Rated: T, for pretty obvious reasons.

Trigger Warnings (TW): Mentions of medication, swearing, disturbing thoughts, Percy being just too adorable for words, blood (but not necessarily gore), possibly panic attacks, and the usual innuendos that come with Poseidon being a total asshat with a thing for vagina among other sexual organs.

Pairings: Canon Olympian pairings, ones that go along with the original mythology—such as Hera/Zeus. There'll be some implied stuff, of course, like past Poseidon/Sally, past Athena/Poseidon, but it's mainly focused on Poseidon and Percy's father-son relationship. We'll see where it goes from there.

Spoilers: None, as far as I know.

Beta: Daughter of Apollo 14

Disclaimer: Don't own jack, man. But Riordan definitely owns my soul.


BLOOD/GORE TRIGGER WARNING IN EFFECT. PANIC/ANXIETY ATTACKS. NO TRULY GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS.


Chapter Seven: Oracle


Poseidon could admit to himself that he had made a mistake. An awful one. He'd panicked, overreacted; allowed his brother to take hold of his emotions. He had all but given his brother the key to his personal damnation. Good one, Poseidon. You did a great job.

His brother would take stock in his reaction to Percy and use it against him whenever it suited him best. There was no doubt in his mind. Hades was a cunning, ruthless man; he would not waver.

Well, neither would he.

Poseidon decided, with a locked jaw and grinding teeth, that he would go to the family reunion. If there was one thing the Olympia brothers had in common, it would be stubbornness. And possibly stupidity. (Most likely stupidity.) He refused to back down.

Poseidon had a week before the reunion began, and he allowed himself that time to assemble his plan of action. His room found itself in shambles the second day in: piles of forgotten clothes, protein bar wrappers strewn across the floor haphazardly, and the harsh stench of defeat clinging persistently in the air. He was woefully unprepared, and there was only one thing he could do. Call Hestia. There were few people he trusted more than her.

And bless her, she picked up at the third ring.

Their phone conversation wasn't long, exactly, but it did leave little left to be said. His elder sister barely had time to give a brief hello before he blurted out his distress, "Hades is blackmailing me, Hestia, and I don't know what to do and there's a family reunion and I told Hades to tell Hera to shove it, oh God, Hestia, I'm going to be in so much trouble; what if my tie doesn't match the table cloth?" A quick pause, a gasp for breath, the swell of horror rising in his chest. "Hestia, does my tie have to match the table cloth?"

Hestia did what she always did in these sort of situations: she laughed.

"I'll be over in an hour."

Hestia Olympia was the calmest person he had ever had the pleasure to know. She never yelled, never demanded, never assumed. She was a thousand years old and a mere child at once, possessing both common sense and blinding optimism in spades. Her stature was petite and delicate, her black curls tamed and her eyes always warm and brown like the finest hot chocolate. Whenever Poseidon was in her presence, he felt wrapped up in her warmth as if it was a thick, well-loved blanket, and she never failed to bring a grin to his face.

Basically, she was a damn good sister, and Poseidon probably (definitely) didn't deserve her.

When she arrived exactly an hour later, wrapped in one of the many scarves he bought her every holiday, her smile was infectious. Poseidon caught it so fast, he was positive it wouldn't budge until she marched out his door. Hestia, however, didn't leave; instead, she let her determination shine through as she danced her way towards his room. As usual, she denied being given any refreshments with the wave of a dainty hand. "Don't be silly, Poseidon. I'm not here to be pampered: I'm here to save your sorry butt."

"We can do the awesome sibling stuff later."

When they reached his room, she scolded him gently. She clucked her tongue at the mess he had made. "Come on now, I taught you better." Almost immediately, he felt eight years old again, having trashed the kitchen with his brothers for the billionth time. When Poseidon began to laugh at that memory, his sister didn't hesitate in giving him a soft punch on the shoulder. They mainly worked in silence—Hestia was a soft-spoken, self-assured woman. She didn't need to fill a space with words to melt comfortably into it. But, despite the lack of communication, his sister had found him an outfit, planned out a perfect way for him to avoid both Hades and Hera, and managed to sneak into the kitchen to make cookies while he was changing out of his chosen attire in record time.

