Yes, yes, I know, I should be updating Saving The Jerk Who Dumped Me. I'm working on it, I swear. Don't kill me. =]

By the way, if you're reading this, I've got a poll going on at the top of my profile page, and if you could do me a favor and go vote, I'd be super grateful! Thanks!

This fic is for Pierce the Veils' Random Quote Challenge. I had to incorporate the following quote:

"There's no better way to overpower a trickle of doubt than with a flood of naked truth."
-Francis Underwood, from House of Cards

I actually had a lot of fun writing this.

Oh, and also: If any of you are into Doctor Who, you should check out Someone You'd Admire by transistor robot (with a period between "transistor" and "robot"). I'm beta-reading it, and honestly, it's a great story! (Oh and thanks for the tip for this story!)

Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson. If I did, there would have been a friggin' reunion during BoO between Percy and his mom, and another between Percy and Grover. AND EVERYONE ELSE!

o0o

EPISODE ONE: Just a Trickle

In which Percy knows more than he should.

"omg "

Paul stared at it.

"omg but then"

He couldn't peel his eyes from the words.

"omg but then get this"

Would it be moral for him to give the student an F on the grounds of writing "omg but then get this mr blofish" in the middle of a rhetorical essay about symbolism in The Scarlet Letter?

The kid couldn't even spell "blowfish" right. Paul was used to people mistaking his last name for the aquatic animal. It irked him. But at least they spelled it correctly. It was a compound word, for pity's sake, and both of its components were on the Dale-Chall 3,000 word list.*

He leaned back in his chair, relishing in the delicious creaking noise it gave, and shut his eyes. Being an English teacher was a pretty sweet deal, most of the time. The job came with the freedom to geek out as much as he wanted about characterization and motifs and the comparisons to be found in derivative works from different literary periods.

That freedom, plus the financial benefits he got for working at the same school for ten years, plus the occasional students who adored quality literature the same as him, plus those satisfying "a-ha" moments when a student finally grasped the purpose of the rhetorical précis (despite their failure to correctly pronounce précis) all added up to a surprisingly enjoyable job.

Life was Good at Goode.

(He also had the freedom to make puns such as those and still be regarded as a "pretty ok" teacher.)

Despite all this, however, there were moments where he wanted to bang and scrape his head against the nearest available wall. These moments, while not frequent, made him question why he chose to be an English teacher in the first place, instead of sticking as an Ancient History scholar.

Paul stopped rubbing his temples and sat up. That was it. He didn't have to grade papers nonstop. It was Saturday. No constitution was prohibiting him from absconding his duties pro tem.

(He did not have the freedom to use pretentious words around his students without seeming...well...pretentious. Fortunately, his students were not here. And neither was his fiancée.)

Case in point, if Paul wanted to take a break from failing poorly written essays, there was nothing stopping him. If he wanted to pick up a copy of The Iliad** and read (and theorize) to his heart's content, by jove was he going to do it.

He pushed out of his seat and traipsed down the hallway to Sally's room. His bookshelf had been moved in last week, so it took no time to bend down and tug the book free from the clutter. After glimpsing at the cover with a surge of affection, he strolled over to the sofa and sat down, removed his bookmark, and began to read.

Nestor's two sons each brought down his man. Antilochos drove his spear into the flank of Atymnios; his brother Matis ran in front of the body and made a thrust at Antilochos; but Thrasymedes got in first before he could strike, and tore the upper arm from the muscles, breaking the bone, and killing the man. ***

Paul almost winced at the description; the events in The Iliad were so brutal and equally...descriptive. It really made for a fascinating, if inelegant, read.

He eagerly indulged himself and went on to the next page.

After a few minutes, or possible several hours, his luxury was interrupted by a sudden slamming sound. Paul glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of Percy stepping into the apartment. The teenager in question did a once-over about the room, then glanced at Paul. "Is Mom home?"

Paul shook his head, taking in the slightly disheveled look of his future stepson. His t-shirt was stained with sweat, but not especially dirty, and there were no signs of blood (which was a relief, after one incident a month ago that had thoroughly shaken him up. Fifteen-year-old boys should not be coming home stained in blood. But Sally hadn't seemed too concerned, and Percy had insisted it was nothing, which Paul eventually conceded to. There wasn't even a paper-cut on the boy, so it wasn't like he had been in a fight or car accident or any other injury-inducing events. But still, the nonchalant attitude Percy and his mother had adopted unnerved Paul in a way he couldn't quite express).

