doing my duty by that boy, and

that's the Lord's truth, goodness knows. Spare the rod and spile the child, as the Good Book says. I'm a laying up

sin and suffering for us both, I know. He's full of the Old Scratch, but laws−a−me! he's my own dead sister's boy,

poor thing, and I ain't got the heart to lash him, somehow. Every time I let him off, my conscience does hurt me

so, and every time I hit him my old heart most breaks. Well−a−well, man that is born of woman is of few days

and full of trouble, as the Scripture says, and I reckon it's so. He'll play hookey this evening, * and [*

Southwestern for "afternoon"] I'll just be obleeged to make him work, to−morrow, to punish him. It's mighty hard

to make him work Saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he hates work more than he hates anything

else, and I've GOT to do some of my duty by him, or I'll be the ruination of the child."

Tom did play hookey, and he had a very good time. He got back home barely in season to help Jim, the small

colored boy, saw next−day's wood and split the kindlings before supper −− at least he was there in time to tell his

adventures to Jim while Jim did three−fourths of the work. Tom's younger brother (or rather half−brother) Sid

was already through with his part of the work (picking up chips), for he was a quiet boy, and had no adventurous,

troublesome ways.

While Tom was eating his supper, and stealing sugar as opportunity offered, Aunt Polly asked him questions

that were full of guile, and very deep −− for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments. Like many other

simple−hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe she was endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious

diplomacy, and she loved to contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of low cunning. Said she:

"Tom, it was middling warm in school, warn't it?"

"Yes'm."

"Powerful warm, warn't it?"

"Yes'm."

"Didn't you want to go in a−swimming, Tom?"

A bit of a scare shot through Tom −− a touch of uncomfortable suspicion. He searched Aunt Polly's face, but it

told him nothing. So he said:

"No'm −− well, not very much."

The old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom's shirt, and said:

"But you ain't too warm now, though." And it flattered her to reflect that she had discovered that the shirt was

dry without anybody knowing that that was what she had in her mind. But in spite of her, Tom knew where the

wind lay, now. So he forestalled what might be the next move:

"Some of us pumped on our heads −− mine's damp yet. See?"

Aunt Polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick. Then

she had a new inspiration:

"Tom, you didn't have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed it, to pump on your head, did you? Unbutton

your jacket!"

The trouble vanished out of Tom's face. He opened his jacket. His shirt collar was securely sewed.

"Bother! Well, go 'long with you. I'd made sure you'd played hookey and been a−swimming. But I forgive ye,

Tom. I reckon you're a kind of a singed cat, as the saying is −− better'n you look. THIS time."

She was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that Tom had stumbled into obedient conduct for

once.

But Sidney said:

"Well, now, if I didn't think you sewed his collar with white thread, but it's black."

"Why, I did sew it with white! Tom!"

But Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out at the door he said:

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 3

"Siddy, I'll lick you for that."

In a safe place Tom examined two large needles which were thrust into the lapels of his jacket, and had thread

bound about them −− one needle carried white thread and the other black. He said:

"She'd never noticed if it hadn't been for Sid. Confound it! sometimes she sews it with white, and sometimes

she sews it with black. I wish to geeminy she'd stick to one or t'other −− I can't keep the run of 'em. But I bet you

I'll lam Sid for that. I'll learn him!"

He was not the Model Boy of the village. He knew the model boy very well though −− and loathed him.

Within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles. Not because his troubles were one whit less

heavy and bitter to him than a man's are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore them down and

drove them out of his mind for the time −− just as men's misfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new

enterprises. This new interest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired from a negro, and he

was suffering to practise it undisturbed. It consisted in a peculiar bird−like turn, a sort of liquid warble, produced

by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short intervals in the midst of the music −− the reader probably

remembers how to do it, if he has ever been a boy. Diligence and attention soon gave him the knack of it, and he

strode down the street with his mouth full of harmony and his soul full of gratitude. He felt much as an

astronomer feels who has discovered a new planet −− no doubt, as far as strong, deep, unalloyed pleasure is

concerned, the advantage was with the boy, not the astronomer.

The summer evenings were long. It was not dark, yet. Presently Tom checked his whistle. A stranger was

before him −− a boy a shade larger than himself. A new−comer of any age or either sex was an impressive

curiosity in the poor little shabby village of St. Petersburg. This boy was well dressed, too −− well dressed on a

week−day. This was simply astounding. His cap was a dainty thing, his closebuttoned blue cloth roundabout was

new and natty, and so were his pantaloons. He had shoes on −− and it was only Friday. He even wore a necktie, a

bright bit of ribbon. He had a citified air about him that ate into Tom's vitals. The more Tom stared at the splendid

marvel, the higher he turned up his nose at his finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own outfit seemed to him

to grow. Neither boy spoke. If one moved, the other moved −− but only sidewise, in a circle; they kept face to

face and eye to eye all the time. Finally Tom said:

"I can lick you!"

"I'd like to see you try it."

"Well, I can do it."

"No you can't, either."

"Yes I can."

"No you can't."

"I can."

"You can't."

"Can!"

"Can't!"

An uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said:

"What's your name?"

"'Tisn't any of your business, maybe."

"Well I 'low I'll MAKE it my business."

"Well why don't you?"

"If you say much, I will."

"Much −− much −− MUCH. There now."

"Oh, you think you're mighty smart, DON'T you? I could lick you with one hand tied behind me, if I wanted

to."

"Well why don't you DO it? You SAY you can do it."

"Well I WILL, if you fool with me."

"Oh yes −− I've seen whole families in the same fix."

"Smarty! You think you're SOME, now, DON'T you? Oh, what a hat!"

"You can lump that hat if you don't like it. I dare you to knock it off −− and anybody that'll take a dare will

suck eggs."

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 4

"You're a liar!"

"You're another."

"You're a fighting liar and dasn't take it up."

"Aw −− take a walk!"

"Say −− if you give me much more of your sass I'll take and bounce a rock off'n your head."

"Oh, of COURSE you will."

"Well I WILL."

"Well why don't you DO it then? What do you keep SAYING you will for? Why don't you DO it? It's because

you're afraid."

"I AIN'T afraid."

"You are."

"I ain't."

"You are."

Another pause, and more eying and sidling around each other. Presently they were shoulder to shoulder. Tom

said:

"Get away from here!"

"Go away yourself!"

"I won't."

"I won't either."

So they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle as a brace, and both shoving with might and main, and

glowering at each other with hate. But neither could get an advantage. After struggling till both were hot and

flushed, each relaxed his strain with watchful caution, and Tom said:

"You're a coward and a pup. I'll tell my big brother on you, and he can thrash you with his little finger, and I'll

make him do it, too."

"What do I care for your big brother? I've got a brother that's bigger than he is −− and what's more, he can

throw him over that fence, too." [Both brothers were imaginary.]

"That's a lie."

"YOUR saying so don't make it so."

Tom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and said:

"I dare you to step over that, and I'll lick you till you can't stand up. Anybody that'll take a dare will steal

sheep."

The new boy stepped over promptly, and said:

"Now you said you'd do it, now let's see you do it."

"Don't you crowd me now; you better look out."

"Well, you SAID you'd do it −− why don't you do it?"

"By jingo! for two cents I WILL do it."

The new boy took two broad coppers out of his pocket and held them out with derision. Tom struck them to

the ground. In an instant both boys were rolling and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like cats; and for the

space of a minute they tugged and tore at each other's hair and clothes, punched and scratched each other's nose,

and covered themselves with dust and glory. Presently the confusion took form, and through the fog of battle Tom

appeared, seated astride the new boy, and pounding him with his fists. "Holler 'nuff!" said he.

The boy only struggled to free himself. He was crying −− mainly from rage.

"Holler 'nuff!" −− and the pounding went on.

At last the stranger got out a smothered "'Nuff!" and Tom let him up and said:

"Now that'll learn you. Better look out who you're fooling with next time."

The new boy went off brushing the dust from his clothes, sobbing, snuffling, and occasionally looking back

and shaking his head and threatening what he would do to Tom the "next time he caught him out." To which Tom

responded with jeers, and started off in high feather, and as soon as his back was turned the new boy snatched up

a stone, threw it and hit him between the shoulders and then turned tail and ran like an antelope. Tom chased the

traitor home, and thus found out where he lived. He then held a position at the gate for some time, daring the

enemy to come outside, but the enemy only made faces at him through the window and declined. At last the

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 5

enemy's mother appeared, and called Tom a bad, vicious, vulgar child, and ordered him away. So he went away;

but he said he "'lowed" to "lay" for that boy.

He got home pretty late that night, and when he climbed cautiously in at the window, he uncovered an

ambuscade, in the person of his aunt; and when she saw the state his clothes were in her resolution to turn his

Saturday holiday into captivity at hard labor became adamantine in its firmness.

CHAPTER II

SATURDAY morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life.

There was a song in every heart; and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in every

face and a spring in every step. The locust−trees were in bloom and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air.

Cardiff Hill, beyond the village and above it, was green with vegetation and it lay just far enough away to seem a

Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.

Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long−handled brush. He surveyed the fence,

and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet

high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the

topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the

far−reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree−box discouraged. Jim came skipping out

at the gate with a tin pail, and singing Buffalo Gals. Bringing water from the town pump had always been hateful

work in Tom's eyes, before, but now it did not strike him so. He remembered that there was company at the pump.

White, mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there waiting their turns, resting, trading playthings,

quarrelling, fighting, skylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was only a hundred and fifty yards

off, Jim never got back with a bucket of water under an hour −− and even then somebody generally had to go after

him. Tom said:

"Say, Jim, I'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash some."

Jim shook his head and said:

"Can't, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an' git dis water an' not stop foolin' roun' wid anybody.

She say she spec' Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an' so she tole me go 'long an' 'tend to my own

business −− she 'lowed SHE'D 'tend to de whitewashin'."

"Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That's the way she always talks. Gimme the bucket −− I won't be

gone only a a minute. SHE won't ever know."

"Oh, I dasn't, Mars Tom. Ole missis she'd take an' tar de head off'n me. 'Deed she would."

"SHE! She never licks anybody −− whacks 'em over the head with her thimble −− and who cares for that, I'd

like to know. She talks awful, but talk don't hurt −− anyways it don't if she don't cry. Jim, I'll give you a marvel.

I'll give you a white alley!"

Jim began to waver.

"White alley, Jim! And it's a bully taw."

"My! Dat's a mighty gay marvel, I tell you! But Mars Tom I's powerful 'fraid ole missis −−"

"And besides, if you will I'll show you my sore toe."

Jim was only human −− this attraction was too much for him. He put down his pail, took the white alley, and

bent over the toe with absorbing interest while the bandage was being unwound. In another moment he was flying

down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, Tom was whitewashing with vigor, and Aunt Polly was retiring

from the field with a slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye.

But Tom's energy did not last. He began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his sorrows

multiplied. Soon the free boys would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would

make a world of fun of him for having to work −− the very thought of it burnt him like fire. He got out his

worldly wealth and examined it −− bits of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an exchange of WORK, maybe,

but not half enough to buy so much as half an hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straitened means to his

pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. At this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 6

upon him! Nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration.

He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in sight presently −− the very boy, of all

boys, whose ridicule he had been dreading. Ben's gait was the hop−skip−and−jump −− proof enough that his heart

was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an apple, and giving a long, melodious whoop, at intervals,

followed by a deep−toned dingdong −dong, ding−dong−dong, for he was personating a steamboat. As he drew

near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned far over to starboard and rounded to ponderously

and with laborious pomp and circumstance −− for he was personating the Big Missouri, and considered himself to

be drawing nine feet of water. He was boat and captain and engine−bells combined, so he had to imagine himself

standing on his own hurricane−deck giving the orders and executing them:

"Stop her, sir! Ting−a−ling−ling!" The headway ran almost out, and he drew up slowly toward the sidewalk.

"Ship up to back! Ting−a−ling−ling!" His arms straightened and stiffened down his sides.

"Set her back on the stabboard! Ting−a−ling−ling! Chow! ch−chow−wow! Chow!" His right hand, meantime,

describing stately circles −− for it was representing a forty−foot wheel.

"Let her go back on the labboard! Ting−a−lingling ! Chow−ch−chow−chow!" The left hand began to describe

circles.

"Stop the stabboard! Ting−a−ling−ling! Stop the labboard! Come ahead on the stabboard! Stop her! Let your

outside turn over slow! Ting−a−ling−ling! Chow−ow−ow! Get out that head−line! LIVELY now! Come −− out

with your spring−line −− what're you about there! Take a turn round that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that

stage, now −− let her go! Done with the engines, sir! Ting−a−ling−ling! SH'T! S'H'T! SH'T!" (trying the

gauge−cocks).

Tom went on whitewashing −− paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben stared a moment and then said:

"Hi−YI! YOU'RE up a stump, ain't you!"

No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then he gave his brush another gentle sweep

and surveyed the result, as before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the apple, but he

stuck to his work. Ben said:

"Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?"

Tom wheeled suddenly and said:

"Why, it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing."

"Say −− I'm going in a−swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could? But of course you'd druther WORK −−

wouldn't you? Course you would!"

Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:

"What do you call work?"

"Why, ain't THAT work?"

Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly:

"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know, is, it suits Tom Sawyer."

"Oh come, now, you don't mean to let on that you LIKE it?"

The brush continued to move.

"Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?"

That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth

−− stepped back to note the effect −− added a touch here and there −− criticised the effect again −− Ben watching

every move and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said:

"Say, Tom, let ME whitewash a little."

Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:

"No −− no −− I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence −−

right here on the street, you know −− but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind and SHE wouldn't. Yes, she's

awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe

two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done."

"No −− is that so? Oh come, now −− lemme just try. Only just a little −− I'd let YOU, if you was me, Tom."

"Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly −− well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him; Sid

wanted to do it, and she wouldn't let Sid. Now don't you see how I'm fixed? If you was to tackle this fence and

anything was to happen to it −−"

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 7

"Oh, shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say −− I'll give you the core of my apple."

"Well, here −− No, Ben, now don't. I'm afeard −−"

"I'll give you ALL of it!"

Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while the late steamer Big

Missouri worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs,

munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of material; boys happened

along every little while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had

traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite, in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in

for a dead rat and a string to swing it with −− and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the

afternoon came, from being a poor poverty−stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He

had besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jews−harp, a piece of blue bottle−glass to look

through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a

tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire−crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass doorknob, a dog−collar −−

but no dog −− the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange−peel, and a dilapidated old window sash.

He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while −− plenty of company −− and the fence had three coats of

whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He had discovered a great law of human

action, without knowing it −− namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to

make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he

would now have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is OBLIGED to do, and that Play consists

of whatever a body is not obliged to do. And this would help him to understand why constructing artificial

flowers or performing on a tread−mill is work, while rolling ten−pins or climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement.

There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four−horse passengercoaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily

line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the

service, that would turn it into work and then they would resign.

The boy mused awhile over the substantial change which had taken place in his worldly circumstances, and

then wended toward headquarters to report.

CHAPTER III

TOM presented himself before Aunt Polly, who was sitting by an open window in a pleasant rearward

apartment, which was bedroom, breakfast−room, dining−room, and library, combined. The balmy summer air, the

restful quiet, the odor of the flowers, and the drowsing murmur of the bees had had their effect, and she was

nodding over her knitting −− for she had no company but the cat, and it was asleep in her lap. Her spectacles were

propped up on her gray head for safety. She had thought that of course Tom had deserted long ago, and she

wondered at seeing him place himself in her power again in this intrepid way. He said: "Mayn't I go and play

now, aunt?"

"What, a'ready? How much have you done?"

"It's all done, aunt."

"Tom, don't lie to me −− I can't bear it."

"I ain't, aunt; it IS all done."