Six gooey chocolate chip cookies, three tall glasses of milk, two ridiculous chick flicks on the television, and one Twinkie box lying empty on his coffee table later, his big sister left. She pressed a kiss to his cheek as she stepped out the door. "Try not to shrivel up without me," she said, and Poseidon wished—not for the first time—that he had three Hestias instead of only one (plus two assholes on the side).

Before he knew it, it was time for the family reunion. With a start, he realized he hadn't sent the appropriate warning in advance, and, idly, he wondered if that meant he was bashing his own family reunion.

He drove all the way there with a half-formed laugh caught in his throat and the taste of anxiety coating his tongue. (It was cherry medicine and vomit with a squeeze of lemon, and Poseidon hated himself for greeting the feeling like an old friend.)

Poseidon arrived in front of a four story house, all finely carved columns and gold detailing, and wondered, bitterly, if there were diamonds implanted into the home's very foundations. He wouldn't be surprised.

When he reached the door with its fancy-shmancy windows and crystal doorknob, he asked himself if it was too late to turn back. Despite this nagging question, he didn't hesitate in throwing open the door. It didn't feel dissimilar to opening a gate to Hell.

Hera met him almost immediately, her fixed, polite smile stretched across her beautiful face. Her hair was long and straight, the color of black licorice, and Poseidon arched a brow at the almost vicious look in her light brown eyes. A small, blonde boy clutched the end of her white dress, bunching up the expensive fabric in his tiny, dirt-stained fists. He immediately recognized him as Zeus' boy, the younger one of the two children his most famous conquest had given birth to. Jason, he thought his name was.

So much for avoiding the sister-in-law from Hell.

"Hello, Hera," he said, but only after the stretch of silence grew too much for him. With a pause, he attempted to shoot the six year-old a grin. The boy only hid himself further, and well, Poseidon had never liked kids much anyways.

"Poseidon," the wife of Zeus greeted in response, using her manicured nails to tuck a piece of inky hair safely behind one ear. "We weren't expecting you." Her tone was stiff, cold. Not very familiar. Poseidon only grinned. His shoulders gave a shrug, feigning nonchalance.

"Well, I'm always so concerned about the family. How's Thalia, by the way?" He watched her increasingly stormy expression with questionably contained glee. The twenty-four year old could never understand how cold Hera could be to one child, but so warm and welcoming to the other. At least hate the both of them equally. They came from the same mother.

Hera and Poseidon didn't speak much after that.

As he walked into the living room, he noticed two things. One, it was heavily decorated. He caught a glance of Apollo, Zeus' sixteen year-old adopted son, with his blond head wrapped in strings of out-of-season holiday beads, before he flounced up the stairs to do only God knows what. A single, blue eye winked down at him before he disappeared from sight. Two, Athena was there.

Of course, she was as striking as ever.

Now, Poseidon and Athena used to have a thing. He'd been eighteen, she'd been twenty two. He'd met her at some odd function of Zeus', and needless to say, they'd hit it off. And by hit it off, he meant that he'd spilled a whole punch bowl on her cream-colored pantsuit and she'd punched him square in the nose. Right in front some of her clients. They'd fallen into bed the very same night.

It didn't take long for him to do something stupid and for her to get fed up. She'd left him with a very intelligent and comprehensive note, which included a neat list of all the reasons why he was a terrible match for her and possibly anyone ever.

Poseidon had laughed for days.

Now, however, here she was again, despite having no familial relation to the Olympias. She stood relaxed, with her thick hair piled up into a no-nonsensical bun, her front faced towards a tiny, athletic-looking girl with auburn locks and proud features not hereditary but learned through years of seeing the exact expression on both of her adopted parents. Poseidon immediately recognized the girl as Artemis, Zeus' only adopted daughter. He stifled his surprise: he hadn't known them to be friends.

He didn't dare approach them, but he did shoot Athena a grin as he strolled to the kitchen. It was satisfying to watch her stormy grey eyes narrow at him in carefully suppressed rage. It was also satisfying to look at her long, long legs when he turned his head back to whisper one partially sincere but mostly mocking "nice to see you again" before crossing the entryway.

The warm feeling in his chest died by ice, however, when he saw Hades murmuring to Zeus, the cunning smirk on Hades' cold features draining him of strength as Zeus steadily turned purple in the face. His breath left him in a whoosh. His eyes darted to take in all of the situation and its unfortunate additions. He had never expected Hades to just come out and tell his middle brother. He'd always been so subtle in comparison to Zeus and himself.

