He was seated near a window in some expensive indie cafe in Manhattan, staring down at a lavender oatmilk latte that smelled only a little like lavender when the stench of death overpowered his nose.

Percy turned his head toward the entrance of the cafe, knowing exactly who had just walked in. Emo haircut, emo jacket, fathomless dark circles–not to mention, a cologne that seemed to encapsulate the horror of the Underworld itself. Yeah, it wasn't hard to guess who it was.

Nico was something of a friend to Percy. Kind of. It was very complicated. But with the amount of death they both dealt in, it wasn't far-fetched to assume that at some point they would have interacted. Typically they ran into each other in the Underworld, often when Percy was making his death reports to Hades. They'd had a few conversations (mostly one-sided), but a friendly enough relationship. If he were being honest, he actually kind of liked him, despite the whole early-2000s emo vibes going on–though he wasn't sure if that was just a phase he was going through, or like a Hades attribute. Either way, Nico was a good kid, and he deserved more than the lot he'd gotten in life so far.

So, the god honestly wasn't that surprised when NIco made his way over to where Percy was brooding atop a dark green sofa. He tried not to laugh when the kid made a face as he gestured to the open spot next to him, and just watched with amusement as he glared at the god and dragged a ornate metal chair opposite to him, the ensuing squeal of its feet obnoxiously loud as it was pulled across the floor. The two men stared silently at each other for a moment, before Percy sighed and rolled his shoulders.

"Son of Hades," he began. A lazy grin spread across his face. "You're smelling as wonderful as ever."

Nico's eyes narrowed, and Percy noticed his fists tighten. "Not like you have much room to talk, Grave-Maker." Percy blinked at the unexpected hostility in the son of Hades's voice.

They fell silent again, just staring at each other for several minutes. It was another very uncomfortable and decidedly much too long impasse. A barista eventually came over (yet failed disastrously to break the tension), and told Nico that he'd have to order something if he wanted to stay. He ordered two ristrettos and Percy's brows shot up. "Death by caffeine, then, I guess. Aren't you a little young for espresso?" Predictably, Nico did not respond, and just narrowed his eyes even further, and his icy, unrelenting glare was starting to weird the immortal out. Maybe it was on purpose, or maybe it was just a serious case of Resting Bitch Face (which, to be fair, NIco definitely had), but either way, something was going on. "Okay kid, what do you want? You came to bother me, which is out of the ordinary. Typically your kind runs the other way when I approach them."

"You used to be one of my kind," Nico ground out, bitterness seeping from between his teeth. Percy could feel the anger rolling off of him. It was tangible, and it had a taste. At only eighteen, this kid was made of bile, regret, and wild, righteous fury; all the same things that Percy was made of at over 2000 years old. The pain and suffering he'd experienced in such a short life was hard to conceptualize, and Percy pitied him. He pitied him for how he'd been used by the Gods. He pitied him for how he'd been seduced into being one of their soldiers.

The same way he had been. The same way she had been.

Percy lifted a finger. "Used to be. Operative phrase there. Seriously though, what do you want? You know my specialities don't really lend themselves to being helpful, unless, of course–-"

"Stay away from Annabeth Chase."

Now that…that stopped Percy in his mental tracks. "You know, Athena said the same thing to me just the other day. Albeit with much more serious undertones," he remarked smoothly. He thought of the encounter–an admittedly rather harrowing one. Athena had always been one of the Olympians he was most afraid of, and her latest "warning" had only reinforced that perception. She'd definitely threatened him, rather menacingly as well. Percy set aside the still-full mug in his hand and leant forward, eyes flashing dangerously. "Are you going to threaten me, demigod?"

"I'm not afraid of gods," Nico said bluntly, determination sparking in his eyes.

Interesting, but predictable. "I didn't think you were, son of Hades. Though I've yet to determine if you're stupid enough to threaten one. Think you can make that a bit clearer for me?"