Aunt Polly placed small trust in such evidence. She went out to see for herself; and she would have been

content to find twenty per cent. of Tom's statement true. When she found the entire fence whitewashed, and not

only whitewashed but elaborately coated and recoated, and even a streak added to the ground, her astonishment

was almost unspeakable. She said:

"Well, I never! There's no getting round it, you can work when you're a mind to, Tom." And then she diluted

the compliment by adding, "But it's powerful seldom you're a mind to, I'm bound to say. Well, go 'long and play;

but mind you get back some time in a week, or I'll tan you."

She was so overcome by the splendor of his achievement that she took him into the closet and selected a

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 8

choice apple and delivered it to him, along with an improving lecture upon the added value and flavor a treat took

to itself when it came without sin through virtuous effort. And while she closed with a happy Scriptural flourish,

he "hooked" a doughnut.

Then he skipped out, and saw Sid just starting up the outside stairway that led to the back rooms on the second

floor. Clods were handy and the air was full of them in a twinkling. They raged around Sid like a hail−storm; and

before Aunt Polly could collect her surprised faculties and sally to the rescue, six or seven clods had taken

personal effect, and Tom was over the fence and gone. There was a gate, but as a general thing he was too

crowded for time to make use of it. His soul was at peace, now that he had settled with Sid for calling attention to

his black thread and getting him into trouble.

Tom skirted the block, and came round into a muddy alley that led by the back of his aunt's cowstable. He

presently got safely beyond the reach of capture and punishment, and hastened toward the public square of the

village, where two "military" companies of boys had met for conflict, according to previous appointment. Tom

was General of one of these armies, Joe Harper (a bosom friend) General of the other. These two great

commanders did not condescend to fight in person −− that being better suited to the still smaller fry −− but sat

together on an eminence and conducted the field operations by orders delivered through aides−de−camp. Tom's

army won a great victory, after a long and hard−fought battle. Then the dead were counted, prisoners exchanged,

the terms of the next disagreement agreed upon, and the day for the necessary battle appointed; after which the

armies fell into line and marched away, and Tom turned homeward alone.

As he was passing by the house where Jeff Thatcher lived, he saw a new girl in the garden −− a lovely little

blue−eyed creature with yellow hair plaited into two long−tails, white summer frock and embroidered pantalettes.

The fresh−crowned hero fell without firing a shot. A certain Amy Lawrence vanished out of his heart and left not

even a memory of herself behind. He had thought he loved her to distraction; he had regarded his passion as

adoration; and behold it was only a poor little evanescent partiality. He had been months winning her; she had

confessed hardly a week ago; he had been the happiest and the proudest boy in the world only seven short days,

and here in one instant of time she had gone out of his heart like a casual stranger whose visit is done.

He worshipped this new angel with furtive eye, till he saw that she had discovered him; then he pretended he

did not know she was present, and began to "show off" in all sorts of absurd boyish ways, in order to win her

admiration. He kept up this grotesque foolishness for some time; but by−and−by, while he was in the midst of

some dangerous gymnastic performances, he glanced aside and saw that the little girl was wending her way

toward the house. Tom came up to the fence and leaned on it, grieving, and hoping she would tarry yet awhile

longer. She halted a moment on the steps and then moved toward the door. Tom heaved a great sigh as she put her

foot on the threshold. But his face lit up, right away, for she tossed a pansy over the fence a moment before she

disappeared.

The boy ran around and stopped within a foot or two of the flower, and then shaded his eyes with his hand and

began to look down street as if he had discovered something of interest going on in that direction. Presently he

picked up a straw and began trying to balance it on his nose, with his head tilted far back; and as he moved from

side to side, in his efforts, he edged nearer and nearer toward the pansy; finally his bare foot rested upon it, his

pliant toes closed upon it, and he hopped away with the treasure and disappeared round the corner. But only for a

minute −− only while he could button the flower inside his jacket, next his heart −− or next his stomach, possibly,

for he was not much posted in anatomy, and not hypercritical, anyway.

He returned, now, and hung about the fence till nightfall, "showing off," as before; but the girl never exhibited

herself again, though Tom comforted himself a little with the hope that she had been near some window,

meantime, and been aware of his attentions. Finally he strode home reluctantly, with his poor head full of visions.

All through supper his spirits were so high that his aunt wondered "what had got into the child." He took a

good scolding about clodding Sid, and did not seem to mind it in the least. He tried to steal sugar under his aunt's

very nose, and got his knuckles rapped for it. He said:

"Aunt, you don't whack Sid when he takes it."

"Well, Sid don't torment a body the way you do. You'd be always into that sugar if I warn't watching you."

Presently she stepped into the kitchen, and Sid, happy in his immunity, reached for the sugar−bowl −− a sort of

glorying over Tom which was wellnigh unbearable. But Sid's fingers slipped and the bowl dropped and broke.

Tom was in ecstasies. In such ecstasies that he even controlled his tongue and was silent. He said to himself that

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 9

he would not speak a word, even when his aunt came in, but would sit perfectly still till she asked who did the

mischief; and then he would tell, and there would be nothing so good in the world as to see that pet model "catch

it." He was so brimful of exultation that he could hardly hold himself when the old lady came back and stood

above the wreck discharging lightnings of wrath from over her spectacles. He said to himself, "Now it's coming!"

And the next instant he was sprawling on the floor! The potent palm was uplifted to strike again when Tom cried

out:

"Hold on, now, what 'er you belting ME for? −− Sid broke it!"

Aunt Polly paused, perplexed, and Tom looked for healing pity. But when she got her tongue again, she only

said:

"Umf! Well, you didn't get a lick amiss, I reckon. You been into some other audacious mischief when I wasn't

around, like enough."

Then her conscience reproached her, and she yearned to say something kind and loving; but she judged that

this would be construed into a confession that she had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade that. So she kept

silence, and went about her affairs with a troubled heart. Tom sulked in a corner and exalted his woes. He knew

that in her heart his aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the consciousness of it. He

would hang out no signals, he would take notice of none. He knew that a yearning glance fell upon him, now and

then, through a film of tears, but he refused recognition of it. He pictured himself lying sick unto death and his

aunt bending over him beseeching one little forgiving word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and die with

that word unsaid. Ah, how would she feel then? And he pictured himself brought home from the river, dead, with

his curls all wet, and his sore heart at rest. How she would throw herself upon him, and how her tears would fall

like rain, and her lips pray God to give her back her boy and she would never, never abuse him any more! But he

would lie there cold and white and make no sign −− a poor little sufferer, whose griefs were at an end. He so

worked upon his feelings with the pathos of these dreams, that he had to keep swallowing, he was so like to

choke; and his eyes swam in a blur of water, which overflowed when he winked, and ran down and trickled from

the end of his nose. And such a luxury to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he could not bear to have any

worldly cheeriness or any grating delight intrude upon it; it was too sacred for such contact; and so, presently,

when his cousin Mary danced in, all alive with the joy of seeing home again after an age−long visit of one week

to the country, he got up and moved in clouds and darkness out at one door as she brought song and sunshine in at

the other.

He wandered far from the accustomed haunts of boys, and sought desolate places that were in harmony with

his spirit. A log raft in the river invited him, and he seated himself on its outer edge and contemplated the dreary

vastness of the stream, wishing, the while, that he could only be drowned, all at once and unconsciously, without

undergoing the uncomfortable routine devised by nature. Then he thought of his flower. He got it out, rumpled

and wilted, and it mightily increased his dismal felicity. He wondered if she would pity him if she knew? Would

she cry, and wish that she had a right to put her arms around his neck and comfort him? Or would she turn coldly

away like all the hollow world? This picture brought such an agony of pleasurable suffering that he worked it over

and over again in his mind and set it up in new and varied lights, till he wore it threadbare. At last he rose up

sighing and departed in the darkness.

About half−past nine or ten o'clock he came along the deserted street to where the Adored Unknown lived; he

paused a moment; no sound fell upon his listening ear; a candle was casting a dull glow upon the curtain of a

second−story window. Was the sacred presence there? He climbed the fence, threaded his stealthy way through

the plants, till he stood under that window; he looked up at it long, and with emotion; then he laid him down on

the ground under it, disposing himself upon his back, with his hands clasped upon his breast and holding his poor

wilted flower. And thus he would die −− out in the cold world, with no shelter over his homeless head, no friendly

hand to wipe the death−damps from his brow, no loving face to bend pityingly over him when the great agony

came. And thus SHE would see him when she looked out upon the glad morning, and oh! would she drop one

little tear upon his poor, lifeless form, would she heave one little sigh to see a bright young life so rudely blighted,

so untimely cut down?

The window went up, a maid−servant's discordant voice profaned the holy calm, and a deluge of water

drenched the prone martyr's remains!

The strangling hero sprang up with a relieving snort. There was a whiz as of a missile in the air, mingled with

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 10

the murmur of a curse, a sound as of shivering glass followed, and a small, vague form went over the fence and

shot away in the gloom.

Not long after, as Tom, all undressed for bed, was surveying his drenched garments by the light of a tallow dip,

Sid woke up; but if he had any dim idea of making any "references to allusions," he thought better of it and held

his peace, for there was danger in Tom's eye.

Tom turned in without the added vexation of prayers, and Sid made mental note of the omission.

CHAPTER IV

THE sun rose upon a tranquil world, and beamed down upon the peaceful village like a benediction. Breakfast

over, Aunt Polly had family worship: it began with a prayer built from the ground up of solid courses of Scriptural

quotations, welded together with a thin mortar of originality; and from the summit of this she delivered a grim

chapter of the Mosaic Law, as from Sinai.

Then Tom girded up his loins, so to speak, and went to work to "get his verses." Sid had learned his lesson

days before. Tom bent all his energies to the memorizing of five verses, and he chose part of the Sermon on the

Mount, because he could find no verses that were shorter. At the end of half an hour Tom had a vague general

idea of his lesson, but no more, for his mind was traversing the whole field of human thought, and his hands were

busy with distracting recreations. Mary took his book to hear him recite, and he tried to find his way through the

fog:

"Blessed are the −− a −− a −−"

"Poor" −−

"Yes −− poor; blessed are the poor −− a −− a −−"

"In spirit −−"

"In spirit; blessed are the poor in spirit, for they −− they −−"

"THEIRS −−"

"For THEIRS. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn,

for they −− they −−"

"Sh −−"

"For they −− a −−"

"S, H, A −−"

"For they S, H −− Oh, I don't know what it is!"

"SHALL!"

"Oh, SHALL! for they shall −− for they shall −− a −− a −− shall mourn −− a−− a −− blessed are they that shall

−− they that −− a −− they that shall mourn, for they shall −− a −− shall WHAT? Why don't you tell me, Mary? −−

what do you want to be so mean for?"

"Oh, Tom, you poor thick−headed thing, I'm not teasing you. I wouldn't do that. You must go and learn it

again. Don't you be discouraged, Tom, you'll manage it −− and if you do, I'll give you something ever so nice.

There, now, that's a good boy."

"All right! What is it, Mary, tell me what it is."

"Never you mind, Tom. You know if I say it's nice, it is nice."

"You bet you that's so, Mary. All right, I'll tackle it again."

And he did "tackle it again" −− and under the double pressure of curiosity and prospective gain he did it with

such spirit that he accomplished a shining success. Mary gave him a brand−new "Barlow" knife worth twelve and

a half cents; and the convulsion of delight that swept his system shook him to his foundations. True, the knife

would not cut anything, but it was a "sure−enough" Barlow, and there was inconceivable grandeur in that −−

though where the Western boys ever got the idea that such a weapon could possibly be counterfeited to its injury

is an imposing mystery and will always remain so, perhaps. Tom contrived to scarify the cupboard with it, and

was arranging to begin on the bureau, when he was called off to dress for Sunday−school.

Mary gave him a tin basin of water and a piece of soap, and he went outside the door and set the basin on a

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 11

little bench there; then he dipped the soap in the water and laid it down; turned up his sleeves; poured out the

water on the ground, gently, and then entered the kitchen and began to wipe his face diligently on the towel

behind the door. But Mary removed the towel and said:

"Now ain't you ashamed, Tom. You mustn't be so bad. Water won't hurt you."

Tom was a trifle disconcerted. The basin was refilled, and this time he stood over it a little while, gathering

resolution; took in a big breath and began. When he entered the kitchen presently, with both eyes shut and groping

for the towel with his hands, an honorable testimony of suds and water was dripping from his face. But when he

emerged from the towel, he was not yet satisfactory, for the clean territory stopped short at his chin and his jaws,

like a mask; below and beyond this line there was a dark expanse of unirrigated soil that spread downward in

front and backward around his neck. Mary took him in hand, and when she was done with him he was a man and

a brother, without distinction of color, and his saturated hair was neatly brushed, and its short curls wrought into a

dainty and symmetrical general effect. [He privately smoothed out the curls, with labor and difficulty, and

plastered his hair close down to his head; for he held curls to be effeminate, and his own filled his life with

bitterness.] Then Mary got out a suit of his clothing that had been used only on Sundays during two years −− they

were simply called his "other clothes" −− and so by that we know the size of his wardrobe. The girl "put him to

rights" after he had dressed himself; she buttoned his neat roundabout up to his chin, turned his vast shirt collar

down over his shoulders, brushed him off and crowned him with his speckled straw hat. He now looked

exceedingly improved and uncomfortable. He was fully as uncomfortable as he looked; for there was a restraint

about whole clothes and cleanliness that galled him. He hoped that Mary would forget his shoes, but the hope was

blighted; she coated them thoroughly with tallow, as was the custom, and brought them out. He lost his temper

and said he was always being made to do everything he didn't want to do. But Mary said, persuasively:

"Please, Tom −− that's a good boy."

So he got into the shoes snarling. Mary was soon ready, and the three children set out for Sunday−school −− a

place that Tom hated with his whole heart; but Sid and Mary were fond of it.

Sabbath−school hours were from nine to half−past ten; and then church service. Two of the children always

remained for the sermon voluntarily, and the other always remained too −− for stronger reasons. The church's

high−backed, uncushioned pews would seat about three hundred persons; the edifice was but a small, plain affair,

with a sort of pine board tree−box on top of it for a steeple. At the door Tom dropped back a step and accosted a

Sunday−dressed comrade:

"Say, Billy, got a yaller ticket?"

"Yes."

"What'll you take for her?"

"What'll you give?"

"Piece of lickrish and a fish−hook."

"Less see 'em."

Tom exhibited. They were satisfactory, and the property changed hands. Then Tom traded a couple of white

alleys for three red tickets, and some small trifle or other for a couple of blue ones. He waylaid other boys as they

came, and went on buying tickets of various colors ten or fifteen minutes longer. He entered the church, now, with

a swarm of clean and noisy boys and girls, proceeded to his seat and started a quarrel with the first boy that came

handy. The teacher, a grave, elderly man, interfered; then turned his back a moment and Tom pulled a boy's hair

in the next bench, and was absorbed in his book when the boy turned around; stuck a pin in another boy,

presently, in order to hear him say "Ouch!" and got a new reprimand from his teacher. Tom's whole class were of

a pattern −− restless, noisy, and troublesome. When they came to recite their lessons, not one of them knew his

verses perfectly, but had to be prompted all along. However, they worried through, and each got his reward −− in

small blue tickets, each with a passage of Scripture on it; each blue ticket was pay for two verses of the recitation.