Any thoughts of Hestia's plan left his mind.

Hephaestus was the only one who noticed him, his ugly face formed into a familiar, awkward twist of the lips and a slight head tilt as he tinkered with his scarred, careful hands. The eldest, adopted son of Zeus was most likely the brightest man he knew, and something inside him groaned as he realized the nineteen year-old was listening to every word Hades pronounced.

Thalia, with her short black hair and curious eyes, watched avidly from the kitchen table. A small boy next to her swung his legs back and forth, causing the chair across from him to be pushed farther and farther away. Poseidon just barely managed to catch his enthusiastic giggles as he said "and Bianca says, and Bianca says" over and over. The young girl's distracted smile became fixed to her delicate face; her cheeks stretched into an unnatural facial expression. She appeared rather pained.

"Did she, now?"

"And sometimes she's all red!"

"A boy, aye? You've got to be joking, Hades, there's no way Poseidon—"

Persephone, or Rosaline before she married Hades and took the name of his mythical wife, strolled in with a curly-haired girl at her side. Poseidon took his last chance and fled.

For the next couple of months, Poseidon didn't stop for anything. His work consumed his life; colors grew dull. And Kronos was pleased.


Monsters of a Different Mold


It had started out alright, really.

Chiron had been incredibly happy to have Percy back early. He'd patted him cheerfully on his head, eyes all-knowing and body language relaxed and welcoming as ever. Percy had sunk into his embrace, eager and badly shaken; his knees bumped against the seat of his caregiver's wheelchair. Before he knew it, he had his tear-streaked face buried into a tweed-clad shoulder. A slightly hysterical laugh had passed his lips. Warm arms folded around him and there was a wonderful feeling of warmlovesafe,and he'd promised right then and there to never take what he had for granted.

"I really missed you," was all he had said, however, as words like monster and mommy and scared lost themselves in a whirlwind of overwhelming relief.

Then Percy had straightened himself up, furiously wiped away his tears with white-knuckled fists, and smiled. Chiron had been startled by the sudden change, but nonetheless offered his own tentative grin in return.

"Don't tell Conner or Travis I cried on you," Percy grumbled. "Or they'll think I'm a big baby."

"And Luke?"

"Luke's cool, Chiron. He'd be totally uncool if he started being a jerkbutt like those guys."

"Of course," the man had agreed readily, and that was that.

Days stretched into months and before Percy knew it, school was starting up again. He'd spent the majority of his summer going back-and-forth between Chiron's place and the halfway house. He used up the hot summer afternoons playing around with Tyson and the evenings sipping fresh lemonade and foiling the Stolls' evil plots to destroy Chiron's precious herb garden. Sometimes, Luke had even joined in, when he wasn't being all angsty and teenagery and stuff. Every Thursday night was movie night for Chiron and his four charges, and Percy was delighted to pick Finding Nemo every time. (The others would groan, but Percy knew the movie was growing on them.) It was a bit routine, sure, but it was nice and probably the best summer he had ever had. Minus that one Poseidon-shaped smudge marring the month of June.

Percy hated that smudge.

But, minus that, everything really was looking up. He'd been taking his medicine lately, and, to his shock and intense relief, the monsters were gone. No snapped necks or leering grins stretched from ear-to-ear, no long brown hair streaked grey or hands formed into fearsome claws. His dreams were a different story, but everyone was a work-in-progress (or so Chiron said). (Chiron's always right, though, so obviously Percy believed him.)

It was going to be okay.

His birthday was a particularly nice one. He cataloged that particular day in August as one of his best; he boasted about his mature age of eight for days afterward, stubborn in his ignorance of the nine and ten year old Stolls' angry protests.

School ended up being as boring as it always had been, but Chiron insisted that it was important. Not wanting to hurt the man's feelings, he didn't complain about it to his face anymore. Instead, he held lengthy discussions with the two brothers, occasionally with Luke throwing in a sentence or two if he was willing. Percy was glad to see the blond warming up to him after so long. While he'd always been polite, the older boy seemed to be observe him closely for some reason. As if he thought Percy was some strange puzzle yet to be solved—one of those super hard ones with 2,000 pieces and no cool pictures to make it worthwhile.