He could practically see Nico's resolve harden further. "Stay away from Annabeth, Perseus."

The god's jaw dropped in feigned offense, and he placed a hand over his heart like an old southern woman clutching her pearls. "Nico, the full name? What happened to us being friends? This is disappointing."

The barista finally returned, and Nico blindly handed the woman a fifty dollar bill and muttered "keep the change" before gulping down the first shot as fast as humanly possible. "I'm not friends with any gods," he argued, and Percy could tell he was already starting to get under his skin.

"Are you sure? Apollo raves about you, you know. Thinks you're a really good match for that son of his. Oh, what was his name?" Percy stabbed an index finger into the center of his forehead, and then his eyes lit up, and he snapped. "Will! That's his name. Oh, Will. Apollo says he doesn't pick favorites, but you know, only the favorites really tend to survive. Though, he did mention he's a little worried that Will's physical combat skills haven't developed the way he'd hoped."

"You wouldn't dare," NIco said, hand already reaching for the blade at his side only he and Percy could see.

The latter's grin turned wolfish. "I wouldn't! Really. Didn't even imply it. Guess we should watch what's left unsaid, then, yeah?" Yes, the unspoken threat had been to prove a point but this child had threatened him twice in a short conversation and gotten away with it. Truthfully, he'd been pretty disrespectful the whole time, but Percy was kind enough to give his somewhat-acquaintance the benefit of the doubt. "But back to the topic at hand. Why is it that you want me to avoid Annabeth Chase? Which, I'll have you know, I've already been doing–so whatever little lecture you have prepared probably isn't necessary."

Nico's hand clenched around the demitasse his ristretto had been served in, and Percy was waiting for it to crack. Stoking the flame, he thought. Nico made it too easy.

"I will not lose another sister." The kid's voice broke on that final word. It left a bad taste in Percy's mouth.

Still, he sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "Listen, kid, you're not gonna 'lose' her or whatever, I already told you–-"

Nico's voice became a furious whisper, his teeth bared and shoulders tense. "I know what she is to you."

And just like that, Percy felt like he had water clogged in his ears. The sounds of the cafe were drowned out, but he could hear her laughter, smell her lavender oil. His whole demeanor changed, and when he returned to the present, he could feel the itch beginning in his palms, the thrill of power just beneath his skin. "You are on…very thin ice, kid," He bit out savagely, trying to quell his anger without killing anyone. It would just be another major PR problem on his hands. "I'm only going to ask once. How do you know that?"

NIco just leaned back and shrugged, and Percy wondered if Hades would finally put him out of his misery if he smote his kid. "Wouldn't you like to know," he spat out.

"I would, actually. So what, you just saw her and Sixth Sense'd it?"

Nico looked like he wanted to speak, but he shut his mouth and rethought his words. "I don't understand that reference, but it's none of your business. Just stay away from her."

This dumb fucking kid, Percy thought, his hackles starting to raise at the fact that this child thought he could boss around a god. All feelings of friendliness had practically vacated his body. "Do you think if I strangled you your father would put me out of my misery?" As if on cue, the ground rumbled in protest, and shocked gasps were heard around the cafe. Percy's eyes lit up and he chuckled. "Oh, that's a yes! How do you think your old man would feel if he lost another one of his kids?" A second shake, a harder one this time, and Nico glowered at Percy.

The god just lifted his mug to his nose, just inhaling the aroma before placing it back on the side table. He needed to calm down before he blasted Nico where he sat. "Listen, kid-–"

"Stop calling me that!"

"Listen, kid," Percy repeated, gritting his teeth. "Because that's what you are. You claim to understand this whole mess. If that's the case, you know that the Fates can't be defied, god, demigod, or mortal. What they've knit together will come to pass and I have no control over it. So maybe, you should stop focusing on keeping me away from her and instead direct your energy into figuring out how much time she's got left."

