Author's Note: Inspired by this fanart. Check out the artist, Emma. She's lovely. ^_^

Sally Jackson had no idea where her son was at that exact moment.

It killed her a little bit every day not knowing when - or gods forbid - even if he came home. She hadn't heard from him in far too long and she was tired, so tired. It was as if the memory of him flowed the energy from her body, turning her into an old woman before her time. But she would remind herself of who her son was, who he had become, and she would straighten her back, take a breath, and believe.

That day, she was in the kitchen making blue pancakes. It had become a habit whenever she missed him. Memories of the scrawny kid pulling at the ties of her Sweet on America apron, peering his big green eyes over the counter to see what treats she had brought home for him that day, made her smile. But the smile hurt, like someone was pulling at strings on the corner of her mouth and forcing her to grin. She just wanted to see him even if it was just one last time.

Nothing accompanied her in the house save for the quiet mumble of the news in the background. It spoke of such pain, tragedy, and horror, Sally only wondered if her son was involved in any of it. She hadn't heard from Annabeth in a while either. Her heart ached to think if anything happened to her.

Only when she brushed a loose lock of hair from her face did she notice that she was crying. Her chest tightened as if a massive hand had reached in and clutched her heart between its fingers. It felt cold and hard and unflinching. No matter where she went or what she did, it was always there, sometimes squeezing harder than other days. Today was bad.

Sally took a moment for herself and focused. The pancakes sizzled on the skillet, the bacon rested on folded paper towels, and the toast jettisoned out of the toaster with a delightful ping.

Sally gasped and wiped her eyes with her wrist, willing herself not to break. She felt as if her chest was a dam filling to the brim of exploding and it tore her to shreds. She covered her eyes with her hand and concentrated on the darkness. You're fine, Sally. It's fine. Everything will be alright. It's Percy. He's always alright.

She took deep, shaky breaths and felt the tides calming within her. She was glad Paul had stepped out to get groceries. She would have hated for him to see her like this. He would tell her exactly what she told herself, over and over, until she made herself believe it. But words could only do so much. And something in her had been taken, stolen even. And she had that drowning feeling that she had lost him forever.

She removed her hand and pushed back her hair that had been tied into a messy bun and stared at the ceiling. The white plaster was neutral, blank, calming. It helped. She took another breath, smooth and steady and returned to her work. The pancakes were burning.

"Hey, mom."

She froze. She could have sworn… .

But she had to look.

And there he was: dirty, bruised and drained.

"Percy…"

They stared at each other for a full minute. His smile was weak and exhausted but his eyes were the same - the eyes of his father, the eyes of a hero. It was her son. It was her baby boy.

She rushed to him and cried out, "Oh Percy!"

When she wrapped her arms around his chest, her gaze widened. His orange camp shirt was torn to shreds, barely hanging off his back. He smelled of the underground, of moisture and mildew, and blood. So much blood. Her fingers traced over the bandages wrapped tightly around his figure. She let out a gasp, and the floodgates opened.

"It's okay, mom," he said. "I'm okay." His voice was dripping with relief. She felt his own tears running down his cheeks and onto her ear. They were warm, and wet, but happy.

She buried her face into his shoulder and sobbed, not caring who heard. Let them hear. Let them know that her son was home.