On his first day of school, he'd been lucky enough to meet a boy named Grover. He was a tall, scrawny boy with curly hair and forest green crutches. Percy hadn't asked him, but Grover willingly explained that he had something wrong with legs—a disease, or something. Percy didn't push, and Grover didn't bother to clarify. Not that it made any difference to him, honestly. He was a fun dude to be around, and Percy appreciated having a friend outside of the halfway house. It didn't matter that Grover was probably older than his other classmates, or that he had bad acne and a funny laugh. Grover tutored him in History and he always ate Percy's leftovers when he felt too sick to shovel down anymore. That was a good friend in his book.

In return, of course, Grover managed to get himself a bodyguard. Percy only hoped it was an even trade.

Chiron hadn't been pleased with the new bruises and bloody lip his charge had gained, but Percy thought it was well worth a friend.

Eventually, the new group went from two to three. It was a gradual thing. In the beginning, perhaps the second week of school, it had just been odd flashes of red in the halls. By the third week, notes showed up taped to his cubbyhole with silly doodles of dolphins and goats going on adventures with something that appeared to be an owl tagging along for the ride. Percy had been wary, but the little comics were nice and no one had ever been so thoughtful to him before.

Fourth week of school, he got paint-brushes and colored pencils chucked at his head with a return address of the girl's bathroom engraved into all of them. He'd rolled all of them into said bathroom the next morning, but unfortunately, a teacher caught him in the act. That'd been particularly hard to explain to Chiron.

Fifth week of school, a pretty redhead plopped down next to him and Grover at their designated table by the trashcan. The third day of that same week she identified herself as Rachel, and honestly, Percy was just relieved that he didn't have to call her "little red" anymore.

Rachel was a strange kid. She wore her wild red hair in several different buns across her tiny head (each tied up in different colored bands) and colored in her many freckles in every color of the rainbow. Her clothing—stylish, expensive dresses and pantyhose fit for an old lady—was perpetually dotted with paint and smeared with either charcoal or Oreo dust. He'd never seen her without a sketchbook. In fact, he was positive that she kept several on her person, hidden in mysterious places to use at any given time.

Percy may not have a great understanding of girls, but even he knew this wasn't exactly normal.

Rachel enjoyed to prattle about strange creatures during their lunches together, filling her numerous sketchbooks with frightening monsters of all shapes and sizes. Her eyes always took on a strange green cast whenever she discussed these things, her voice going low and wispy like fog. It made Percy feel cold.

Then Grover would nab his apple or his sandwich and all would be right again.

The sixth week took a turn for the worst. His nightmares rose with a vengeance he hadn't been prepared for. Percy spent that week skulking the halls like a zombie, stepping on the back of his classmates' ratty sneakers and getting in trouble for dozing in class. His teachers mumbled their concerns behind his back, and he felt adrift in a black sea he didn't know how to swim in. His already dismal grades went from Cs to Ds in record time. Knowing of the disappointment he'd find there, Percy hadn't bothered to meet his caretaker's eyes in quite awhile. His new friends at school didn't know how to handle him, and Grover was always undecided when Percy handed over his entire lunch to the gangly boy. Rachel still paid him no mind, however, nicking herself a single lollipop from his lunch bag. Percy didn't care: his appetite was shot. The very thought of food made his stomach churn.

Rachel stared with thoughtful green eyes and a down-turned mouth stained grape.

On the second day into the seventh week, a cloudless Tuesday, he sat at lunch in a daze. Grover let out a nervous bleat every few minutes or so, a shaky hand running through his damp brown hair. Nancy Bobofit had decided it would be a great idea to chuck her peanut-butter and ketchup sandwich at him earlier in the day, and both Rachel and Percy had held the honor of helping him get it out of his curly locks with wet paper towels and a lot of elbow grease. Rachel had thought it was hilarious at the time, but Percy hadn't been thrilled. The artistic redhead was currently doodling frantically in her sketchbook, and Percy watched with wide eyes as the familiar image of kaleidoscope eyes and long locks formed itself on the page. The woman on the page rested a thin hand on top of a messy-haired boy's head, and while their resemblance seemed little to him, it was still obvious they were related. Mother and son. His throat tightened uncomfortably, but Rachel only smiled.