Nico paled, and Percy watched as his expression flickered from fear, to panic, and then to rage. "You motherfu-"

"Watch your mouth!" Percy snapped. A fire hydrant burst across the street, geysers of water streaking into the air. "Quit forgetting who you're talking to, boy. I could collapse this entire building with a flick of my hand." Cue another quake from Hades.

Nico just sat there, silent once again, fists shaking with barely concealed restraint.

The black-haired god sighed and groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, Nico. I don't deal the cards, I just play them. It's not like I plan things. I'm given an assignment by those three old hags and I make it happen. Other than turning around and walking in a different direction, there's not much I can do to prevent crossing paths with her."

He was met with silence again as Nico swallowed the second ristretto. Percy bit the inside of his cheek and swore quietly. His voice lowered to a whisper, and for the first time in the whole conversation, he tried to be fully sincere. "You know it wasn't supposed to be your sister. She knew that too. But the Fates always get what they want, no matter who suffers. As long as someone does their hard work for them."

Nico looked down at his hands, silent still, but this time he was contemplative. Trying to find a way out of it, trying to find an argument. Trying desperately to avoid the conclusion that was already heading their way, already in motion. He looked up, trying to plead with Percy. "Can't you just leave the country until she goes? Let her live her life?"

As a god of catastrophe, Percy was one of the so-called "lucky few" gods able to travel outside of the country and retain their powers. Most couldn't even reach California, but the Fates told him where to go and what to do, and he was bound to their orders. If they told him to go to Europe, he went. If they said Japan, he didn't ask questions. He did as he was told, and he had found over the last millennium that if he just complied, it was easier. "I already asked, and it was a no. They need me to spin up something big. Obviously I can't say anything, but I will just tell you to wash your hands. Often."

Nico gave him a baffled look, and then promptly set his expression back into RBF mode, though Percy wasn't complaining. At least he seemed a little less confrontational."So there's nothing we can do?"

Percy sucked his teeth and let out a breath, trying not to think too hard about the next words that would drop out of his mouth. His voice became flat and resigned. "Not really. You know, it's been so long that I was beginning to think that Grace had chosen Elysium and I had just been lied to. That's the Fates for you, though. Perfect comedic timing."

Nico appeared to be lost in thought, no doubt thinking about how Bianca had chosen to move on, to have another life instead of taking the hero's ending she deserved. Percy had never known the Savior of Olympus, but he couldn't begin to imagine that kind of pain. And no doubt the poor kid blamed himself. Once, Percy had caught him (okay, maybe he was eavesdropping) talking to his sister's statue in Hades's palace. "Why didn't you let me do it? Why am I still here and not you?"

Absolutely fucking awful words to hear coming out of a fourteen year-old's mouth. Well, really, awful words to come out of anyone's mouth. Gods knew Percy had said it before.

The god dragged a hand through his hair before resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm trying my best here. I'm hoping it was just a fluke. I didn't mean to be callous. I really don't want anything to happen to her, but you know what happens to people around me."

Nico nodded. "It clings to you. Like me."

"It clings to me," Percy agreed solemnly. "I'm trying, you know."

Nico grunted and grimaced, and scratched the side of his nose–he was getting emotional. "Well, try harder."

This time, Percy did his best not to take offense. The kid deserved a break, even if it meant disrespecting an all-powerful god. He had stood in Nico's shoes before. Many times, in fact. His response was short and simple. "I try harder every day." It was true, and it was a constant struggle.

They just stared at each other again, the mood having made a drastic change. Finally, Nico stood up and adjusted his jacket, nodded at Percy, turned on his heel, and left the cafe, the little bell above the door signaling his exit.

The lonesome god let out a shuddering breath, picked up his mug again, and just let the scent of the barely-there lavender wash over him.

Two weeks after her temper tantrum on Olympus, Annabeth had finally made it to the P's.

