Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will can't remember the last time he slept. Or ate. Or sat down for a reason that wasn't to do a procedure. He's so exhausted, but he's also so wired he feels like he could never sleep again. He knows it's bad when he starts hearing things— if there's one thing about Will, it's that he doesn't hear things usually. His Hephaestus-kid-powered CIs are miles better than any other mortal models that could even dream of existing right now, but they’re still far from perfect. He still misses a decent amount of what people say, especially when he’s tired or overstimulated. Sometimes, he just doesn’t have the energy to keep focusing on hearing and thinking in English. These past few days have truly brought a new definition to bone tiredness.

The son of Apollo just discharged the last patient from the battle back to their bunks. That had been the goal: to get everybody nice and healed in time for the rites tonight. Or, at the very least, in the kind of shape that their siblings can take care of them after this point. The infirmary staff is running on fumes at this point and they’re wrecked for supplies. Nonetheless, the infirmary is buzzing alive with other medics cleaning and trying to get things for cabin calls. Mostly, it’s just yelling trying to find supplies that don’t exist anymore— he really needs to talk to the Stolls about a supply run. Everybody keeps asking him questions every ten seconds and he can feel his mind melting away with each question. Almost none of them sign to him, it’s harder for them and he never complains. 

So Will makes the executive decision to not deal with this shit anymore. Maybe not the most responsible decision he’s ever made in his life, but so be it. The place probably won’t go up into flames if he disappears for like thirty minutes, right? He just needs thirty minutes of not hearing anybody or thinking about medicine. Then he can go back to being the perfect Head Healer or whatever. When was the last time he even had a break anyways? 

He makes his way to the only quiet place in the whole infirmary: Beckendorf's workshop. It’s tucked away and sound proofed, mainly so the noise of the metal grinding doesn’t bother anybody. Not that it could bother Beck or Will, the sounds are usually too high pitched for their range of hearing. He all but collapses on the couch. Ever since the Great Prophecy started ramping up, the son of Hephaestus has had less and less time for working in the infirmary. Instead, all of his time goes towards making weapons and armor. He’s not mad about it, he just misses having Deaf company sometimes. Will rests his head in his hands, pulling off his processors for the first time since the battle started and relishing in the silence. 

The battle. 

The battle that killed Lee. The brother that Will was closest to, both being strong healers and it being unspoken that Will was next up for Head Healer. His arrows and textbooks sitting on his bed like they’re going to be used again. Loved again. But they won’t be.

And Castor. One of his first friends here at camp who actively tried to learn ASL for him. Who he had spent countless days with. The image of Pollux being alone for the first time in his life haunts Will. He doesn’t think he’s seen Mr. D around yet, but he also can’t remember who he has and hasn’t seen at this point. 

And five more of his siblings. All of their bunks are sitting empty, like they’re waiting for them to return. He feels sick at the idea of going back there and seeing all the abandoned objects. Lila’s hair ties on the bathroom sink, Imani’s guitar on the floor, Mason’s poetry notebook sitting on his bed waiting to be opened again. 

The metal clanging of weapons and armor rings in his ears. It's far worse than any sounds from the forges. It's constant. It's grating. He dreams of being able to stop hearing it, dreams of it being out of his range of hearing. But it’s not. And it crashes in his head.

The cyclops and hordes of monsters roaring. So loud that even a hearing person could barely understand their fellow soldiers. All these horrible noises that set off every danger alarm within Will. It takes every bit of self-control to keep himself calm enough to keep moving. To keep healing. To be a good field medic.

The screams of pain from demigods. From both sides. The sounds of his friends, current and former, dying in the place supposedly safe for them. He can't tell what direction it's coming from— because it's coming from everywhere. Nobody is safe. Everybody is hurt. It pulls at his soul so tightly that he thinks his heart might explode.

The smell of blood looming in the field and it’s painting his hands. He wishes it was just paint, like what his friends would use to make art. But it doesn’t smell like turpentine or musty art supplies here. The only things he can smell is blood, sweat, and ichor. The putrid smell of them mixing with the fires dashing the grass. But mostly just blood. And he can't get it off his hands. It's caked into the grooves of his hands and nail beds. He can't stop to wash them. There’s no time to. There’s too many dying kids.

The silence when it all ended. The only time Will really, truly hated being Deaf. He can't stand the silence. Which is ironic, considering he spends so much time trying to get people to understand that hearing drains the energy out of him like nothing else. Regardless, even with his CIs at full blast it isn't enough to drown out the phantom sounds that plague his mind. Every sound feels like it wants to kill him, but he can’t stand the idea of being left with himself. 

He looks at a clock hanging in the room, it’s the afternoon. It's been three days. The funerals are today. He made the deadline for clearing the infirmary. He's spent the last three days trying to save as many demigods as he could. Even the fighters for Kronos that were too injured to be extracted. At the end of the day, they’re all just kids who are trying to fight for something better than what they have right now. Well, at least that’s what Will’s been trying to tell himself to keep it together and be a half decent medic. In wars, the medics are protected, they serve both sides indiscriminately. Helping out the demigods that could easily be his siblings is the least that he could do.