Percy's hair was also a noticeable mess, and the teen's face was smeared in grease and what looked like a coating of dandruff. Paul raised an eyebrow. "Had fun?"

"What?" said Percy, astonished.

Paul gestured at...well, everything. It was then Percy glanced down at his own appearance, eyes widening slightly. He didn't seem especially confused, which Paul found curious, but then he did seem surprised, as if it was logical, if unexpected, to be covered in Pixie Stick powder.

"Ah," said Percy. "Well, uh, you see—"

Paul held up a hand. "You don't have to explain it right now, if you don't want to. As long as you promise you weren't doing something your mom wouldn't approve of."

At that, the boy emphatically shook his head. "No, my mom would be all right with it." He wavered in his step a bit, eyes pausing. "Well, I think."

The two exchanged looks, and then Percy trudged to the hallway.

Paul turned back to his book.

Percy was a very special kid.

It had taken Paul a while to accept that, but he was very proud to say he did. Eventually.

Even if it meant fighting against every single one of his instincts as a teacher.

The things Paul Blofis did for love.

He was about to begin Book 19, when his literary bliss was disrupted a second time. In this instance, there was a sort of crashing sound Paul immediately identified as the bathtub faucet being turned on. His best guess was that Percy was washing something, presumably his dirtied clothes, without going all the way downstairs just to use a public one.

Then the noise stopped, and Percy walked in, wearing pajamas already, considerably bleary-eyed. He waved at Paul, then crashed onto the sofa seat next to Paul.

Which was all right with him. He loved the fact that the kid was growing more and more comfortable around him. It made a great change from the early days, when Percy had eyed Paul constantly, as if paranoid Paul would do something horrible. Which, considering what he heard of Sally's ex-husband, made sense.

That being said, Percy's ease around Paul was interesting for another reason. Even after Percy had started to clearly trust him, there was always...something else. Percy would seem guarded around Paul, and speak cautiously, as if saying the wrong word could be fatal.

At first, Paul had attributed this to the fact that he was a teacher. What kid wouldn't be hesitant and choosy with his words around a teacher?

And yet, that didn't quite seem to be the cause. It was clear enough that Percy had liked Paul well enough, The only direct behavior he had about Paul's teacher status was the occasional sheepishness that resulted from a history of poor grades, expulsions, and detention slips.

Paul was left questioning why Percy was always so secretive around him. But then, he had decided long ago that he would let Percy open up in his own time.

To reiterate: Percy was a special kid.

The special kid glanced at Paul. "What are you reading?"

Paul closed the book, his ring finger pressed between his pages to hold his spot. He tilted the book at Percy. "The Iliad." Percy raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything, so Paul took that as his cue to continue. "It's a great read, you know. I think you'd like it. It's got a little something for everyone."

Percy was staring at the book, eyes flickering. "Oh."

Paul paused, waiting for Percy to continue. When the silence stretched to an awkward length (with Percy never taking his eyes off the book, no less), he finally spoke. "I know you can get through it, Percy."

He was well aware of Percy's dyslexia, but he had also worked with several students with that same condition over the years. And if there was one thing he knew, it was that Percy could become an excellent reader, if he just put in the effort.

Problem was, Percy Jackson seemed to have absolutely no interest in becoming an avid reader. It killed Paul on the inside, just a little (being an English teacher does that to you), but in time he began to sort of accept that Percy would skateboard and visit friends and watch DVDs (not TV or internet streaming, oddly enough). But he would never read more than necessary.

Which is why it surprised him when Percy blurted, "Actually, I've already read it already."

Paul's eyebrows snapped up. "Really?" His mind worked a million cogs, processing and thinking and trying not to collapse in befuddlement. "When?"

Percy shrugged, tearing his eyes away from the book. "A couple of years ago."

"Wh—yo—tha—bu—how—why?"

The teen glanced down into his laps, staring as if trying to determine exactly what words to choose. "I...that is...uh...Annabeth. Yeah, Annabeth." He wore that smug look Paul was too familiar with: that look that said I'm technically not lying, ha ha.

Of course, Paul knew better. "Annabeth made you. Why?"

Percy was having a very serious wrestle with a frown. Clearly, he hadn't prepared an answer. "She...just likes Greek mythology. It is interesting."