There were over two dozen gods in the P section that she desperately needed to get through, and almost every one of them had been trying her patience. Annabeth had known the P's were going to be one of the biggest sections of interviews she would need to conduct, and had planned accordingly. She was on her second day, focusing on the "PE's" through the "PH's", and it had been a frustrating experience so far. Unlike the previous interview days, these gods had not aligned themselves in fully alphabetical order, something she absolutely had not prepared for. Phobos showed up before Persephone (both were terrifying to deal with, though for much different reasons), and Penthos arrived shortly after them, meaning all the plans she'd had for emotional barriers went right out the window. And of course, being the embodiment of grief and sorrow, he couldn't help but bring up Bianca, and Annabeth had nearly lost her shit on him.

She had rushed him through his temple designs, feet bouncing in her anxiousness to get him through the interview so she could finally relax. Annabeth knew she only had one god left for the day, but they hadn't shown up yet, and with both Thalia and now Grover in town to interview for Pan, she wanted to take a lunch break with them. It felt like it had been years since she'd seen her two closest friends, even though they'd been home for her birthday just over six months prior. Which, yes, when she thought about it, was still a long time, but with their busy schedules, Annabeth cherished any time she got with them at all. She was pretty certain that they both should have returned to their duties by now, but with Bianca's birthday quickly approaching, neither seemed hasty to leave. Grover kept saying he was taking a "vacation" from the Council, and Thalia insisted that Artemis still needed the Hunters' presence in New York. Annabeth was not going to look the metaphorical gift-horse in the mouth.

Once Penthos's interview was finally over, the blonde slumped into her chair, yanked her hair from the bun she'd thrown it in, and raked her fingers across her scalp. She wasn't sure if it was the restrictive hairstyle or the nightmare that she'd just experienced, but Annabeth could feel another stress headache coming on. Unfortunately, her work was not done, and she looked down at an absurdly long list to see who hadn't shown up.

Only one name had been listed.

Perseus

Annabeth's left eye twitched, and she knew at that moment the reason he hadn't shown up: her mother. Obviously.

With a grunt of exasperation, Annabeth ripped a piece of paper from the notebook in her bag and dug around for an irritating amount of seconds for her favorite pen. She composed herself as best she could as she drafted her note, which read:

Lord Perseus,

You were not present for your processing interview this afternoon. Please respond with a list of times that you are available so that we may conduct the interview and begin designing your temple.

Thanks,

Annabeth Chase

It seemed polite enough, so she folded it up and shoved it into the messenger box that Hermes had let her borrow for correspondence with the gods she was working with–so long as she burnt some food for him. Annabeth halved a protein bar and grabbed some grapes (not the best offering, but it would do) and leaned over to toss them into the brazier burning to her left. "Oh, Lord Hermes, please accept this offering," she mumbled. A comical woosh sounded from the box, and the message had been sent.

Not even a minute later, another woosh, and the compartment at the bottom of the box popped out, a paper napkin inside. She hadn't expected him to reply so quickly, but she wasn't going to complain. Annabeth pulled the napkin out of the drawer, and her jaw dropped.

Dear Necklace-Stealer,

I'd much prefer to conduct the interview this way. Olympus bores me, and I'd rather avoid it. Also, I would prefer not to have a sit-down with a thief.

Best,

Lord Perseus, God of Calamity, and also that cameo necklace that you stole from me.

It was in cursive, which was hard to read as is without her dyslexia, and the blatant disrespect was not something she was used to even with Olympians. So, maybe not her mother. Maybe he was just a dick. Her blood began to boil, and Annabeth wondered if steam was coming out of her ears. Fuming, she flipped the napkin over, her print slanting.

Lord Perseus,

Unfortunately, that is not an option. All interviews must be conducted on Olympus. Furthermore, I am not a thief. I bought that necklace before you could, which is hardly stealing.

- A.C.

Another grape was thrown into the blaze as she forced the flimsy napkin through the slot of the box, astounded at the response she'd received. It was only another minute or so until his response turned up, this one on a page from a server's notepad.