Ten blue tickets equalled a red one, and could be exchanged for it; ten red tickets equalled a yellow one; for ten

yellow tickets the superintendent gave a very plainly bound Bible (worth forty cents in those easy times) to the

pupil. How many of my readers would have the industry and application to memorize two thousand verses, even

for a Dore Bible? And yet Mary had acquired two Bibles in this way −− it was the patient work of two years −−

and a boy of German parentage had won four or five. He once recited three thousand verses without stopping; but

the strain upon his mental faculties was too great, and he was little better than an idiot from that day forth −− a

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 12

grievous misfortune for the school, for on great occasions, before company, the superintendent (as Tom expressed

it) had always made this boy come out and "spread himself." Only the older pupils managed to keep their tickets

and stick to their tedious work long enough to get a Bible, and so the delivery of one of these prizes was a rare

and noteworthy circumstance; the successful pupil was so great and conspicuous for that day that on the spot

every scholar's heart was fired with a fresh ambition that often lasted a couple of weeks. It is possible that Tom's

mental stomach had never really hungered for one of those prizes, but unquestionably his entire being had for

many a day longed for the glory and the eclat that came with it.

In due course the superintendent stood up in front of the pulpit, with a closed hymn−book in his hand and his

forefinger inserted between its leaves, and commanded attention. When a Sunday−school superintendent makes

his customary little speech, a hymn−book in the hand is as necessary as is the inevitable sheet of music in the

hand of a singer who stands forward on the platform and sings a solo at a concert −− though why, is a mystery:

for neither the hymn−book nor the sheet of music is ever referred to by the sufferer. This superintendent was a

slim creature of thirty−five, with a sandy goatee and short sandy hair; he wore a stiff standing−collar whose upper

edge almost reached his ears and whose sharp points curved forward abreast the corners of his mouth −− a fence

that compelled a straight lookout ahead, and a turning of the whole body when a side view was required; his chin

was propped on a spreading cravat which was as broad and as long as a bank−note, and had fringed ends; his boot

toes were turned sharply up, in the fashion of the day, like sleighrunners −− an effect patiently and laboriously

produced by the young men by sitting with their toes pressed against a wall for hours together. Mr. Walters was

very earnest of mien, and very sincere and honest at heart; and he held sacred things and places in such reverence,

and so separated them from worldly matters, that unconsciously to himself his Sunday−school voice had acquired

a peculiar intonation which was wholly absent on week−days. He began after this fashion:

"Now, children, I want you all to sit up just as straight and pretty as you can and give me all your attention for

a minute or two. There −− that is it. That is the way good little boys and girls should do. I see one little girl who is

looking out of the window −− I am afraid she thinks I am out there somewhere −− perhaps up in one of the trees

making a speech to the little birds. [Applausive titter.] I want to tell you how good it makes me feel to see so

many bright, clean little faces assembled in a place like this, learning to do right and be good." And so forth and

so on. It is not necessary to set down the rest of the oration. It was of a pattern which does not vary, and so it is

familiar to us all.

The latter third of the speech was marred by the resumption of fights and other recreations among certain of

the bad boys, and by fidgetings and whisperings that extended far and wide, washing even to the bases of isolated

and incorruptible rocks like Sid and Mary. But now every sound ceased suddenly, with the subsidence of Mr.

Walters' voice, and the conclusion of the speech was received with a burst of silent gratitude.

A good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event which was more or less rare −− the entrance of

visitors: lawyer Thatcher, accompanied by a very feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle−aged gentleman

with iron−gray hair; and a dignified lady who was doubtless the latter's wife. The lady was leading a child. Tom

had been restless and full of chafings and repinings; conscience−smitten, too −− he could not meet Amy

Lawrence's eye, he could not brook her loving gaze. But when he saw this small new−comer his soul was all

ablaze with bliss in a moment. The next moment he was "showing off" with all his might −− cuffing boys, pulling

hair, making faces −− in a word, using every art that seemed likely to fascinate a girl and win her applause. His

exaltation had but one alloy −− the memory of his humiliation in this angel's garden −− and that record in sand

was fast washing out, under the waves of happiness that were sweeping over it now.

The visitors were given the highest seat of honor, and as soon as Mr. Walters' speech was finished, he

introduced them to the school. The middle−aged man turned out to be a prodigious personage −− no less a one

than the county judge −− altogether the most august creation these children had ever looked upon −− and they

wondered what kind of material he was made of −− and they half wanted to hear him roar, and were half afraid he

might, too. He was from Constantinople, twelve miles away −− so he had travelled, and seen the world −− these

very eyes had looked upon the county court−house −− which was said to have a tin roof. The awe which these

reflections inspired was attested by the impressive silence and the ranks of staring eyes. This was the great Judge

Thatcher, brother of their own lawyer. Jeff Thatcher immediately went forward, to be familiar with the great man

and be envied by the school. It would have been music to his soul to hear the whisperings:

"Look at him, Jim! He's a going up there. Say −− look! he's a going to shake hands with him −− he IS shaking

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 13

hands with him! By jings, don't you wish you was Jeff?"

Mr. Walters fell to "showing off," with all sorts of official bustlings and activities, giving orders, delivering

judgments, discharging directions here, there, everywhere that he could find a target. The librarian "showed off"

−− running hither and thither with his arms full of books and making a deal of the splutter and fuss that insect

authority delights in. The young lady teachers "showed off" −− bending sweetly over pupils that were lately being

boxed, lifting pretty warning fingers at bad little boys and patting good ones lovingly. The young gentlemen

teachers "showed off" with small scoldings and other little displays of authority and fine attention to discipline −−

and most of the teachers, of both sexes, found business up at the library, by the pulpit; and it was business that

frequently had to be done over again two or three times (with much seeming vexation). The little girls "showed

off" in various ways, and the little boys "showed off" with such diligence that the air was thick with paper wads

and the murmur of scufflings. And above it all the great man sat and beamed a majestic judicial smile upon all the

house, and warmed himself in the sun of his own grandeur −− for he was "showing off," too.

There was only one thing wanting to make Mr. Walters' ecstasy complete, and that was a chance to deliver a

Bible−prize and exhibit a prodigy. Several pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none had enough −− he had been

around among the star pupils inquiring. He would have given worlds, now, to have that German lad back again

with a sound mind.

And now at this moment, when hope was dead, Tom Sawyer came forward with nine yellow tickets, nine red

tickets, and ten blue ones, and demanded a Bible. This was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Walters was not

expecting an application from this source for the next ten years. But there was no getting around it −− here were

the certified checks, and they were good for their face. Tom was therefore elevated to a place with the Judge and

the other elect, and the great news was announced from headquarters. It was the most stunning surprise of the

decade, and so profound was the sensation that it lifted the new hero up to the judicial one's altitude, and the

school had two marvels to gaze upon in place of one. The boys were all eaten up with envy −− but those that

suffered the bitterest pangs were those who perceived too late that they themselves had contributed to this hated

splendor by trading tickets to Tom for the wealth he had amassed in selling whitewashing privileges. These

despised themselves, as being the dupes of a wily fraud, a guileful snake in the grass.

The prize was delivered to Tom with as much effusion as the superintendent could pump up under the

circumstances; but it lacked somewhat of the true gush, for the poor fellow's instinct taught him that there was a

mystery here that could not well bear the light, perhaps; it was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused

two thousand sheaves of Scriptural wisdom on his premises −− a dozen would strain his capacity, without a

doubt.

Amy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make Tom see it in her face −− but he wouldn't look. She

wondered; then she was just a grain troubled; next a dim suspicion came and went −− came again; she watched; a

furtive glance told her worlds −− and then her heart broke, and she was jealous, and angry, and the tears came and

she hated everybody. Tom most of all (she thought).

Tom was introduced to the Judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath would hardly come, his heart quaked −−

partly because of the awful greatness of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He would have liked to

fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark. The Judge put his hand on Tom's head and called him a fine

little man, and asked him what his name was. The boy stammered, gasped, and got it out:

"Tom."

"Oh, no, not Tom −− it is −−"

"Thomas."

"Ah, that's it. I thought there was more to it, maybe. That's very well. But you've another one I daresay, and

you'll tell it to me, won't you?"

"Tell the gentleman your other name, Thomas," said Walters, "and say sir. You mustn't forget your manners."

"Thomas Sawyer −− sir."

"That's it! That's a good boy. Fine boy. Fine, manly little fellow. Two thousand verses is a great many −− very,

very great many. And you never can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them; for knowledge is worth more

than anything there is in the world; it's what makes great men and good men; you'll be a great man and a good

man yourself, some day, Thomas, and then you'll look back and say, It's all owing to the precious Sunday−school

privileges of my boyhood −− it's all owing to my dear teachers that taught me to learn −− it's all owing to the

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 14

good superintendent, who encouraged me, and watched over me, and gave me a beautiful Bible −− a splendid

elegant Bible −− to keep and have it all for my own, always −− it's all owing to right bringing up! That is what

you will say, Thomas −− and you wouldn't take any money for those two thousand verses −− no indeed you

wouldn't. And now you wouldn't mind telling me and this lady some of the things you've learned −− no, I know

you wouldn't −− for we are proud of little boys that learn. Now, no doubt you know the names of all the twelve

disciples. Won't you tell us the names of the first two that were appointed?"

Tom was tugging at a button−hole and looking sheepish. He blushed, now, and his eyes fell. Mr. Walters' heart

sank within him. He said to himself, it is not possible that the boy can answer the simplest question −− why DID

the Judge ask him? Yet he felt obliged to speak up and say:

"Answer the gentleman, Thomas −− don't be afraid."

Tom still hung fire.

"Now I know you'll tell me," said the lady. "The names of the first two disciples were −−"

"DAVID AND GOLIAH!"

Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene.

CHAPTER V

ABOUT half−past ten the cracked bell of the small church began to ring, and presently the people began to

gather for the morning sermon. The Sunday−school children distributed themselves about the house and occupied

pews with their parents, so as to be under supervision. Aunt Polly came, and Tom and Sid and Mary sat with her

−− Tom being placed next the aisle, in order that he might be as far away from the open window and the seductive

outside summer scenes as possible. The crowd filed up the aisles: the aged and needy postmaster, who had seen

better days; the mayor and his wife −− for they had a mayor there, among other unnecessaries; the justice of the

peace; the widow Douglass, fair, smart, and forty, a generous, good−hearted soul and well−to−do, her hill

mansion the only palace in the town, and the most hospitable and much the most lavish in the matter of festivities

that St. Petersburg could boast; the bent and venerable Major and Mrs. Ward; lawyer Riverson, the new notable

from a distance; next the belle of the village, followed by a troop of lawn−clad and ribbon−decked young

heart−breakers; then all the young clerks in town in a body −− for they had stood in the vestibule sucking their

cane−heads, a circling wall of oiled and simpering admirers, till the last girl had run their gantlet; and last of all

came the Model Boy, Willie Mufferson, taking as heedful care of his mother as if she were cut glass. He always

brought his mother to church, and was the pride of all the matrons. The boys all hated him, he was so good. And

besides, he had been "thrown up to them" so much. His white handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket behind,

as usual on Sundays −− accidentally. Tom had no handkerchief, and he looked upon boys who had as snobs.

The congregation being fully assembled, now, the bell rang once more, to warn laggards and stragglers, and

then a solemn hush fell upon the church which was only broken by the tittering and whispering of the choir in the

gallery. The choir always tittered and whispered all through service. There was once a church choir that was not

ill−bred, but I have forgotten where it was, now. It was a great many years ago, and I can scarcely remember

anything about it, but I think it was in some foreign country.

The minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a relish, in a peculiar style which was much admired

in that part of the country. His voice began on a medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached a certain

point, where it bore with strong emphasis upon the topmost word and then plunged down as if from a

spring−board:

Shall I be car−ri−ed toe the skies, on flow'ry BEDS

of ease,

Whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro' BLOODy

seas?

He was regarded as a wonderful reader. At church "sociables" he was always called upon to read poetry; and

when he was through, the ladies would lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their laps, and "wall" their

eyes, and shake their heads, as much as to say, "Words cannot express it; it is too beautiful, TOO beautiful for this

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 15

mortal earth."

After the hymn had been sung, the Rev. Mr. Sprague turned himself into a bulletin−board, and read off

"notices" of meetings and societies and things till it seemed that the list would stretch out to the crack of doom −−

a queer custom which is still kept up in America, even in cities, away here in this age of abundant newspapers.

Often, the less there is to justify a traditional custom, the harder it is to get rid of it.

And now the minister prayed. A good, generous prayer it was, and went into details: it pleaded for the church,

and the little children of the church; for the other churches of the village; for the village itself; for the county; for

the State; for the State officers; for the United States; for the churches of the United States; for Congress; for the

President; for the officers of the Government; for poor sailors, tossed by stormy seas; for the oppressed millions

groaning under the heel of European monarchies and Oriental despotisms; for such as have the light and the good

tidings, and yet have not eyes to see nor ears to hear withal; for the heathen in the far islands of the sea; and

closed with a supplication that the words he was about to speak might find grace and favor, and be as seed sown

in fertile ground, yielding in time a grateful harvest of good. Amen.

There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down. The boy whose history this book

relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only endured it −− if he even did that much. He was restive all through it; he

kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously −− for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old,

and the clergyman's regular route over it −− and when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear detected

it and his whole nature resented it; he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly. In the midst of the prayer a fly

had lit on the back of the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit by calmly rubbing its hands together,

embracing its head with its arms, and polishing it so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with the

body, and the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view; scraping its wings with its hind legs and smoothing

them to its body as if they had been coat−tails; going through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it was

perfectly safe. As indeed it was; for as sorely as Tom's hands itched to grab for it they did not dare −− he believed

his soul would be instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while the prayer was going on. But with the closing

sentence his hand began to curve and steal forward; and the instant the "Amen" was out the fly was a prisoner of

war. His aunt detected the act and made him let it go.

The minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through an argument that was so prosy that

many a head by and by began to nod −− and yet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone and

thinned the predestined elect down to a company so small as to be hardly worth the saving. Tom counted the

pages of the sermon; after church he always knew how many pages there had been, but he seldom knew anything

else about the discourse. However, this time he was really interested for a little while. The minister made a grand

and moving picture of the assembling together of the world's hosts at the millennium when the lion and the lamb

should lie down together and a little child should lead them. But the pathos, the lesson, the moral of the great

spectacle were lost upon the boy; he only thought of the conspicuousness of the principal character before the

on−looking nations; his face lit with the thought, and he said to himself that he wished he could be that child, if it

was a tame lion.

Now he lapsed into suffering again, as the dry argument was resumed. Presently he bethought him of a treasure

he had and got it out. It was a large black beetle with formidable jaws −− a "pinchbug," he called it. It was in a

percussion−cap box. The first thing the beetle did was to take him by the finger. A natural fillip followed, the

beetle went floundering into the aisle and lit on its back, and the hurt finger went into the boy's mouth. The beetle

lay there working its helpless legs, unable to turn over. Tom eyed it, and longed for it; but it was safe out of his

reach. Other people uninterested in the sermon found relief in the beetle, and they eyed it too. Presently a vagrant

poodle dog came idling along, sad at heart, lazy with the summer softness and the quiet, weary of captivity,

sighing for change. He spied the beetle; the drooping tail lifted and wagged. He surveyed the prize; walked

around it; smelt at it from a safe distance; walked around it again; grew bolder, and took a closer smell; then lifted

his lip and made a gingerly snatch at it, just missing it; made another, and another; began to enjoy the diversion;

subsided to his stomach with the beetle between his paws, and continued his experiments; grew weary at last, and

then indifferent and absent−minded. His head nodded, and little by little his chin descended and touched the

enemy, who seized it. There was a sharp yelp, a flirt of the poodle's head, and the beetle fell a couple of yards

away, and lit on its back once more. The neighboring spectators shook with a gentle inward joy, several faces

went behind fans and handkerchiefs, and Tom was entirely happy. The dog looked foolish, and probably felt so;

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 16

but there was resentment in his heart, too, and a craving for revenge. So he went to the beetle and began a wary

attack on it again; jumping at it from every point of a circle, lighting with his fore−paws within an inch of the

creature, making even closer snatches at it with his teeth, and jerking his head till his ears flapped again. But he

grew tired once more, after a while; tried to amuse himself with a fly but found no relief; followed an ant around,

with his nose close to the floor, and quickly wearied of that; yawned, sighed, forgot the beetle entirely, and sat

down on it. Then there was a wild yelp of agony and the poodle went sailing up the aisle; the yelps continued, and

so did the dog; he crossed the house in front of the altar; he flew down the other aisle; he crossed before the doors;

he clamored up the home−stretch; his anguish grew with his progress, till presently he was but a woolly comet

moving in its orbit with the gleam and the speed of light. At last the frantic sufferer sheered from its course, and

sprang into its master's lap; he flung it out of the window, and the voice of distress quickly thinned away and died

in the distance.

