A/N

Pirates! Like, AC Black Flag Pirates, but better, because demigods.

The choppy waves and bashing winds ram into the hull of the wooden galleon, less effective than another ship but still strong enough to cause the boards of the deck clatter together, clacking and bucking in a mad cacophony of sound, layered over still by the ripping sounds of cannons and the yelling of the crew, near-deaf men whose ears are functionally useless and lungs filled with soot and eyes watering from cannon-smoke. The sun batters down on the pale, wrinkly skin of men who've seen nothing but an azure blue for weeks bordering on months, searching for the slightest patch of glimmering golden sands and lusciously green flora.

Still, the seas are their livelihoods, and they cannot abandon it; too much time on land is still unnatural for these crew, for they have little more to live for than plunder and greed and that quickly runs dry on land. On the seas they remain, treasure running abundant as water on the seas, cargo and rum that are so precious and so valuable, ships that carry lives worth their weight in gold; there is no substitute for such.

"Fire!" Their captain yells, and they follow, not a semblance of a flinch running through their bodies as salvo as salvo is fired and rips through their treasures' side; a treasure with a wooden hull and glorious flags of empires, with soldiers who struggle and yell in desperation for life. Their despondent air is crushed, however, by the overwhelming frenzy that erupts from their aggressors, swinging on ropes like vines and landing with brash movements, imprinting the wooden boards with a loud crack! and larger thumps. Blood is drawn with the stab of a blade and the swinging of sabres, the crackle of pistols and the cackle of men. The dead drown twice that day - once, in their own blood, and twice, when they are offered to the seas themselves with a murderous glee.

"Take the plunder!" Their captain yells, windswept hair playing and dancing across his sparkling, sea-green eyes; "Search below deck! Don't destroy the damn ship, she's still good enough to add to the fleet with a lil' job from Valdez."

The resounding ayes! leaves their leader satisfied, whistling merrily while transporting a large haul of cargo to their own vessel, surely enough to keep them fed for months! Smiles all around, stark, beaming grins on all their faces! They clamber off noisily, back onto their own nomadic home.

"Boys! Return to Nassau with the haul and talk to Beck for repairs and Chase for logistics. Malcolm's in charge, I don't wanna hear any whining - and if that goddamn ship is sunk then stay fucking alive and I'll come for you, though there better be a fucking good reason for it. Am I clear?"

Malcolm, the blonde, grins and salutes his superior, clicking his heels like a two-bit soldier, earning a thwack to the head from his crew. "Aye, Percy!"

Percy rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue against his teeth, setting off his ship with a gentle wave, to which he earns a barrel of laughs. But reality comes back to him when the tang of blood hits his nose - he really doesn't like that smell, and it even leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

"Mizzenmast!" He orders, and if he'd had an audience he'd either have been met with eye-rolls (from his crew, for showing off) or he'd have been worshipped as a Sea God, which wasn't too far off the mark but was still pretty bad.

The broken sails, breaking every mortal law in the universe, restore themselves with little fanfare, and so does the damaged hull, which seals itself back up, Perseus humming a tune to himself while he drains the lower deck of water. The ship must have already been a little banged-up when they'd fought it, judging by the damage done to it, but no matter; he's seen worse.

Finally, he breaks into the captain's cabin but is utterly disappointed. Sure, there are maps and whatnot that'll probably help him but seriously! No cool outfit for him to rob? Zero cool smoking pipes or weapons he can steal? Nothing he can trash?

Perseus huffs childishly, crossing his arms while willing the ship to move. The slight turbulence alerts him that the seas are chugging them along comfortably, so all he does is slump in every nook and cranny he can find on the galleon, which is so damn large but so damn empty.

The mundane task brings him to the lowest of decks, a dark, damp place that sends his battle-sense haywire, Percy's body tensing at the sudden alarm that screams in his head. He draws his blade, which gleams and almost shimmers in the subtle lights of candle-wicks which slowly burn out their lifespans, wax dripping and solidifying on the rickety wooden boards below. Every step causes the perilous planks to creak and groan, verging on a clean snap!