And you failed. 

Will's hands are raw. Apparently because his healing powers are so linked to his light manipulation powers that’s a thing that can happen. Especially since Will doesn’t need hymns to heal, unlike every other healer, he draws purely from his own energy. Lee found an old, old book one time that explained it when his hands ached the first time after healing a major injury without any hymns to help. Apparently, the ichor in Will is too strong for his mortality when he pushes his powers too far, that it happens a lot with demigods with rarer power manifestations. If there’s one thing that Will’s learned in all his time at camp, it’s that the Greek world does irony like none other. 

I did what I could. 

It wasn't enough. Fucking pathetic. 

The burns on hands are just a small price to pay. He didn’t really know that he could push his powers so far that they could do this to him. Like it didn’t seem real to just hear about, that the limit was so far away that it was basically unreachable. But the pain is what he deserves. His friends are dead. His siblings are dead. He can handle burns. Lee wouldn't complain. Lee isn't here to complain anymore. Pathetic, weak, sad excuse of son of Apollo. It should’ve been you. He died for you and this is what you are. Burnt because you can’t handle the job you don’t deserve to have. 

The scalpel in his pocket feels heavier and heavier. The scalpel that has been sitting in his pocket for days now, barely having a chance to be sanitized and sharpened between cases. Almost subconsciously, it finds its way to his hand. The cold metal feels like a relief to him. The ridged metal handle feels beautifully familiar. Then it moves to his arm. He barely feels it as it draws blood. He barely feels anything at all. Like he’s a passive bystander in his own life, watching from the outside. He sees phantom images of dying campers behind his eyes. They blur together with the red on his arm. Nothing feels like it’s real. At the same time, everything feels far, far too real. 

The metal clanging.

The cyclops.

The screams. 

The blood.

The silence. 

Suddenly, the lights flicker and he feels somebody stomping on the floor. Will flinches and his head shoots up to see Beckendorf. He didn't think the teen would come anywhere near here for at least a few weeks. If I had the choice, I would be anywhere but here. Or maybe I only want to be here. He freezes— realizing that his bleeding arm is on full display with the scalpel in the other. Will doesn't even have a chance to try to make up an excuse because Beckendorf turns around and walks away without saying a word.

Fuck. He hates me. I'll never be anything compared to Lee. Everybody hates me here. I should've defected when I had the chance. At least then I wouldn't be alone. But you're always alone. You deserve to be alone. You deserve to be dead—

Before Will can spiral more, Beckendorf returns with bandages and a damp rag in his hand. He quietly sits down next to Will and takes the blade from his hand, tossing it into a basket on his desk. He gingerly grabs his arm and starts cleaning the wounds then gently wraps the bandages around them. Will knows it’s supposed to hurt, but he can’t really feel it. He’s just grateful that Beckendorf isn’t asking any questions. 

“I thought I'd find you here,” Beckendorf signs. 

Will sighs in relief, the idea of having to understand anything but his first language sounds miserable. There's no need for them to speak orally in the infirmary anymore. Lee's not here like he always was. He was only conversational and couldn’t keep up with all the Deaf phrases that he and Beck use when they sign. Plus, being the counselor and Head Healer, Lee just didn’t have enough time in the day to get fluent. Will realizes he hasn’t acknowledged Beckendorf yet and shrugs in response. He doesn't know what he could possibly say. 

“I miss him too. I miss him so fucking much. I keep thinking I'll see him again,” Beckendorf says, “I know you haven't left here at all.”

Will nods. There's a part of him that cannot fathom speaking right now. In any language. He just feels… frozen. Stuck. Beckendorf puts an arm around Will and pulls him into a side hug. Usually Will doesn’t like being touched when he’s like this, but there’s a few people who are an exception to that. Albeit, Beck’s the only person left at this point. They sit together in silence for what feels like forever. 

“Lay down, get some rest. I'll be right here,” the son of Hephaestus insists. 

Will shakes his head. He signs very small and close to his body, it’s almost imperceivably, “I can't stop seeing them.”

Beckendorf nods empathetically, “I know. I can't stop seeing them either. I carried all of them to the amphitheater today. I’m here now though. Don’t forget that. I’m here, you’re safe.” 

“I should've been better,” says Will. 

“There was nothing more you could've done. Sleep, Will. I'll wake you up in time for the funerals,” Beckendorf reiterates. 

Will's too exhausted to argue. He closes his eyes and grows more and more tired. As he’s laying there, Beckendorf rhythmically drums his fingers on the boy’s arm. Will feels the older boy also take off his hearing aids, relishing in the bliss of silence. He can only imagine how hectic his last few days have been— Demigods get angry when their weapons and armor are broken. Will’s finally able to relax just enough that he allows sleep to take him.