By this time the whole church was red−faced and suffocating with suppressed laughter, and the sermon had

come to a dead standstill. The discourse was resumed presently, but it went lame and halting, all possibility of

impressiveness being at an end; for even the gravest sentiments were constantly being received with a smothered

burst of unholy mirth, under cover of some remote pew−back, as if the poor parson had said a rarely facetious

thing. It was a genuine relief to the whole congregation when the ordeal was over and the benediction

pronounced.

Tom Sawyer went home quite cheerful, thinking to himself that there was some satisfaction about divine

service when there was a bit of variety in it. He had but one marring thought; he was willing that the dog should

play with his pinchbug, but he did not think it was upright in him to carry it off.

CHAPTER VI

MONDAY morning found Tom Sawyer miserable. Monday morning always found him so −− because it began

another week's slow suffering in school. He generally began that day with wishing he had had no intervening

holiday, it made the going into captivity and fetters again so much more odious.

Tom lay thinking. Presently it occurred to him that he wished he was sick; then he could stay home from

school. Here was a vague possibility. He canvassed his system. No ailment was found, and he investigated again.

This time he thought he could detect colicky symptoms, and he began to encourage them with considerable hope.

But they soon grew feeble, and presently died wholly away. He reflected further. Suddenly he discovered

something. One of his upper front teeth was loose. This was lucky; he was about to begin to groan, as a "starter,"

as he called it, when it occurred to him that if he came into court with that argument, his aunt would pull it out,

and that would hurt. So he thought he would hold the tooth in reserve for the present, and seek further. Nothing

offered for some little time, and then he remembered hearing the doctor tell about a certain thing that laid up a

patient for two or three weeks and threatened to make him lose a finger. So the boy eagerly drew his sore toe from

under the sheet and held it up for inspection. But now he did not know the necessary symptoms. However, it

seemed well worth while to chance it, so he fell to groaning with considerable spirit.

But Sid slept on unconscious.

Tom groaned louder, and fancied that he began to feel pain in the toe.

No result from Sid.

Tom was panting with his exertions by this time. He took a rest and then swelled himself up and fetched a

succession of admirable groans.

Sid snored on.

Tom was aggravated. He said, "Sid, Sid!" and shook him. This course worked well, and Tom began to groan

again. Sid yawned, stretched, then brought himself up on his elbow with a snort, and began to stare at Tom. Tom

went on groaning. Sid said:

"Tom! Say, Tom!" [No response.] "Here, Tom! TOM! What is the matter, Tom?" And he shook him and

looked in his face anxiously.

Tom moaned out:

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 17

"Oh, don't, Sid. Don't joggle me."

"Why, what's the matter, Tom? I must call auntie."

"No −− never mind. It'll be over by and by, maybe. Don't call anybody."

"But I must! DON'T groan so, Tom, it's awful. How long you been this way?"

"Hours. Ouch! Oh, don't stir so, Sid, you'll kill me."

"Tom, why didn't you wake me sooner ? Oh, Tom, DON'T! It makes my flesh crawl to hear you. Tom, what is

the matter?"

"I forgive you everything, Sid. [Groan.] Everything you've ever done to me. When I'm gone −−"

"Oh, Tom, you ain't dying, are you? Don't, Tom −− oh, don't. Maybe −−"

"I forgive everybody, Sid. [Groan.] Tell 'em so, Sid. And Sid, you give my window−sash and my cat with one

eye to that new girl that's come to town, and tell her −−"

But Sid had snatched his clothes and gone. Tom was suffering in reality, now, so handsomely was his

imagination working, and so his groans had gathered quite a genuine tone.

Sid flew down−stairs and said:

"Oh, Aunt Polly, come! Tom's dying!"

"Dying!"

"Yes'm. Don't wait −− come quick!"

"Rubbage! I don't believe it!"

But she fled up−stairs, nevertheless, with Sid and Mary at her heels. And her face grew white, too, and her lip

trembled. When she reached the bedside she gasped out:

"You, Tom! Tom, what's the matter with you?"

"Oh, auntie, I'm −−"

"What's the matter with you −− what is the matter with you, child?"

"Oh, auntie, my sore toe's mortified!"

The old lady sank down into a chair and laughed a little, then cried a little, then did both together. This restored

her and she said:

"Tom, what a turn you did give me. Now you shut up that nonsense and climb out of this."

The groans ceased and the pain vanished from the toe. The boy felt a little foolish, and he said:

"Aunt Polly, it SEEMED mortified, and it hurt so I never minded my tooth at all."

"Your tooth, indeed! What's the matter with your tooth?"

"One of them's loose, and it aches perfectly awful."

"There, there, now, don't begin that groaning again. Open your mouth. Well −− your tooth IS loose, but you're

not going to die about that. Mary, get me a silk thread, and a chunk of fire out of the kitchen."

Tom said:

"Oh, please, auntie, don't pull it out. It don't hurt any more. I wish I may never stir if it does. Please don't,

auntie. I don't want to stay home from school."

"Oh, you don't, don't you? So all this row was because you thought you'd get to stay home from school and go

a−fishing? Tom, Tom, I love you so, and you seem to try every way you can to break my old heart with your

outrageousness." By this time the dental instruments were ready. The old lady made one end of the silk thread fast

to Tom's tooth with a loop and tied the other to the bedpost. Then she seized the chunk of fire and suddenly thrust

it almost into the boy's face. The tooth hung dangling by the bedpost, now.

But all trials bring their compensations. As Tom wended to school after breakfast, he was the envy of every

boy he met because the gap in his upper row of teeth enabled him to expectorate in a new and admirable way. He

gathered quite a following of lads interested in the exhibition; and one that had cut his finger and had been a

centre of fascination and homage up to this time, now found himself suddenly without an adherent, and shorn of

his glory. His heart was heavy, and he said with a disdain which he did not feel that it wasn't anything to spit like

Tom Sawyer; but another boy said, "Sour grapes!" and he wandered away a dismantled hero.

Shortly Tom came upon the juvenile pariah of the village, Huckleberry Finn, son of the town drunkard.

Huckleberry was cordially hated and dreaded by all the mothers of the town, because he was idle and lawless and

vulgar and bad −− and because all their children admired him so, and delighted in his forbidden society, and

wished they dared to be like him. Tom was like the rest of the respectable boys, in that he envied Huckleberry his

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 18

gaudy outcast condition, and was under strict orders not to play with him. So he played with him every time he

got a chance. Huckleberry was always dressed in the cast−off clothes of full−grown men, and they were in

perennial bloom and fluttering with rags. His hat was a vast ruin with a wide crescent lopped out of its brim; his

coat, when he wore one, hung nearly to his heels and had the rearward buttons far down the back; but one

suspender supported his trousers; the seat of the trousers bagged low and contained nothing, the fringed legs

dragged in the dirt when not rolled up.

Huckleberry came and went, at his own free will. He slept on doorsteps in fine weather and in empty

hogsheads in wet; he did not have to go to school or to church, or call any being master or obey anybody; he

could go fishing or swimming when and where he chose, and stay as long as it suited him; nobody forbade him to

fight; he could sit up as late as he pleased; he was always the first boy that went barefoot in the spring and the last

to resume leather in the fall; he never had to wash, nor put on clean clothes; he could swear wonderfully. In a

word, everything that goes to make life precious that boy had. So thought every harassed, hampered, respectable

boy in St. Petersburg.

Tom hailed the romantic outcast:

"Hello, Huckleberry!"

"Hello yourself, and see how you like it."

"What's that you got?"

"Dead cat."

"Lemme see him, Huck. My, he's pretty stiff. Where'd you get him ?"

"Bought him off'n a boy."

"What did you give?"

"I give a blue ticket and a bladder that I got at the slaughter−house."

"Where'd you get the blue ticket?"

"Bought it off'n Ben Rogers two weeks ago for a hoop−stick."

"Say −− what is dead cats good for, Huck?"

"Good for? Cure warts with."

"No! Is that so? I know something that's better."

"I bet you don't. What is it?"

"Why, spunk−water."

"Spunk−water! I wouldn't give a dern for spunkwater."

"You wouldn't, wouldn't you? D'you ever try it?"

"No, I hain't. But Bob Tanner did."

"Who told you so!"

"Why, he told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff told Johnny Baker, and Johnny told Jim Hollis, and Jim told Ben Rogers,

and Ben told a nigger, and the nigger told me. There now!"

"Well, what of it? They'll all lie. Leastways all but the nigger. I don't know HIM. But I never see a nigger that

WOULDN'T lie. Shucks! Now you tell me how Bob Tanner done it, Huck."

"Why, he took and dipped his hand in a rotten stump where the rain−water was."

"In the daytime?"

"Certainly."

"With his face to the stump?"

"Yes. Least I reckon so."

"Did he say anything?"

"I don't reckon he did. I don't know."

"Aha! Talk about trying to cure warts with spunkwater such a blame fool way as that! Why, that ain't a−going

to do any good. You got to go all by yourself, to the middle of the woods, where you know there's a spunk−water

stump, and just as it's midnight you back up against the stump and jam your hand in and say:

'Barley−corn, barley−corn, injun−meal shorts, Spunk−water, spunk−water, swaller these warts,'

and then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your eyes shut, and then turn around three times and walk home

without speaking to anybody. Because if you speak the charm's busted."

"Well, that sounds like a good way; but that ain't the way Bob Tanner done."

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 19

"No, sir, you can bet he didn't, becuz he's the wartiest boy in this town; and he wouldn't have a wart on him if

he'd knowed how to work spunkwater. I've took off thousands of warts off of my hands that way, Huck. I play

with frogs so much that I've always got considerable many warts. Sometimes I take 'em off with a bean."

"Yes, bean's good. I've done that."

"Have you? What's your way?"

"You take and split the bean, and cut the wart so as to get some blood, and then you put the blood on one piece

of the bean and take and dig a hole and bury it 'bout midnight at the crossroads in the dark of the moon, and then

you burn up the rest of the bean. You see that piece that's got the blood on it will keep drawing and drawing,

trying to fetch the other piece to it, and so that helps the blood to draw the wart, and pretty soon off she comes."

"Yes, that's it, Huck −− that's it; though when you're burying it if you say 'Down bean; off wart; come no more

to bother me!' it's better. That's the way Joe Harper does, and he's been nearly to Coonville and most everywheres.

But say −− how do you cure 'em with dead cats?"

"Why, you take your cat and go and get in the graveyard 'long about midnight when somebody that was

wicked has been buried; and when it's midnight a devil will come, or maybe two or three, but you can't see 'em,

you can only hear something like the wind, or maybe hear 'em talk; and when they're taking that feller away, you

heave your cat after 'em and say, 'Devil follow corpse, cat follow devil, warts follow cat, I'm done with ye!' That'll

fetch ANY wart."

"Sounds right. D'you ever try it, Huck?"

"No, but old Mother Hopkins told me."

"Well, I reckon it's so, then. Becuz they say she's a witch."

"Say! Why, Tom, I KNOW she is. She witched pap. Pap says so his own self. He come along one day, and he

see she was a−witching him, so he took up a rock, and if she hadn't dodged, he'd a got her. Well, that very night

he rolled off'n a shed wher' he was a layin drunk, and broke his arm."

"Why, that's awful. How did he know she was a−witching him?"

"Lord, pap can tell, easy. Pap says when they keep looking at you right stiddy, they're a−witching you.

Specially if they mumble. Becuz when they mumble they're saying the Lord's Prayer backards."

"Say, Hucky, when you going to try the cat?"

"To−night. I reckon they'll come after old Hoss Williams to−night."

"But they buried him Saturday. Didn't they get him Saturday night?"

"Why, how you talk! How could their charms work till midnight? −− and THEN it's Sunday. Devils don't slosh

around much of a Sunday, I don't reckon."

"I never thought of that. That's so. Lemme go with you?"

"Of course −− if you ain't afeard."

"Afeard! 'Tain't likely. Will you meow?"

"Yes −− and you meow back, if you get a chance. Last time, you kep' me a−meowing around till old Hays

went to throwing rocks at me and says 'Dern that cat!' and so I hove a brick through his window −− but don't you

tell."

"I won't. I couldn't meow that night, becuz auntie was watching me, but I'll meow this time. Say −− what's

that?"

"Nothing but a tick."

"Where'd you get him?"

"Out in the woods."

"What'll you take for him?"

"I don't know. I don't want to sell him."

"All right. It's a mighty small tick, anyway."

"Oh, anybody can run a tick down that don't belong to them. I'm satisfied with it. It's a good enough tick for

me."

"Sho, there's ticks a plenty. I could have a thousand of 'em if I wanted to."

"Well, why don't you? Becuz you know mighty well you can't. This is a pretty early tick, I reckon. It's the first

one I've seen this year."

"Say, Huck −− I'll give you my tooth for him."

The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer

Mark Twain 20

"Less see it."

Tom got out a bit of paper and carefully unrolled it. Huckleberry viewed it wistfully. The temptation was very

strong. At last he said:

"Is it genuwyne?"

Tom lifted his lip and showed the vacancy.

"Well, all right," said Huckleberry, "it's a trade."

Tom enclosed the tick in the percussion−cap box that had lately been the pinchbug's prison, and the boys

separated, each feeling wealthier than before.

When Tom reached the little isolated frame schoolhouse, he strode in briskly, with the manner of one who had

come with all honest speed. He hung his hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with business −like alacrity.

0 notes

phykios · 4 years ago

Text

Five Times Percy Jackson Cheated At School (And One Time Someone Cheated Him) [read on ao3]

thank you as always to @darkmagyk for inspo and beta-ing 💙💙💙 and thank you to @arosnowflake for the homer idea!

Percy squints at the paper prompt again, tilting his head, as if the new angle will extract some hidden information. It doesn’t change. The font is the special dyslexia-friendly one used by most departments at NRU, so he isn’t misreading it, either.

Your final will be an 8-10pp (TNR, 12pt, double-spaced) research paper expanding on one of the topics discussed in our class so far, or an alternate idea of your choosing, to be submitted in writing by May 7 with footnotes and bibliography. By 10am on the Wednesday before the Thursday class you will submit online a 750-word essay (word count does not include footnotes) on the research thread you have pursued that week (no written assignments due Week 6 or Week 12).

Percy might hate college.

“Your neck bothering you again?” Annabeth asks, coming up behind him, her hands already on his shoulders. She’s sweaty, dressed in workout clothes, having just come back in from a jog.

“My neck is fine,” he says. “Just preemptively freaking out over my Roman history final.”

He tilts his head back over the top of his chair, staring into the upside down, prettily frowning face of his girlfriend, and it does nothing to improve his mood.

“How bad is it?”

“Eight to ten pages,” Percy says, “not including footnotes.”

“Ouch.”

“And,” he grimaces, “it’s a topic of our choosing.”

Her mouth twists in sympathy. “Sucks.”

“Yep.”

“Anything I can do to help?” She squeezes his shoulders lightly, an open invitation.

He shakes his head, stretching his arms back to grab her waist. “Promise not to break up with me when you catch me crying at 4AM over it.”