"Come out, wherever you are, and I'll try not to stab you if you don't stab me first." The man prods verbally, lowering himself into a carefully guarded stance, arm twitching as he proverbially tests the waters of danger, advancing slowly into the depths of the ship.

A loud clang and clatter resounds from behind his back and he swivels around, but is only met with the hostile scowl of a familiar face.

"You?"

"I should've known you would've taken down this ship, you buck-toothed son of a whore Jackson."

"I'm a buckswashling sonofagun, you half-wit, two-bit whore!" He cackles in response, relishing the deepening frown that appears on her features, wrinkles lining her foreheads and lips pursed. "And I'm not the one who's trespassing on their uncle's territory. Don't forget yourself. Grace."

He grins wickedly. "You're here with my blessing, so you better pay some attention."

She rolls her eyes in contempt but doesn't say more, being much smarter than she actually looked. Still, feeling the slightest amount of pity for his rival, Perseus tosses her a cigar - a good, nice, Cuban one - and she sparks it with a little crackle of lightning, audibly huffing with relief as the smoke hits her lungs.

Wordlessly, they make their way to the top deck in silent unison, the familiar salt air bringing a sense of home that extracts a homely sigh from both captains. The boards are no longer rickety and done-in by years of wear and tear, and they do not squeak and groan like the normally do; Grace hums in surprise and a little bit of interest at Perseus' work, though she's reluctant to give him praise.

Perseus breaks their silence, however, when he takes the captain's wheel and leans lazily on it, apathetically pointing at Thalia with a finger. "Are you going back to Nassau?" He quizzes, "or is it good old Havana? I don't want to travel anywhere else."

"Nassau's fine."

"How'd you get caught?"

She shoots him a glare, warning but not threatening enough for Perseus to stand down, especially on his home turf. "You don't have a single shred of tact in ye, do you?"

"No, not a single bit." He grins without a single bit of remorse. "It's either this or singing some sea-shanties, and we both know you can't sing for the life of ye unless you're pissed drunk."

Grace huffs like a spoiled brat, but her straying gaze and her rather hostile body posture tells him all he needs to know. Twirling sparks twist and turn around her body, angrily lashing out within a little radius of her own figure, a clear enough indicator of her less-than-upbeat mood.

"Fine then, spoilsport." He speaks with a teasing tone, but her annoyance visibly lets up, so that was good. "But the ship ain't reaching Nassau for hours even with me here, so there better be something that'll stir up this man's emotions besides all the gossip in the sea."

At her light giggle, he fixes on an affronted expression that's still partly genuine because damn, fishes could gossip. "I'm serious! Just the other day I heard about some plot to kill some shark's brother-in-law for some inheritance bullshit! I can't keep all the secrets in the bloody ocean, the thing covers the damn Earth, for fuck's sake!"

"Better than the pigeons, I bet. At least fish-gossip isn't as mundane as pigeons and seagulls flap all around ye and shit on ye deck despite whatever you say. Fucking annoying shit."

And then he bursts into laughter because he can perfectly imagine the conversations between all those rats of the sky, saying all kinds of bullshit that would get them killed if anyone else but Thalia had heard it.

"For all the people you've killed you can't seem to kill a bloody animal!"

"I have my reasons."

"That meetin' with that princess with the tiara?"

"Don't fuckin' spout nonsense, ya twat."

"Yer accent is bleedin' in, Thalia Grace."

"So is yers."

And, like every single time they meet, their ship sails through the calm waters of their sea while they argue for the rest of their days, bickering like an old, married couple. Nassau is not so far, yet it seems like a lifetime to them, catching up and laughing with each other, a timeless act that's too long yet too short at the same time.

Such is the life of pirates, they suppose, while Aphrodite groans at how dense her OTP is.