"Hiding the problem doesn't make it go away, you know?"

He had to leave early that day, after having a panic attack during math, and whispers filled the halls that not even the teachers knew how to shush.

That weekend he woke up to red.

His arms were covered in claw marks. They went from wrist to elbow, long slits and slashes that left puckered flesh on his arms like valleys of blood. Percy was so shocked he could only squeak out a shallow gasp. The wounds weren't deep enough to need stitches (hopefully), but that didn't stop the copious amount of blood from coating his arms and dying his sheets and pajamas an all-too-familiar shade. Everything hurt and his head pounded to the beat of his rapidly racing heart. Breath came out in panicked huffs for air, but he somehow (magic must be real, and Percy must have it) managed to escape to the bathroom without being heard. Percy spent the majority of his morning there, either puking his guts out or wrapping bandages tightly around his arms until he was positive nothing would bleed through. When he finally left the bathroom, clad in a new long-sleeved shirt and bloody rags hiding in wait underneath the sink in reeking ball, Luke was lounging at the kitchen table with a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup residing on a paper towel. When Percy too sat down, the teen pushed the bowl over to him with a knowing smile. A glass of orange juice was not far behind.

Percy'd never been so thankful towards one person in his entire life.

The next morning he found bite marks on his ankles. It was surprising and just as frightening as the day before, and he had to wrap them up as well. He was an actual mummy, but he didn't dare tell Chiron and went to the halfway house as normal. His whole body ached, but messing around with Tyson and the other kids was a nice distraction. Melanie taught him a little French—mainly curse words. The volunteer workers were suspicious of his awkward stance, but said nothing. (He once again praised Chiron mentally for making his visits there only on an afternoon basis. The caretakers there were far more intrusive than his own foster parent.) The Stoll brothers helped him make blueberry smoothies later in the afternoon. Percy wondered how pathetic he must have looked if even Conner and Travis were willing to put up with his strange blue habit.

That night he didn't sleep. The monsters (he thought that's what they were, but he prayed he was wrong) stayed away.

So, with this in mind, he spent the next week trying not to sleep at all. Which was fine. He was fine.

Ninth week, fifth day. Rachel sketched and shaded pill bottles and medicine containers all over the pages of a brand new sketchbook. She unabashedly pulled out a small plastic case filled with watercolors and painted her art right before their stunned eyes, dipping her brush in her water bottle as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He stared at the page as she painted to her heart's content, the world blurring around the edges.

Percy woke up one morning and realized that not seeing the monsters was worse than seeing them all the time. At least then he knew when they were coming. His wrists dripping blood and the bruises trailing down his throat attested to it.

(God, he hated turtlenecks, this had to end.)

Rachel smiled her strange smile with her glowing green orbs and asked him if he understood yet. Grover hadn't known what was happening, but Percy just might've.

He spent English class sitting next to the redhead, odd shapes and colors floating just inside his field of vision. They did their best to blur and confuse him every time they spun his way, and he worked hard not to flinch back and hide with them so close. His breathing rose, anxiety tightening his throat in their hold, and he practiced all the breathing exercises he had ever learned. Unexpectedly, Rachel grabbed his shoulder. He locked his bewildered eyes onto hers as angry whispers roared to life.

She looked directly at the shapes and grinned.

When Chiron gave him his medicine the next day, Percy pretended to swallow in front of his caregiver's cautious eyes. He waited patiently till the man left to spit out the contents of his mouth. The coast was clear. Percy thought he might have finally understood what Rachel had been trying to tell him. She was weird, yeah, and he had no idea how she knew, but he trusted her not to steer him wrong. He just hoped he could trust himself.

That day, the world exploded into color.


A/N: You have no idea what's going on. "What sort of Human!AU is this?" you ask, bewildered. "The best kind," I answer.

I've noticed that, no matter the fanfiction, Hestia is featured as the best sister/aunt/goddess/being ever. Everyone agrees she's fantastic. So why not take a whack at doing my favorite PJO goddess justice?

Please leave a review if you're able—I love character evaluations, don't you? I've also been dying for some proper criticism. What's good, what's bad, what's terrible?Oh, and thanks for reading, everyone! I appreciate it.