“Promise.” And she seals it with a kiss, bending down to reach him. “Dad wants to know if you’re free on the 16th.”

“The 16th?” He wracks his brain. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t conflict with sailing, or Greek Club, or the monthly intra-pantheon relations council meeting that Chiron and Clarisse both guilted him into joining. “Pretty sure. Why?”

“Dinner--Charlotte’s out of town that weekend.”

“Sounds good.”

“Great, I’ll let him know. Now,” and she grins, “are you going to stare at that computer all day, or do you want to come and take a shower with me?”

Percy slams the computer shut.

He doesn’t think about his paper topic for a while after that.

***

To his great dismay, Percy gets to her dad’s house first on the 16th. Drama in writing group 🙄 she texts him as he gets to the door, be there asap.

Great. Alone in the house with his girlfriend’s dad. Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the door.

Not a minute later, Dr. Chase opens it. Last time they went to visit, Percy and Annabeth had ended up waiting outside for almost a quarter of an hour. “Oh, Percy,” he says, fumbling his flight helmet off his head. “Goodness, I thought I’d lost track of time again. Come in, come in.”

“Thanks,” Percy says, stepping inside and shedding his jacket. “Annabeth’s running late, but she said she’d be here soon.”

He frowns, looking so much like Annabeth that it throws Percy for several loops. “Well, that’s alright,” he says. “I’m sure we can entertain ourselves well enough until she gets here.”

“Yeah,” Percy chuckles, uneasy.

Several seconds pass.

“Oh!” starts Dr. Chase. “Right, yes. Come in. Would you like something to drink?”

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t get much better.

A few minutes of staggered conversation later, it becomes eminently clear why they need Annabeth between them. It’s not the awkward small talk that doesn’t go anywhere (“How’s school going for you?” “It’s okay.” “Good, that’s good to hear.”) or the fact that Dr. Chase doesn’t really grasp how to relate to younger kids (“Have you heard of this website called ‘Vine’?”), but more that it’s just painfully obvious that the two of them don’t really know where they stand with each other.

Now, he knows that Frederick Chase doesn’t hate him. Objectively, he’s aware of the fact that, if it weren’t for him, Annabeth never would have reconnected with her father in the first place, and he kind of owes him for that. Also, Percy knows that he’s a pretty chill guy--a little scatterbrained, but chill.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to make a good impression, though. Or that Dr. Chase thinks that Percy is smart enough for his daughter. Because, like, Percy isn’t smart enough for Annabeth--that much is obvious. Dr. Chase was courted by Athena. Percy barely made it out of high school calculus.

“Would you…” Dr. Chase hedges, plucking off his glasses and giving them a quick wipe with his shirtsleeve. “Would you like to see some of my current research?”

“Uh… sure. I’d love to.”

At the very least, hopefully Dr. Chase will talk enough for the both of them, eating up time until Annabeth gets here.

A new spring in his step, Dr. Chase leads Percy to his study, where he’s got a setup worthy of Cabin Six: on his desk is a massive map of the Mediterranean, littered with miniatures of tanks, planes, and ships. Ringing the room are wall-hangings, depicting different types of planes, half of their structure in x-rays like people in an anatomy textbook, sandwiching the giant viking sword which hangs directly behind his chair. Every inch of floor space is occupied with a pile of books, some serving as additional desk space for mugs, notepads, spare toy soldiers, and, in one case, what looks like the leftovers of a handful of celestial bronze spearheads, melted down into shiny, useless nuggets.

“You know I primarily study aviation,” Dr. Chase is saying, tidying up as he walks around the room, “but my colleagues and I are collaborating on an interdisciplinary re-evaluation of the entire North African theatre in World War II. It’s fascinating stuff; until very recently, they used to call it the ‘war without hate,’ given the lack of partisan roundups and, ah, ethnic clashes that you see in Europe--absolute garbage, of course. As if there weren’t civilians caught up in the fighting, too!” He chuckles, pleased at his own joke. Percy forces a laugh out of himself. “Anyway, with my prior experience studying the invasion of Sicily, I was brought on to assist in piecing the timeline together, working backwards from 1943.”

“Cool,” says Percy, filling the natural gap of conversation.

“Extremely! Operation Husky was a terrific endeavor of airborne, amphibious, and land-based combat.”

Percy nods. Amphibious? “Uh-huh.”

“Though, I must admit, I am having a little trouble retracing some of the ships.” Peering over his map, he leans down, fiddling with one of the ships. “You see this one here? The Palmer?”

Stepping up to the desk, Percy crouches down so the little toy ship is at eye level.

“Well, based on official records, the Palmer was supposed to have arrived at the rendezvous point at the same time as all the other ships, but ended up delayed by two days, and I can’t… quite…” He moves the ship again, frowning. “Figure out… why…”

“Where were they sailing through?” Percy asks.

Dr. Chase points to the map. “From Alexandria to Malta.”

“They probably just hit a bad couple of currents,” Percy says, standing up.

Tilting his head, Dr. Chase peers at him. “How do you mean?”

“If you’re going through the Cretan Passage, you’re going to hit all kinds of West-East currents which will push you backwards.” Snatching up a pencil from a nearby book stack, Percy lightly sketches on top of the map, tracing along the North African coast. “There are tons of overlapping currents in this area that push boats around in circles, especially around Sicily. That’s one of the reasons why so many historians figure that Homer was referring to the Strait of Messina when Odysseus goes through Scylla and Charybdis, here.” And he circles the strait, with a confident flourish.

When he pulls back, Dr. Chase is staring at him.

Percy blinks. “Um… sorry I drew on your map.”

“You--I have been trying to figure that out for weeks.”

He coughs, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.”

But Dr. Chase just laughs. “You can make it up to me by helping me with these next.” Clearing crumbs off of southern France, he bends over, pencil in hand. “So, say you were trying to get from Marseilles to Tunis…”

Forty-five minutes later, still embroiled in battle recreations of the Mediterranean theatre, they don’t hear Annabeth letting herself in with her key, not even registering her presence until Dr. Chase, grasping for a notebook, spots her leaning against the doorway. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Oh, Annabeth, dear! I’m sorry,” says Dr. Chase, going over to give her a hug. “We didn’t hear you come in.”

“I can see that,” she says. “What are you guys doing?”

“Percy here has been assisting me with naval movements,” he says, proudly.

Lacing her fingers with his, Annabeth steps over to Percy, studying their battle map. “Really?”

“Oh yes, he’s been phenomenally helpful.”

She kisses his cheek, pleased. “Look at you, Mr. ‘Phenomenally Helpful.’”

“It was pretty fun,” he admits, warm all over.

“I’d bet. Although, I guess this means we should probably order in for dinner…?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Dr. Chase smiles. “Yes, I suppose we should. Does pizza sound all right to you two?”

“Let me take care of it,” she says, slipping from Percy’s side. “You guys looked like you were in the middle of something. Extra olives, dad?”

“Don’t forget--”

“And anchovies, Percy, I know.” She rolls her eyes, taking out her phone.

Rather than the three of them move into the kitchen, Annabeth ends up bringing the pizza in with her, because of course she has opinions she’d like to share about the Allies’ naval movements.

“You know, Percy,” says Dr. Chase, “I must say, you have a real knack for this kind of thing. Have you thought about what you might major in yet?”

Ah, the million drachmae question. “Not yet,” he says, fiddling with a pencil. “I figured I’d get through my gen eds first and then see which one I hated the least.”

“I think you should consider majoring in history.”

Percy’s head snaps up. “History?”

“Specifically maritime history, I suppose. Your predisposition to sailing and ocean currents would be a huge asset to your research.”

“But--wouldn’t history have, like, a metric ton of required reading? I’m not really sure that’s my area.” He has a daughter with dyslexia and ADHD; surely he’d understand Percy’s hesitation.

But he just shakes his head. “Graduate programs these days are very favorable towards interdisciplinary methodology, I sincerely doubt you’d have to barricade yourself in the library. And recently there’s been a significant push to make the field more accessible to students with disabilities, including things like digitization, screen reading for people with vision impairments, and even restructuring programs all together so that students no longer have to memorize the Encyclopedia Britannica in order to pass their general exams.”

“That’s really nice of you to say, Dr. Chase,” Percy says, “But history class isn’t like talking over naval movements with you.” He thought back to the paper that had lowkey been haunting his dreams. “Like, in my classical history survey, I can’t just… talk about currents and battle plans. I have to come up with a topic on my own, and then write about that.”

“Surely something involving Roman naval movements would be well within your skill set. You have a second sense about these things,” he chuckles, “clearly.”

Percy glances towards Annabeth, hoping she’ll back him up, but she looks thoughtful. Considering. Like she’s actually thinking about her dad’s proposal. “I can’t just choose something in naval history.”

“Why not?”

“Because… it's too easy?”

If it was anything like his afternoon with Dr. Chase, it might even be fun. And school isn’t supposed to be fun.

He repeats that thought to Annabeth as they drive home. “School isn’t supposed to be fun.”

“No,” Annabeth agrees, “but I don’t know… I like my intro art history class way better than anything we ever did in high school because I actually care about it. Maybe if you write about stuff you’re good at, like my dad suggested, you’ll like it more.”

The idea follows him all the way to bed, where he’s still mulling it over at 2 in the morning. Before he can chicken out, he grabs his phone, shooting off a quick email to his professor with his potential paper topic, then rolls over, eventually falling asleep.

By morning, he has a response.

Sounds good! Looking forward to it.

***

With shaking hands, Percy calls his mom. “Yes?”

“Hey mom.”

“Percy?” He hears her perk up, almost visualizing her sitting up in her chair. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Mom instincts. They can always tell when something is different. His heart throbs in his chest. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, smiling stretching across his face. “It’s just--I got my paper back.”

Percy had ended up writing his paper about the Roman navy movements in the Battle of the Aegates in 241 BC. It was probably the most fun he’s ever had on a school assignment, or at least the most fun he’d ever had writing a paper.

“And?” She sounds expectant, hopeful. His mom has always had such faith in him, even with thirteen years of schooling to prove her otherwise.

He looks back at his email, just to make sure he’s reading it right. “I got an A.”

She gasps. He can hear the scrape of the chair as she stands up. “Percy, that’s wonderful!”

“Thank you.”

“An A!”

He smiles into his fist, inordinately pleased. “Thank you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I am so happy for you!”

“Thanks, mom.”

“I’m so proud of you, Percy.” Her voice is soft now, like twilights on the beach with blue marshmallows. “I know how hard you’ve worked for this. You should be very proud, too.”

“I am.” And he is, weirdly enough. “I just can’t believe it.”

“I can.” His mom must be grinning, her eyes sparkling. “I always knew you could do it.”

“Sally?” He hears in the background, muffled. “Is that Percy?”

“Paul, Percy got an A on his Roman history paper!”

A second voice crowds its way in, equally excited. “An A? That’s great, kiddo! Congratulations.”

Why can’t he stop smiling? “Thanks.”

“I bet that feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Well, it is very well-deserved,” says Paul. “That was some great work you did. I could tell how passionate you were about your topic just from your first sentence.”

“Thank you.” Maybe he should be worried about all this praise going to his head, but damn, is it nice. “Listen, I have to go get started on dinner, but I just wanted to give you a call.”

“Of course,” says his mom. “I want to hear from you more, okay? Tell me more good news! Like when are you and Annabeth going to--”

“I’m working on it, okay?” says Percy, smiling even more broadly. “I’ll keep you posted, promise.”

She laughs, tinny and happy. “You’d better. Congratulations again, sweetheart.”

“Thanks mom. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And he hangs up, puts his phone down on the table, tilts his head back, and sighs, full, happy, a release.

Maybe college won’t be so bad after all.

“You don’t have to do this,” Frank says, hushed. “All you have to do is walk away.”

Five Greek Fire bombs, cloudy yellow, are lined up on the table in front of him, neatly laid out in front of five twenties. From the side, Frank stares him down, surrounded by an army of morbidly curious Romans. Someone turned off the music and turned on the lights a while ago, stopping the party in its tracks, every eye on Percy and his opponent. Figures, his first college party all year and he causes a scene.

Percy grips the edge of the table. “He insulted the Mets,” he says for the millionth time. “I can’t let that shit stand.”

Frank sighs. “Annabeth?” he asks, hoping to stop this nonsense.

Turning to his side, Percy sees his girlfriend, two drinks in, her cheeks lightly flushed, but solid as she stands beside him, supporting him. Her eyes are hard, fierce, the warrior gaze of Athena all but leaping out of her. “Do it,” she says.

William, the sour-faced Roman legacy of Juventus, scowls. “A hundred bucks on the table. Sixty seconds. No throwing them back up.”

“Deal.”

“Frank,” Annabeth calls. “Start the clock.”

He sighs. “You guys are idiots.”

“Frank!”

“Okay, okay.” He holds out his phone, thumb primed, hovering over the screen. “On your marks, in three… two… one…”

He hits zero, and Percy grabs a shot glass. Squeezing his eyes shut, he brings it to his lips, and throws it back.

It’s… not what he expected.

The tequila is awful--no getting around that. Even to Percy’s untrained taste buds, having really only ever had some of Gabe’s sour beer (under duress) and some of the Demeter cabin’s strawberry wine (on his eighteenth birthday, a celebration for actually getting to graduate high school), he can tell it’s cheap, rank, unrefined shit, like he’s drinking straight toilet cleaner. But the garum, the weird Roman condiment that the shot is mixed with, the one that Percy had never heard of before, it’s… it almost tastes like the fish sauce that comes with the pork and rice noodles from the Vietnamese place down the corner of his mom’s apartment, only less… fishy? Yeah. Less fishy.

It’s a weird taste. It’s not bad, by any means, it just--straight up, it just tastes like saltwater. Like the sea.

And, well. Percy can handle the sea.

He looks at William, and grins. “You are so fucked.”

The assembled Romans cheer, spectators at a gladiator show, as Percy knocks back the rest of the Greek Fire bombs, one after another, clearing them all in under thirty seconds. Annabeth swipes up the cash, shrieking as she throws her arms around Percy. William wanders off, red-faced and glaring, as whoever turned the music off before flips it back on, the night, and the party, saved.

Silly Percy. He should have known what was coming next.

Thirty minutes later, he is well and truly wasted.

“You’re, like, really pretty,” he shouts at Annabeth over the loud music.

She snorts, grinning at him. “Thanks.”

“Seriously,” he slurs, tipping forward on his feet. “You could be a model.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Remember when we were fourteen,” he yells, bracing himself against the wall, “and you got kidnapped by that monster?” Slightly soberer but still a little flushed, she bites her lip, nodding. “Well, I followed the rescue party--I told you that, that I snuck out of camp to follow the rescue party? Right?”

“You did.”

He takes a sip of water, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Feels goofy as fuck. “We got hijacked by Aphrodite halfway through, and when I saw her, I thought--I thought, ‘Holy shit, she looks a little like Annabeth.’”

Her brows shoot up, smile pulling at her lips. “Really?”

He nods. “Totally! But you’re way, way p--”

Still smiling, she silences him with a kiss, the lingering taste of hard cider on her tongue. “I appreciate it,” she murmurs, grinning, “but you probably shouldn’t say that out loud.”

“Gross.”

From out of nowhere, like he always does, the weasley little shit, Nico di Angelo is suddenly in their space, looking surly and emo as ever, red solo cup in his left hand. “Nico!” Percy crows, grabbing for him and missing. “How’s my favorite cousin?!”

Ducking his wildly swinging limbs, Nico grimaces in the way that Percy has to come to recognize as his attempt at a smile. “Better’n you,” he says, a little wobbly. “What’s up with him?” he directs towards Annabeth.

“Greek Fire bombs. Five.”

“You’re a psychopath.”

