Disclaimer: I don't own PJO
Feet pounded on the cold hardwood floor, surprisingly light patters for the excitement packed into the body they belonged to. Giggles wove between muffled thumps, waltzing gracefully with the sounds of early mornings. Sunlight poured through the open window frosted over with the grasp of burgeoning winter and rattling in the careening Manhattan gales. A pair of fuzzy penguin socks slid slickly past the welcome glow – obviously on a mission.
Percy knew his mother wouldn't be up for another hour or so – it had been a late night for both of them. Percy had spent most of the day with Mrs. Figgens, their next-door neighbor, and her son, Tyler, who could easily be mistaken for a bear. His mother worked late at Sweet on America, picking up an evening shift for a sick co-worker. When Sally had knocked on the Figgens' door, she'd discovered an utterly soaked, but equally exuberant son fresh from a snow-ball fight in Central Park. As soon as the two Jacksons had returned to their apartment, they'd promptly passed out; Percy had somehow made it to his room, but his mom, he found as he peaked around the corner to the hallway, was still snoring on the couch.
A slightly mischievous smile graced Percy's lips as he listened to the deep breaths echoing around the quiet living room.
Perfect.
He glided easily into the kitchen, a wide grin cracking his face. The refrigerator hummed on the back wall near the fire escape, a soft beacon shining through his jittery nerves. Percy peeled off his socks and planted them under a dining chair's back legs; a trick he had learned after his mom caught him the first time, roused by the sharp sound of wood scraping against wood. The chair skated effortlessly over to the counter top. Percy clamored up on the granite, the chill biting at his bare feet. His goal – the holy grail of sweets – stood tall and proud on the top of the cupboards in all its chocolaty glory. Percy stood on his tip toes and pulled the can off its perch and hopped down.
His landing wasn't as graceful as he was hoping it would be. He most certainly didn't look like a five-year-old Spider-Man with his face inches away from the island. He could feel the dozens of web-slingers judging his less-than-athletic decent from his pajamas. He scrambled upright, frantically tuning his ears for any scuffle from his mom. Just to be safe, Percy froze, and counted to 40 in his head (although maybe it was less, because he wasn't quite confident with his 30s). Nothing sounded – no squeak of leather, no waking sniffle, no wobbly footsteps.
He was home free!
Scooping up a spoon from the drawer, trying desperately to avoid the metallic click when he withdrew it, Percy settled down on the floor and stripped back the lid, relishing in the smooth, creamy heaven within. Without further hesitation, he sank the spoon into the glop and shoved it into his mouth.
He sighed – there was nothing better, nothing, than a jar full of frosting on a beautiful Saturday morning