"Well, that's something we can agree on," said Paul, trying not to sound too skeptical. Sure, Percy could have read it upon Annabeth's request, but a couple of years ago, he would have been about 13. And the chances of a 13-year-old dyslexic who held no interest in reading actually reading something so labyrinthine? Not high.

To say Paul doubted his stepson truly read The Iliad would be a massive understatement.

And Paul reckoned he was close enough to the kid to have the right to call him out on the lie. (Or bending of the truth, at least. It was very possible Annabeth had his start the epic, but that the teenager had given up quickly.)

"What did you think of the fight between Achilles and Zeus?" he asked, leaning back with what he hoped what a nonchalant shrug. "I was on the edge of my seat."

To his surprise, Percy's eyebrows furrowed. "Achilles never fought Zeus. That would have been, like, suicide."

Paul suppressed any sign of him being impressed, and simply raised his eyebrows in challenge. "Achilles was invincible."

"Didn't stop Paris from killing him, though."

The English teacher opened his mouth the reply, but one glance at the teen and the words halted on his tongue. Percy's face...he looked troubled. His head bowed down, oh so slightly, but enough for shadows to hang under his eyes. The change was subtle, but there was something in Percy's eyes. Worry?

Paul blinked. "Percy?"

To his credit, the kid's head snapped up immediately, and all traces of any disturbing thoughts had all but banished. Had he imagined the whole thing? Before Paul could come to any conclusions, Percy said, "Yeah?"

Oh. Something was definitely up. Percy's voice was much quieter than it had been a moment ago. But Paul chose to ignore it. He wasn't done here. "So what did you think of The Iliad? Overall?"

Percy leaned back and sighed. His eyes dug into the ceiling. "A lot of people died. What's up with that?"

"Well, it was a war, Percy," said Paul, searching the boy's face. "And the Greek gods were a pretty violent bunch."

Percy stopped breathing a moment, and his eyes widened just slightly. His pupils darted around a bit, and then he drew out a long sigh. A blink, and then: "They weren't the only ones."

Paul stared at the kid. Was he still talking about Ancient Greece? Or was it something that was going on now? An image of Percy's occasional blood-stained shirt popped into his head. Was there something going on the teen wasn't talking about?

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Monsters," was Percy's reply. "Titans. Heroes."

This gave Paul pause. "Heroes?"

"Demigods. Some of them are worse than anyone else." He paused. "Sometimes. And sometimes the gods are just unfa-" He swallowed, breath frozen. Before Paul could question it, he stood up. "You know, I'm thirsty. Yeah, water. You thirsty, Paul? Water's good."

Paul blinked. "Um, yeah, sure, I could go for a drink of water. But Percy-"

The teen had already disappeared into the kitchen.

Paul stared after the door, wondering what was going on. There was something strange about Percy, something he couldn't quite place. As if...he had said something wrong. Or...almost said something wrong.

Either way, however, it was clear to the teacher that there was something Percy wasn't telling him.

Then the boy walked in, cheerful as ever, having guzzled down half a glass of water and offering a second one to Paul, joyful as if nothing had ever gone wrong.

To reiterate: Percy was a very special kid.

o0o

Every time I write something, I look at it, call it crap, and publish it anyway without so much as a second draft. But I've definitely improved (just take a peek at the clumsy piece "Reminiscing in the Chamber" and you'll understand) over the past few years, so hey, that's something.

I'm not sure how many "episodes" I'll have in this fic. Not too many. Probably around three.

*: The Dale-Chall 3,000 word list, in case you're wondering, is a list of words familiar to at least 80% of all fourth graders (i.e., by age 10, all children should know most, if not all, of the words in the list). It was established in the mid-1900s, so it may be a bit outdated, but not substantially enough that a high school student wouldn't be able to spell both the words "blow" and "fish". Look up the list, if you're curious.

**: I honestly would have done the Odyssey, but I only have a copy of The Iliad. Confession: I never actually read it. Although, after flipping through the pages, trying to find a suitable passage, I've got to say: this stuff actually looks interesting. I might just read it one of these days.

***: For the sake of citations: This excerpt is from page 193 of W.H.D. Rouse's translation of Homer's The Iliad, published by Mentor Books in 1950 (in America, that is; the original printing of this edition was in 1938, interestingly enough. Or am I the only one who finds random book copyright information interesting?)

Wow, this bottom author's note is almost as long as the top one. I think I need help.

Review, por favor!