“What!” Percy pouts. “He insulted the Mets.”

“Aren’t you s’posed to be, like…” Nico snaps his fingers, words momentarily escaping him. “A--representation… person? For the Greeks?”

Percy waves his hand, hitting the wall. “Fuck that. The Greeks can handle themselves. The Mets are sacred!”

“Are you with anyone?” Annabeth asks, momentarily taking up Percy’s usual role of concerned parent friend while he is drunk off his ass. Theoi, he loves this girl so much.

Nico shakes his head. “No, but Will and I are staying with--”

A thought suddenly blooms in Percy’s tequila-soaked brain. “Nico!” He shouts.

“What?” he hisses, glaring.

Percy pushes himself off of the wall, outstretched arms managing to box Nico in, falling on his shoulders and trapping him. He’s still a short, skinny little shit, the fuck, when are his Big Three genes going to kick in? “I need to talk to you about the thing.”

“The what?”

“The thing! The--the,” then he leans in, scream-whispering over the pounding bassline. “The thing.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“You know, it’s…” Percy licks his lips, language escaping him for a hot second. “Round. Metal. Jewelry thing.”

A beat, then Nico’s eyes widen. “Oh, that thing.”

“Yes, that thing!” Pulling back, he pulls Nico towards him, slinging an arm over his shoulders in a half-headlock. Annabeth watches, bemused, lips pursed as she tries not to smile. “I need to borrow Nico for a sec,” he says, words spilling out of him. “Back soon. Later. Soon.”

Her eyes crinkle, grey sparkling. She’s so fucking pretty. “Drink your water.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Then together, like some three-legged beast, the two boys lurch away deeper into the party, Nico leading them towards the kitchen. “Where’re you taking me?” Percy slurs. “‘M I being kidnapped again?”

“If I’m helping you plan out this stupid proposal,” he grumbles, pouring himself more vodka, “then I need to be less sober.”

***

Some mistakes may have been made.

“Where’s Annabeth?” Percy mumbles, looking back towards the house. The party is still raging, someone’s muffled Spotify playlist making a real racket, the greatest hits of ABBA still bouncing around his skull.

“Simp.” Nico, swaying a little, tries to stand up from his kneeling position, only to fall heavily back down on his knees. “She’s right where you left her.”

Discussing Percy's proposal plan had led to more drinking. More drinking had led to the two of them discussing their shared preference for blondes. (“Malcolm is pretty cute,” Nico admitted, flushing, and Percy almost screamed, “Isn’t he?! Sometimes I think about Annabeth with short hair looking like Malcolm and I almost start crying because she’d be so cute!”) Which then led to even more drinking. Which then led to general bitching about their lives, about Percy's hard-ass classics professor Dr. Bauer who he actually really liked but just pushed him so hard and expected so much of him, and Nico's half-brother Zagreus who was causing some family drama by picking fights with Hades all the time and also hooking up with both Thanatos AND the fury Megaera, which, ew, which then led to Percy inhaling his drink, nearly choking to death on unspecified college punch, Nico laughing at him all the while, as he had the most incredible idea.

"Nico!" He shouted, crushing the red solo cup. "Can you resurrect Homer for me?"

Nico gaped, staring. "What."

"Seriously! I need to ask him something for my paper."

"Percy." Nico gazed at him, all the power of the Ghost King boring into his soul, deep and haunting. Percy stifled a burp. "You're a fucking genius."

Which is how they found themselves around a shallow hole they had dug in the backyard, a large bottle of Pepsi originally intended as a mixer pilfered from the kitchen along with two slices of pepperoni pizza dumped on the grass beside them.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this," he says, uneasy even through his drunken haze.

"It was your idea!"

"I don't have good ideas."

“Fuck you, I’m doing it.” With all the force of a tiny, angry kitten, he snatches up the Pepsi bottle, wrestling with the twist cap for a good ten seconds. “I wanna give that bitch a piece of my mind for making me cry in school.”

Percy looks at him sideways. “Hector killing Patroclus got you, too?”

He snorts. “Fuck no. Achilles didn’t pay his dues to the dead.”

“Seriously?”

The cap pops off, and Nico tips the bottle over, dumping flat, lukewarm soda into the shallow hole. “It’s the ultimate dishonor!”

Freak. Percy would die for the kid.

“Let the dead taste again,” Nico mutters. “Let them rise and take this offering. Let them remember.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the guy who’s related to both horses and water.”

“I’m not related to water, I just control it.”

The dirt turns black, dead soil mixed with sticky sugar water. Nico drops in the pizza, and begins to chant, that same ancient Greek that Percy heard in a dream once, talking of death and memories and returning from the grave or whatever. It’s still creepy as shit.

Despite the warm California night, the air thickens with chilly fog. Silence, impenetrable, surrounds them, blocking out the noises of the party. From the earth, blueish, vaguely person-shaped figures begin to form, like thunderous clouds before a storm. “Which one is Homer?” he asks, hushed.

“Shh!” Nico hisses.

Like little wells of gravity, the fog begins to coalesce. On one of them, Percy can almost make out, like, fingers. “Um, Mr. Homer? Sir?”

The figure doesn’t say anything. It lowers its mouth, drinking the soda out of the dirt. When it raises its head, Percy can see it more clearly, curly hair and milky white eyes and a straight nose. It--he?--seems a little more solid than your average run-of-the-mill ghost.

Nico frowns, eyes closed, concentrating. “What’s your name?” he mumbles.

That mouth opens, soundlessly, jaw working on nothing.

“Speak.”

It--there’s a sound, like hissing, only it’s not coming from the mouth, Percy thinks. It sounds like it’s coming from the earth. “Nico?” he asks. “You good?”

The ghost opens its mouth again, moaning, raising its hands. Weakly, unsteadily, it stumbles forward on feeble legs, tripping over the shallow hole in the dirt.

“Nico?” he asks again, a little more forcefully. “What’s going on, dude?”

Nico blinks, slowly, mouth hanging open a little. “Uh.”

The… thing… raises itself up on its hands? He guesses, and knees, crawling its way over towards them.

Now, Percy may be drunk off his ass, but he has seen enough movies to know exactly what the fuck is up.

Moving with a speed he didn’t quite think was possible right about now, he grabs Nico’s wrist, and pulls him up, dragging him along as he lurches towards the house. “Percy…” Nico moans, stumbling over a rock. “I think I fucked up.”

“You think?” Percy wrenches the door open, tossing Nico inside, before following in after, throwing himself against the door.

Nico groans, throwing his arms over his face. “Dio santo, my head.”

“Forget your head,” he says, “did we just raise a Homer zombie?!”

Panting, Nico stares up at him, sprawled on the floor of the house. “Oops.”

Percy thunks his head against the door. He does not have nearly enough mental capacity to deal with this right now.

But, he thinks ruefully, at least it’s just one. Even drunk, he’s pretty sure he can handle one zombie.

Nico’s eyes widen.

Percy stares. “What.”

“I didn’t stop the ritual.”

His stomach goes cold.

Turning around slowly, he pulls aside the little curtain on the window. “What?” Nico asks. “What do you see?”

Percy can’t speak, mouth dry.

Slithering up behind, Nico peers over his shoulder. “That’s… not great.”

“Nico,” Percy says, eyeing the horde which slowly shambles closer, half-decayed bodies in togas bumping into each other, almost identical to the drunk college students inside, as the song changes, once again, to ‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight).’ “Please go get Frank and Annabeth.”

The following Monday, an announcement is sent out to the entire campus: Per new department guidelines, students may not utilize the ambassador of Pluto to interview the dead for academic purposes.

Percy attempts to flatten his hair. He readjusts his shirt. He almost wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, before he realizes what he’s doing, and clenches them instead, nails digging into his palms. He turns to Annabeth. “Do I look okay?”

“Ooh, ‘Mapping Funerary Monuments in the Periphery of Imperial Rome.’”

“Annabeth.”

She looks up from her brochure. “Relax, seaweed brain, you look fine. You look better than most people here.”

“That’s because I bring down the average age of presenters by about thirty years,” he hisses, eyes darting about at the milling mass of attendees, all packed into the hotel ballroom.

Dr. Bauer had alternately convinced/pressured/guilttripped him into attending this year’s annual conference for the Society of Classical Studies to talk about the research he’d been doing with her. This year, the conference was held in San Francisco, so at the very least Percy didn’t have to spend five hours stressing about his poster presentation while simultaneously up in the air. But now that he’s here, in the ballroom, surrounded by strangers who know way more about this subject than he does, who are actually smart and probably never nearly flunked out of school or got kicked out or--

“Hey.” Annabeth takes his hand. “I know that look. You deserve to be here just as much as any of them.”

“Do I? I feel like any moment someone is going to come over and throw me out for trespassing.” He vaguely recalls something similar happening to him as a kid after he had ducked into the lobby of a semi-nice hotel to dodge what he had thought, at the time, was just a weird stalker, but had later realized had only had one eye. In any case, the hotel security guard had practically picked him up by the scruff of his neck, tossing him back out into the street.

“That’s just your imposter syndrome talking,” she reassures him. “No one is going to throw you out.”

He sure as shit hopes so. It would be a shame to have done all this work for nothing.

Glancing back at his poster, Percy can’t help but feel… good. Accomplished. Proud. About a school assignment, of all things.

His poster traces the development of the prow from the Greek penteconter, to the Roman liburna, and finally to the Byzantine dromon, looking at artistic depictions in history. Percy had picked the topic himself, spending hours in the library reading, writing, and hand-drawing cross-sections of the ships on the poster board when the images he had gotten from the Cambridge University library had been too small. It had been grueling, frustrating work, but fun, too. And not nearly as much reading as he had feared.

Dr. Chase proofread it for him. Dr. Bauer signed off on it. And Annabeth had taken one look at it, smiled, then kissed his cheek.

That was the best compliment he had gotten.

Though now he’s kind of torn between showing it off and hiding it away before one of these attendees figures out that he doesn’t belong.

He rocks back and forth and his feet, pursing his lips, randomly clicking his tongue. Annabeth nudges him. “Your ADHD is showing.”

That’s when, finally, one of the attendees steps up to his poster. He certainly has the look of a professor, in a black cable knit sweater with grey, curly hair and a receding hairline, thin, rimless glasses perched on his nose. He squints at Percy’s poster, rubbing his chin with one hand. “Interesting,” he murmurs, in a thick German accent. “Very interesting. This is yours?”

“Um.” He glances at Annabeth, who is frowning at the brochure, silently sounding out words that she can’t read. “Yep. All mine.”

“Very interesting.” He leans in closer, tilting his head. “So you agree with Pryor and Jeffreys about the skeleton-first construction, then?”

Percy blinks. Pryor and Jeffreys had written The Age of the Dromon, arguing that the ram, which had been a key feature of Roman liburnians, had gone away in ancient ship construction because of developments in how they built the hull. Right. “Yes,” he says. “The skeleton-first construction is a lot stronger than the, um,” shit, what was the name for this, Leo had only told him about a million times--oh! “Mortise-and-tenon!” He nearly shrieks. “The mortise-and-tenon method. It, um, it wears out a lot more quickly than the frame, so… yeah.” He clears his throat.

He nods. “Very interesting.”

Percy stares. Can this guy say anything else?

“This is very well done, young man.”

Oh. “Thank you,” he says.

“Who are you working with?”

“Um, June Bauer?” He winces at the accidental question.

He frowns. “I’m not familiar with her work. Where does she teach?”

What a loaded question. “Uh… New Rome University.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s--she used to teach at Northwestern, if that helps. Um, retired,” Percy says.

The frown stays, but at least he doesn’t ask any more questions. “Hmm. Well, this is excellent research, nonetheless. I look forward to reading your dissertation.” Then, distracted by something else, he wanders off, chin still attached to his hand.

“Who was that?” Annabeth asks.

Percy shrugs. “Beats me. Also, what’s a dissertation?”

“It’s like a senior thesis, but, like, five hundred pages long.”

Five hundred?! “Fuck me.”

“Maybe later,” Annabeth smirks. “It looks like you’ve got company.”

Sure enough, a smallish group of four people are approaching, led by Dr. Chase, making a beeline straight for them. “Here we are,” Dr. Chase says, gesturing. “This is the project I was telling you about. Percy, would you mind going over your poster for us?”

“No problem, Dr. C,” says Percy, smiling his least-grimace-y smile.

As one, the adults all turn to look at him, faces politely blank, expectant.

Percy swallows. “So,” he begins, “um, this research is about the development of ship construction in the Roman empire…”

He trips up on some of the words, and at one point, he sees Dr. Chase squint in the way that usually means that Percy is speaking too fast, but all in all, he doesn’t totally fall flat on his face. His audience looks engaged, nodding along as Percy moves from point to point, and no one accuses him of being a giant fraud, which is pretty nice.

At one point, Percy turns to the poster to indicate a specific point on his ship diagrams. When he turns back, his audience has suddenly multiplied, four people turning into a whole goddamn crowd. Each person gives him their undivided attention almost unblinking.

His mouth goes dry. “Um…”

Dr. Chase, bless him, saves his ass once again. “Would mind starting again from the beginning, Percy?” he asks, a little bemused himself at the amount of people that had suddenly appeared.

Silence stretches on for a moment, the muffled noise of the rest of the conference like a dull roar in his ear.

Annabeth, behind him, coughs.

“S-sure. No problem.”

Swallowing, he closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose. Why, oh why did he let Dr. Bauer talk him into doing this again?

He pictures the tides of Long Island Sound, gentle and rocking, unhurried and unbothered, tries to match his breathing to them. When he opens his eyes, unfortunately, the crowd hasn’t disappeared. Everyone is still staring at him.

But Annabeth stands next to her dad, flashing him a big smile and two huge thumbs up.

Percy relaxes. He’s got this.

“Okay,” he says. “So, about the middle of the first millennium CE, ship construction went through a couple of major developments…”

This time goes much, much more smoothly. He’s not sure what it is--though it’s probably Annabeth, her face fixed in a gentle smile as she watches him speak. Gods, what did he do in a past life to deserve someone as amazing as his girlfriend?

That’s the only reason he can do this. Hell, that’s the only reason he even thought to do this. If he didn’t have Annabeth there, encouraging him, cheering him on, he never would have had the confidence to put himself out there like this. She’s there to pick him up when he doubts himself, there to listen when he can’t explain himself, there to give him feedback when he needs to practice.

She makes him feel so strong. She makes him feel like he can take on the world--or at the very least, that he can impress a handful of academics.

And they certainly seem impressed with his talk so far.

“Excuse me,” says a nasally, pinched looking older British guy, face lined as though he lived his life in a state of perpetual squinting. “I find your conclusions to be suspect--wouldn’t the frame method be more susceptible to breaking than the mortise-and-tenon?”

Well, most of them, anyway.

Percy shakes his head. “You’d think, but no. If you look at the study by Steffy, you’ll see that the three-finned ram from the Athlit wreck was designed specifically to break the mortise-and-tenon hull by causing the planks to flex, so that they’d dislodge the joinerys right next to them. A blow like that can cause the wood to split right down the middle.” A blow like that had sunk Sherman Yang’s ship when they tested it out on the lake at camp last summer, the naiads practically hurling him out of the water so quickly Percy didn’t even have to dive in to save him.

“How were you able to do these strength tests?” asks another listener, an older woman with a thick Hungarian accent.

“Hands-on battle simulations,” Percy replies, easily. “We took our models and tested them in as accurate a simulation as we could make.”

“And how big were these models?”

Percy holds his hands apart, a vague, entirely inaccurate estimate. “About thirty meters, give or take.”

Her eyes widen. “How on earth did you get your hands on such a large ship?”

Percy freezes. “Uh.”

Oh, shit.

He had forgotten--most people didn’t have dads who could summon shipwrecks from the bottom of the sea, dropping them off at Camp Half-Blood with nothing but a sand dollar and one or two exhausted, pissed off hippocampi who had had to drag them all the way there.

“Um,” he stammers, licking his lips, thinking fast--c’mon, Percy, think! “I…” He swallows, panicking. “I… b… built one.”

In the corner of his eye, Annabeth facepalms.

Simultaneously, every mouth in the crowd drops--in shock, outrage, and even excitement. “You built one?!” the woman yelps.

Oops. “I had help,” Percy says, quickly.

Annabeth adds a second hand to her facepalm.

“Where?” The first man asks, his bushy brows flying above the rim of his glasses.

“At my… summer camp…”

Dr. Chase sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I mean,” Percy chuckles, shrugging his shoulders, trying not to sweat too obviously, “it was either that or lanyards, am I right?”

Dr. Chase, thank Athena, raises his hand, ready to step in. “What Percy means to say, I believe,” he says, attempting to draw their attention, “is that--”

“That’s amazing!” says another woman, probably a grad student attendee based on the fact that she’s wearing jeans. “Do you have pictures?”

Oh this is not good. “Um, not--not on me, but--”

“I do.” Annabeth takes out her phone, holding it up to the person next to her.

Percy blinks. “You do?” He doesn’t remember her taking any pictures.

She shoots him a look, two parts exasperated and one part “shut up and let me handle this,” with just a dash of fondness in the mix. Pointedly, she looks at him, eyebrows raised, indicating that he should continue.

Oh. She’s using Mist. And he needs to keep their attention on him so that they buy it. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Any more questions?”

His audience placated for now, passing around Annabeth’s phone, he manages to finish up his presentation. After fielding a few more questions, people start to peel off, distracted by other posters and presenters in the ballroom. When everyone has finally wandered away, Dr. Chase comes up and pats Percy’s shoulder awkwardly. “Nice work,” he says, and he seems like he means it. “A little touch-and-go there for a while, hm?”

“A little.”

He chuckles. “Still, you should be proud. I don’t know how many undergraduates would be able to handle that kind of pressure.”

“I mean,” Percy says, shrugging a shoulder, “it’s about on par with leading an army. Maybe a little less.” Honestly, maybe even a little more stressful. If a monster had decided to attack the convention center and interrupt his presentation, he probably would have been relieved.

He’d been worried for a moment that he’d undone all those years of work in making Annabeth’s dad like him. And that he’d be charged with some sort of academic fraud, for the whole “I have a boat” thing without proof. Thank the gods for Annabeth, as always.

She’s looking at him now through narrowed eyes. She at least can’t be surprised--that was far from the dumbest thing she’s ever seen him do. At least his “I spent most of my time at magic greek mythology summer camp” covers are normally better than hers. As someone who spent his formative years in the real world, he’s usually pretty good at keeping the demigod thing under wraps.

“Come on,” she says, grabbing his hand. She pulls him off, through the dispersing crowd, lacing their fingers together, sweet and intimate, out of the hall and then down another one, and through a smaller corridor. Bringing them up to a little door, with a shake of her wrist, she pulls out her Estruscan keyring bracelet. About several of the keys have found themselves used in various misadventures, vanishing once their purpose is fulfilled, but her favorite key is still there. And, just like a clever child of Hermes, it can pick just about any lock.

Inside is just an empty room, a little staging area surrounded by tiered desks going up, no more or less remarkable than any of the other conference rooms they’d visited before.

“What--?” His question is cut off by Annabeth’s mouth on his.

Surprising, but definitely not unwelcome.

It's a while before they separate again. “You’re so good at this,” she tells him, unbuttoning his shirt.

He runs his hands along the lines of her flanks. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he grins. He’d practice kissing her all day long if he could.

She smiles, shaking her head. “No, not this,” though she does lean in for another kiss, pulling at his lower lip with her teeth. “I know you’re good at this.” They break away, Percy pulling her shirt over her head, Annabeth shucking off his. “But history. Presenting.” She runs a finger over his chest, kissing his cheek, headed towards the sensitive spot on his jaw. “Gods, you’re so smart.”

Something about the praise vibrates through his chest. She doesn’t sound surprised, or anything, just--turned on.

“You had all those crusty academics eating out of your hand. Just, so impressed by you, knowing you know way more than they do about naval history. When you were explaining the--” Her compliment is cut off with a moan, as he leans down and starts sucking on her throat. Her blouse has a high neck, so he feels no guilt for using his teeth.

“Watching you today, gods.” Her breath is labored as his fingers play at the waistline of her skirt. “And then thinking of you defending your dissertation.” He bites at her jugular, and she lets out a long, deep moan.

“I don’t know what that means.” Do academics fight each other? Like, with weapons? He’s pretty sure he can take most of the people he met today.

“It means you get to show off how smart you are,” Annabeth says, grasping his shoulders, pulling him in for another kiss. “I was born the day my dad defended his. Gods, it's going to be amazing to watch you go.” She yanks his belt out of his pants, tossing it to the floor.

They miss the panel on recent translation efforts. But Percy can’t say he minds one bit.

And when Annabeth presents him with a positive pregnancy test two months later, Percy definitely knows he made the right decision.

He almost doesn’t realize he’s having a dream-vision at first.

It has been literal years since he’s had a demigod dream. Hell, it’s been a long while since he’s had a dream, period--being a new dad to a one-and-a-half-year-old saps too much of his energy to even think about dreaming. Once Junie is put to bed, when he’s out, he is fucking out, and he does not have the brainpower to spare to manifest any messed up subconscious fears.

Which is why when he blinks open his eyes, taking in the too-bright colors of the Parthenon and the gleaming shine of the bronze statues which are somehow all looking at him--also, you know, how the Parthenon is complete, standing as it did thousands of years ago, and not crumbled into ruins--he knows, immediately, he is being contacted by a god.

And only one god in particular would bring him to Athens.

Without even checking, he heaves himself up off the ground, folding into a kneel. “My lady Athena,” he says, “can I ask for what quest you’ve brought me here?”

“Impertinent as ever, Percy Jackson,” rumbles the goddess, but Percy doesn’t think he can sense any ill will towards him. He hopes, anyway. “Perhaps I have summoned you here for a social visit.”

“Perhaps,” he says, choosing his next words as carefully as possible. “But I assume you have too much to worry about to randomly check up on your daughter’s boyfriend.”

He lifts his head, catching her expression--stoic as always, but maybe with just the barest hint of a smile. “You assume correctly. You have become, contrary to my initial expectations, very wise in the time that I have known you.”

“Thank you.” He knows better than to do anything but accept the compliment for what it is.

“I have observed your work as a scholar in recent years, and I must say that I am surprised, yet pleased, that you have chosen to pursue such a path. I had not thought you to be suited for a world of old men and dusty papers.”

He grits his teeth. Don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait--

“I understand, as well, that though you and my daughter have,” and here her careful composition cracks, just the slightest, the tiny lift of her lips falling, “made a child together.”

Percy swallows. He figured, you know, in the abstract, that Athena would know about Junie, but hearing her say it out loud is… well, he’s just glad that Dr. Chase has always liked him. “Yes, my lady.”

“It is customary in your time to marry prior to childbirth, is it not?”

“It is.” Oh, fuck, is she going to smite him for that? “I--that is to say, we, Annabeth and I, we, um, we definitely want to get married, but, Annabeth kind of…”

He trails off. He can’t tell Athena, goddess of war, that his daughter pissed off the queen of heaven! And if he does, he definitely can’t imply that it was because she was being too stubborn!

“I know well of my daughter’s history with my father’s wife,” Athena says, smoothly. “I come to you now with an offer of peace.”

Percy straightens his back. Peace?

Raising one graceful arm, Athena turns, indicating the structure behind her. “Look upon my temple,” she intones. The white marble shines even more powerfully against the blue and red paint, intricate scenes and figures ringing the top of the columns. “In the time of Pericles, it was built to commemorate the victory of Hellas over the armies of Xerxes the Great. It was to be the shining beacon of our world, a triumph of our power and influence over the race of men.”

The race of men might have had something to say about that, he thinks to himself.

“But it was not to be,” Athena says, mournfully. “As our influence waned, so too did our temple, until its might was all but forgotten.”

Before his eyes, the paint fades away, ceilings and columns collapsing, the destruction of the Parthenon playing out in front of him.

“Some two hundred years ago,” she says, her voice taking on a darker, more dangerous tone, “a grave insult was paid to the ruins of my ancient sanctuary.” Like curtains falling on a stage, darkness swallowed up the structure, swift and impenetrable. “Many treasures were taken from my temple, stolen, by foolish, greedy men, spirited away far to the north, where they have languished in unworthy hands.”

He narrows his eyes. She can’t possibly be talking about--

Athena turns back to him, her eyes blazing, somehow twice as tall. “Retrieve my treasures,” she commands, war personified, “return the prizes of Athens to their rightful place, and I shall give you my support against my father’s wife.”

“You…” Percy leans back on his haunches, staring dumbfounded up at the goddess. “You don’t happen to mean the Parthenon Marbles, do you?”

“Yes.”

“The ones in the British Museum.”

“The same,” she says, imperious as ever.

Fantastic. “Welp,” Percy says, slapping his thighs, scrambling up. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to decline. Nice seeing you, by the way. I’ll tell Annabeth you stopped by.”

Her sharp gazes pierces him, full of fury. “You dare to refuse my support?”

He snorts. “When it means trying to get the UK to give the marbles back, absolutely. Do you know how stubborn they are about this?”

Lightning flashes behind her, nearly blinding him. “You will regret this,” Athena says, dark and foreboding. “You may have your father’s goodwill, but the queen of Olympus is clever and cunning, her displeasure swift and merciless.”

But Percy still shakes his head. “When Annabeth and I get married,” and it’s definitely a ‘when,’ it’s just a matter of when precisely, like after Junie can sleep through the night maybe, “I’d rather take my chances with Hera than try and untangle that particular can of olives.”

A growl, and a snap of her fingers, and Athena disappears.

With a start, Percy wakes up. Junie had gotten her chubby little hands around his nose, and had decided to pull.

“Ow, ow, Junie, hey,” he squawks, attempting to dislodge her grip from his face. “Hey, I’m awake, it’s okay.”

She laughs, illegally adorable, her grey eyes sparkling, squeezing harder.

“Okay, okay,” he laughs along with her. “You got my nose, you win.”

As if she were waiting for him to admit defeat, she lets go, clapping her pudgy toddler hands together.

“That’s right,” he picks her up, raising her above his head. “Barely sixteen months old and you already know how to take me down, don’t you? Just like your mommy.”

She smiles, waving her little fists.

Gods he loves this little monster.

Junie really is the best parts of both of them. She’s got her daddy’s hair but her mommy’s brain, quick and sharp and painfully adorable. She’s already learning to read Greek, Annabeth sitting her in her lap and sounding out vowels together, Annabeth taking her finger and tracing it over the letter shapes. This kid absorbs information like a sponge, which Percy can only assume is the natural conclusion of taking a son of Poseidon and a daughter of Athena and mixing their DNA together.

Thinking about his dream, he frowns. “What do you think, Junie,” he asks his toddler. “Should I take her up on her offer?”

The baby says nothing.

“I mean,” he tilts his head, “Greece has been trying to get the marbles back for two hundred years. UNESCO has top lawyers on this. What does Athena think I can do?”

Junie blinks at him.

“On the other hand, I do really love your mom,” he admits, “and I really want to marry her. You’d like that, right? To have your parents be married?”

There’s no way she can understand what he’s saying, but she moves her head like she’s nodding. Or maybe she does understand. She is Annabeth’s daughter after all.

Percy sighs. Dammit.

Time for a new project, he guesses.

***

Several months, a college graduation, and one relocation to Boston later, Percy growls, hurling his pencil at the wall. Mother fucker. Fuck the British Museum, fuck his tiny laptop screen, and fuck the Italian prick who decided to have the least ADHD-friendly handwriting of all time.

Why the hell is he doing this again? Like, seriously. Why in all of Hades is he, an inexperienced, snot-nosed, first year master’s student deciding to tackle the return of the fucking Parthenon marbles of all things. Like, what is wrong with him?

Roughly scrubbing his fingers through his hair, Percy stands up. He has to go for a walk, clear his head, or he might actually explode.

Then he catches a glimpse of the photo pinned to the fridge.

Percy’s mom had taken it, a candid of Percy and Annabeth and Junie on a sunny day in Central Park. There, in perfect 1080p, Junie is laughing, at what he can’t even remember, her pudgy fists yanking on Percy’s hair, while her mother and the love of his life does nothing to extricate Percy from her grip, her face screwed up so hard she had tears in her eyes.

Percy had talked a lot of shit to the goddess of war’s face, but truth be told… Hera still terrifies him a little. Which, he assumes, was her goal all along, but it would be nice to marry Annabeth without fear of something going terribly wrong--or, gods forbid, something happening to Junie. That simply was not a risk he was willing to take. Percy is content to spend the rest of his days as Annabeth’s life-partner and roommate, if it means that the queen of the heavens won’t have a reason to take out her issues on his children.

Even if the engagement ring in the back of the pantry is gathering dust.

Sunlight, wan but warm, falls in from the window, landing perfectly on his pile of open books. “I know, I know,” he growls, speaking to the air, rubbing his face so it doesn’t get stuck in a permanent glare. “I just--I just need a few minutes, okay? Let me go down the block and get a coffee or something. Two minutes, Lady Athena.”

The light fades. Percy takes that as an acquiescence, angrily scribbling a note. He’s not sure when Annabeth and Junie will be back, but even angry as he is, he doesn’t want to worry them.

Snatching up his jacket, he slams the door shut, stomping out of his apartment building and down the streets of Boston. He must be accidentally doing his wolf stare, because people are practically flinging themselves out of his path as he hurtles down the sidewalk. Literally--some girl is walking her husky, and the poor dog actually whimpers, cowering as Percy rounds the corner.

Coming to a stop, Percy slaps his hands over his face, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath.

He might be in over his head a little.

Sighing, he looks to his right. He’s standing outside of a Starbucks.

Percy doesn’t drink coffee, Annabeth does. And he knows exactly how much of a coffee snob his girlfriend is. Starbucks? Overpriced, overrated, over-sweetened garbage.

He pushes the door open, sliding up to the counter. “I’ll take a… iced mocha, I guess,” he says. “Large.”

“No problem,” chirps the barista. “I’ll have that out for you in a minute.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

One thing Starbucks does have going for it, though, are really good napkins for doodling.

Slumping down in his uncomfortable metal chair, elbows resting on the hard, faux-wood table, Percy takes out his pen, and doodles aimlessly on the brown napkins. No, not that pen. Just because it can write doesn’t mean that Percy wants to risk slicing his face open every time he has a stray idea. Completely out of the blue, Annabeth had gotten him a nice set of pens, and ever since then, Percy always keeps one on him. Now, if he could just remember to use the little notebook she had gotten him, too.

Percy is not an artist by any stretch of the imagination. He doesn’t have an image in mind, just lets his pen move, drawing endless chains of triangles and stars, nebulous shapes which form themselves into Greek letters. After he catches himself writing γλαυκῶπις for the eighth time in a row, he sighs, dropping his pen, and picks up the cup, taking a sip.

Yuck. At least the chocolate outweighs the coffee taste a little.

Gods, and their cups are always, like, drenched from condensation--not that Percy can feel it, but there’s practically a whole other drink on the outside of the plastic, dripping all over Percy’s pile of doodle napkins. That must be why they give out so many.

Grumbling, he mops up the mess, ink smudged into a blue-brown slurry.

He stops.

He squints at one of his doodles.

Not that anyone else could tell, but Percy had apparently been trying to recreate the signature of Ottoman sultan Selim III, the guy who had supposedly authorized the Earl of Elgin to take the Parthenon Marbles. Percy had been staring at copies of his signature all damn day, trying to tell if it had been forged or copied, but classical Arabic was just so far beyond anything he could even begin to wrap his head around. It was gorgeous work, but even looking at it made Percy’s eyes swim.

This particular doodle is not his best attempt. It looks nothing like the signature. It’s smudged, blotchy, but in a way that’s… weirdly familiar.

Snatching the napkin up, Percy bolts from the Starbucks, leaving his mocha behind.

Taking the steps of his apartment building two at a time, he bursts into his kitchen. His set up is exactly how he left it, books spread out all over the table, laptop shut and laid askew, the dry, half-eaten remains of his morning muffin on a plate on top of his encyclopedia of illuminated manuscripts--except for one book, the one on Ottoman history of the nineteenth century. It’s been opened, its pages facing the door, in the exact opposite direction of all the other books.

“Hello?” he calls into the apartment. “Anyone home?”

No response.

Percy approaches the table.

From the pages, Selim III stares at him, his portrait rendered in black and white, sitting just above a figure of his signature, his tughra.

Percy picks up the book, squinting.

The signature is crisp, clean, a work of art all by itself.

He looks at his napkin drawing. Blurry and smudged.

Opening his laptop, he pulls up the scans of the documents in the British museum, zooms in on the letter’s seal.

Blurry and smudged.

Percy stares.

It… can’t be that simple, can it?

In a daze, he fires an email off to his new grad advisor. Hopefully he won’t mind Percy sticking his nose in where he doesn’t belong. Hey Dr. T--was looking at the Parthenon marbles docs in the BM (don’t ask) and I noticed this weird smudge on the tughra. Lazy scribe, maybe?

And he closes his computer.

Later that night, while he puts Junie to bed, he gets a response. not sure. sent it to a colleague for a closer look.

He can’t even be bothered to really think about it though, not with Junie looking up at him with Annabeth’s eyes, and asking for another book. “Alright, kiddo,” he acquiesces, settling in beside her. All her story books are in ancient Greek, and at age two, she’s starting to recognize the letters. “Which one are you thinking?”

“Daw-fins, daddy,” she says, smiling.

“Dolphins, eh? Getting Mr. D on your side early, I see. As smart as mommy.” He leans down and kisses her forehead before he starts to read her the story of the sailors and their sudden dolphin madness.

***

“Huh,” Percy says to himself a few weeks later, as he and Annabeth are chilling on the couch, watching some Netflix.

His advisor has forwarded him an article from the BBC (New evidence suggests Elgin documents to be forgeries) with an accompanying note: Amazing catch!

“What is it?” Annabeth asks, nudging him with her elbow--a feat, since she also has an armful of a squirmy Junie to deal with.

“Update in the Parthenon marbles thing.”

That gets her attention. Anything Parthenon-related does. “Really?”

He shows her his phone.

Her eyes go wide as saucers. “Damn.”

“Yep.” He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he feels his lips pulling at the sides of his mouth.

“My mom is probably your biggest fan right now.”

He starts. “What did you say?”

Turning back to the TV, she still manages to cast him a weird look. “I said, my mom will probably love you for this.”

A beat, then Percy practically somersaults over the couch, darting into the kitchen. Wrenching open the pantry door, he shoves his hand behind their collection of flours, fingers grasping for--

“If you’re looking for any more sacrificial cookies,” Annabeth calls after him, “we burned them all when Junie got a cold.”

“Remind me to make some more,” says Percy, pulling out his prize. It’s a little dusty, streaks of flour clinging to the blue velvet. “I have a feeling we’ll need them.”

“Oh yeah?” She chuckles. “What, did Olympus put in a special order?”

Percy slides back down next to her, ring hidden in his closed fist. “Can I have the baby for a sec?”

Eyes fixed to the screen, Annabeth passes her over. Junie’s hands automatically reach for his nose, ready to grab, but Percy places the ring in her grasp instead, kissing her forehead. “Hey, babe?” he asks Annabeth, handing her back. “I think our daughter has something for you.”

Annabeth takes her without a second glance.

Then she does take a second glance.

Ring closed in her pudgy toddler fist, Junie holds it out to her.

Annabeth gapes.

“So,” Percy says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, “quick confession: I wasn’t just working on the marbles for fun.”

Annabeth just stares. Junie babbles.

“Your mom told me that if I helped get the marbles back, she’d back us against Hera if we ever got married. So…” He trails off, waiting for her response. As close as he is, he can see the tears start to well up in her eyes--a good sign. “Shall we?” he prompts.

“Oh thank all the gods.” Annabeth is crying, because she's Annabeth. And because she's Annabeth, she also wastes no time in transferring Junie to her other side, and holding out her hand so Percy can slide the ring on her finger. “I was so worried I'd have to have Chase on my Masters’ diploma, too.”

Percy is making sauce when his phone lights up. He hits speaker. “Hey.”

“Hey man,” comes the tinny voice of Magnus. “Sorry I missed your call earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Percy says, “I figured you were dying or something.”

Magnus’ eye roll is almost palpable. “Very funny. What’s up?”

Bringing the spoon to his lips, he blows on it, taking a taste, before reaching for the salt. Needs way more. “Do you happen to have any Varangian guards in Hotel Valhalla?”

“Varangian guards? Uh, maybe. Probably. Why?”

“I’m doing a thing on the attempted reconquest of Sicily,” he says, lowering the heat a little to a simmer, “and I’m having some trouble piecing together the Battle of Montemaggiore. Know anyone who was in it?”

Magnus hums. “I’ll ask around. Anyone in particular you’re looking for?”

Rifling through their little spice cabinet, he makes a mental note to get a new thing of hot sauce, tipping the rest of it into the pot. “If you have anyone who fought under Harald Hardrada, that would be great.”

“Hardrada? I’m pretty sure he lives on the fifth floor.”

Percy nearly drops the bottle. “No shit?”

“Big dude, long mustache, writes poetry?”

“Yes!” He picks up the phone, grinning from ear to ear. “Do you think I could come up and talk to him sometime?”

“Sure, but I thought you were doing something on Homer’s identity?”

He groans. “Backburnered for now until she stops driving me crazy.” No matter how many times Percy tells her, he can’t just drop the “Homer was actually an Egyptian woman” bomb without some serious evidence backing that up. And forgery is not one of his strong suits. Hence the need for a different topic for the time being.

“Has everyone ever told you your life is weird?”

“No, why do you ask?”

His phone suddenly vibrates, shocking him so badly he nearly drops it into the saucepan. Almost home, texts the love of his life, a shot of serotonin directly into his bloodstream. V hungry

“Sorry, Magnus, but I gotta run. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem. Say hi to my cousin for me.”

“Can do.”

“And make sure you pick a date soon! Sam needs to know so she can schedule her flight home.”

“Soon as I can.” You know, when his brain isn’t melting from grading undergrad papers. And making sure Annabeth and Junie are fed. And that Annabeth doesn’t lose herself in graduate school. And finding Junie a new preschool after she destroyed a classroom last month because of a monster. His toddler is a badass. But he’s a little worried she’s gonna follow Mommy and Daddy’s example as far as school goes.

Sometimes, he thinks that their wedding just won’t ever happen. With Athena on board, he figured it would happen sooner or later, but time just… keeps getting away from them. Which isn’t the end of the world. A lifetime at Annabeth’s side is all he really needs, Mrs. Jackson or no. But he’s seen the silver fabric she weaved for her wedding dress. It would be a shame for all that hard work to go to waste.

And, yeah, he wants to see his little Junie dancing down the aisle flinging seaweed before her mother. He wants his mom to cry a little and he wants all his friends to be there to celebrate with them. Is that so much to ask?

Speaking of his two favorite girls--”We’re home!” Annabeth calls from the hallway. “Junie, go say hi to daddy!”

Her bare feet slapping against the floor, his daughter comes toddling in, making a beeline for him. “Hey, kiddo,” Percy says, scooping her up. “How’s my best girl?”

“She’s just fine, thanks,” Annabeth says, setting her work bag down on the table. “Tell me I don’t have to wait for dinner--Margie kept me for the entirety of my lunch break, and I am starving.”

“Just gotta make a salad and we should be good to go.” But he makes no move to finish chopping vegetables, entirely too enraptured with the way Junie smiles when Percy sticks his tongue out at her. “Let me guess,” he says. “Does my best girl want some olives?”

“Peas,” Junie says.

“Oh, you want peas instead?”

She giggles, waving her arms. “Elaia, daddy!”

“Fine,” and he kisses her nose. “Extra olives for you.”

“Chip off the old block,” Annabeth says.

Handing her back to her mother, Percy sighs. “When am I going to get a kid who likes anchovies?”

“I’m doing my best here, okay?”

***

Hardrada is… not what he expected.

“Reputation isn’t that bad.” Hardrada is saying. “The production isn’t what it should be, but lots of her lyrics are still on point.”

“The production ruins it,” Percy insists. “And as a follow up to 1989? It's just bad.”

“And what about Lover?”

“What about Lover?”

“You can’t argue with the genius of that one.”

“It is terribly inconsistent,” Percy shoots back. “Yeah, ‘The Archer’ and ‘Daylight’ and ‘Miss Americana’ are sublime, but ‘ME!’? Come on!”

“Are you one of those people who thinks she peaked at Red?”

“Red is a bop from start to finish,” Percy fires back. “But she definitely peaked at folklore.”

“Thinking she peaked at folklore is just pedestrian when ‘tis the damn season’ exists!” Hardrada yells, drawing his axe, which is then promptly flung over Percy’s head.

As the only mortal in a room full of armed, excitable, undead Taylor Swift stans, Percy beats a hasty exit, Magnus and Jason covering him as he flees, because they’re just so thoughtful like that. Percy’s pretty sure he saw Magnus take an arrow to the knee, going down in a heap, before he shuts the door to the hotel, finding himself in a Forever 21.

Looking over his notes later as he gets back to his apartment in the North End, he frowns. They had spent… approximately twenty minutes talking about Sicily before getting solidly off track. Who knew an eleventh century viking would have such intense feelings about pop music?

And now he’s singing “seven” to himself as he unlocks the apartment door, because it's a good song, and because it made him think of Annabeth. And he always wants to think of Annabeth.

“Hey, babe,” he calls into the apartment, toeing off his shoes. “I’m back!”

He gets no response.

Percy looks up, confused. “Annabeth?”

“In the bathroom,” he hears, faintly.

“Everything okay?”

“Yep! Totally fine!” she says, unconvincingly.

“Alright,” he calls back. “Let me know if you need something.”

Moving Junie’s toys out of the way, he drops down onto the couch, grabbing his laptop. Hopefully he can make some sort of sense of the… notes… that he got from Hardrada. Though he’s probably going to have to trek out to Beacon Hill again, which, while not really out of his way, does mean he has to hike a bit from the Park Street station through the Commons, which makes him super sweaty and out of breath. It’s just embarrassing, walking into a hotel full of the greatest warriors of Valhalla, and Percy can barely handle a hill.

However, he’s not so out of practice that he can’t sense Annabeth coming up behind him. “You good?”

“What do you think about getting married by the end of the month?”

“Sure,” he says, pecking at his computer. Damn autocorrect ruining all the Norse names. He keeps forgetting to download the right language package he needs. “But I thought you wanted to wait until after you turned in your portfolio?”

“Well… I might not be able to fit in my dress if we wait much longer.”

That gets his attention.

Percy turns around, slowly. Annabeth is grinning, holding a thin little piece of plastic with a circle on the end. She wiggles it.

“Is that…?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.”

Her smile falls. “Are you mad?”

“What? No!” Percy slides his computer off his lap, twisting around to face her, up on his knees. “No, no, not at all. I’m not mad.” She slings her arms around his neck, pregnancy test warm against his skin. “I just…”

Eyes warm, she looks into his, unafraid. “What is it?”

“It’s…” It’s silly, is what it is. But this is Annabeth. If he can’t tell her, who can he tell? “I just feel bad that I’ve gotten you pregnant twice before getting married.”

“Well, at least I’m not nineteen this time,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But maybe we wouldn’t have this problem if you weren’t such a horndog.”

Percy snorts. “Me? What about you, Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before my first lecture’ Chase.”

“Jackson,” she corrects.

“Huh?”

“It’s Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before your first lecture’ Jackson.”

Grinning, he presses his mouth to hers. After all this time, she still smells like lemons, her lips soft and warm. “Not yet it’s not.”

“Then let’s make it happen.”

And, well, Percy can’t think of a better plan.

Jamie hisses. “Fuuuuuck,” she whispers, the sound dropping like a stone in the dead lecture hall. “Goddamn shit fuck ass.”

And the worst part is, she’d actually spent a lot of time preparing for her Latin midterm. She’d made flashcards, she’d drilled noun endings, she’d even slept with the textbook under her pillow for fuck’s sake.

Typical--the moment she sits down to take the test, it all goes out the window.

“Legistne carmen longum de Troiano,” she reads under her breath, as though saying it out loud will unlock some hidden secrets of the cosmos.

Nope. Nothing. The multiple choices remain as inscrutable as ever.

“Psst.”

Jamie looks up.

There’s a four year old staring at her.

“Hi,” Jamie says.

“Hi,” says the four year old. Junie, her name is, she thinks.

Mr. Jackson, Jamie’s Latin TA, will bring his kids to class with him sometimes--his wife works full time, and Jamie guesses that they can’t afford a babysitter. She’s a cute kid, quiet, usually sitting in the corner of the lecture hall, drawing or even knitting, sometimes with her little sister playing with toy ships next to her.

Now, she’s still staring at her. “What’s up?” Jamie asks.

“Bello,” says Junie.

Jamie blinks. “Sorry?”

“Legistne carmen longum de bello Troiano.”

She squints down at her test sheet, attempting to visualize her flash cards. That’s… “Bello” is the right answer.

The fuck? The fucking four year old can speak Latin? “Thanks,” she whispers.

Junie beams at her.

Darting her eyes to the front of the lecture hall, Jamie spies her professor, Buck, completely conked out at his desk, his chest rising and falling with his snores. Percy is nowhere to be seen, his laptop open at his chair. “What’s the next one?” Jamie turns her paper so that Junie can see better.

“Pluto Proserpinam infelicem cepit,” she announces, perfectly accented.

Jamie points to the one after that.

“Rex qui pontem fecit erat Ancus Martius.”

“Awesome.”

The door to the lecture hall opens. Jamie whips around in her seat, startled, and sees her TA, walking down the steps. From the corner of her eye, Junie disappears, booking it to her dad, who scoops her up without missing a beat. “Hey kiddo,” he murmurs, smiling crookedly. “Were you bothering my students?” Then he glances at Jamie. “Sorry about that--hope she wasn’t too annoying.”

But Jamie shakes her head. “It’s fine.” Dammit.

Still smiling, Percy makes his way back down to his seat. Junie grins at her over his shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around her dad’s neck.

At the beginning of the semester, Professor Buck had droned on and on about Mr. Jackson, about how he was one of the best up-and-coming classics scholars in the world, how he could have had his pick of PhD programs, and how NYU was lucky to have him. He got first pick of assistantships this semester, apparently, but had volunteered to teach Latin 1001, and they should all be grateful, because he had done some beautiful new translation of Virgil for his Master’s thesis, and they were all going to learn a lot from him.

Turning back to her exam, Jamie snorts. Of course a guy like that would have a kid who could speak perfect Latin.

She really should have just stuck with German instead.

#my fic #pjo #percabeth #the rivalry ends here #perseannabeth #darkmagyk #percy should be a classics major and here's why #the percy major for the stem hating author #also i feel like i have to say:#1) classics conferences are not like that #2) if only it were that easy to get the bm to return looted antiquities 🙄#pjo fic #percabeth fic #percy jackson

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