Dear Necklace-Thief-Denier,

To me, you are guilty until proven innocent, and because you stole that necklace in front of my eyes, you are guilty. Like I said, I would much prefer to do the interview through this wonderful note system to avoid having to see a thief wearing my precious necklace.

- P.

She let out a short, quiet shriek of frustration. Of course she wasn't wearing the thing–Annabeth wasn't about to traipse about New York City wearing a museum artifact on her neck. It would probably get her killed by a mortal, something she had never quite considered before. What a hilariously ironic ending it would be: to have survived all that she had and then be shanked on the street for an expensive necklace. She crossed through all of his words and then scrawled beneath them:

I do not have time for this. Please arrive tomorrow morning at 8am or you will be required to find another architect to build your temple.

- A.C.

She nearly collapsed the box with her overly forceful attempt to get the note into the thin slot, cheeks reddening with anger. She tossed another grape into the fire, and sat back, the distinct feeling that this would go on for a while more lingering in her throat. And sure enough, another note turned up shortly after that. Annabeth had been confident that her last note did not need a response, and she wondered if he was being ignorant or willfully difficult.

Cameo-Snatcher, (that'd be a really good name for a cat burglar, which you are)

Thank you for your kind offer. I think I'd rather use another architect. Are you outsourcing some of your work? Who can I talk to about that?

- P.

Annabeth's handwriting further devolved with her next correspondence, hands shaking with rage.

A cat burglar climbs walls, which I did not do. I don't work with anyone else. You'd have to find a mortal architect and construction crew, and good luck explaining to them that you're a god who needs a temple built on the mythical mountain hidden at the top of the Empire State Building.

- A.C.

Percy's response was short, and infuriating.

Pearl-Pilferer,

That would be an amazing TV show premise! You really should talk to somebody about that, maybe HBO or like, Disney.

- P.

Annabeth simply ripped the note into shreds and stuffed each piece back into the box, dumped another four grapes into the fire, hoping that would send the message of "stop fucking with me while you still can". A minute passed without a response. Another two minutes. Maybe he had taken the message. Good, then it was settled. He wasn't getting a temple.

The blonde placed the "Out for Lunch" sign on her table and IM'd Grover and Thalia. She hoped they had wine. It was probably too early in the day to start drinking, but honestly, she had officially stopping caring.

She was packing away her paperwork and folders when the shink! of the drawer popping out sounded once again. With a growl, Annabeth spun around, ready to cleave the box in two with her bare hands, and yanked out the note.

I'll be there tomorrow at noon.

- P.

Annabeth stared down at the swirling cursive of the god's script, head spinning with the effort to comprehend it. She pulled her pen out of her bag once more, formulating her response. She decided to keep it simple.

Don't be late.

- A.C.

With that, Annabeth asked one of the spirits that resided on Olympus to bring her some heavy-duty duct tape. When the roll arrived with a poof of smoke on her table, she bit off a long piece with her teeth and smoothed it over the top of Hermes's messenger box. She wrapped the receiving drawer in three layers of the stuff, carefully scrutinized her barbaric work, and then turned on her heel and headed for the one of the more secluded courtyards.

When she looked down at her watch, and it read only 1PM, she hoped instead that Grover and Thalia had empty wine bottles, so she could break something that wasn't someone's arm.

Percy had returned to his father's palace in the Atlantic with a quiet nervousness about him, and before his step-mother could greet him in any sort of way, he strode purposefully to his rooms, hyperfocused on the box stored behind a panel in the closet.

He locked the door behind him, taking deep breaths as he moved through the room. The closet did not have much in terms of clothing hanging within, but instead was piled high with mementos and objects and boxes up the walls. Behind a cabinet in the corner, a piece of the wood panels had been pulled back, a small, simple French Silver jewelry box hidden inside. He knew that the initials G.E.M. were engraved on the bottom, and he knew that a gold band with a sapphire and two pearls on either side sat untouched in a leather pouch.

Gently, so very gently, Percy pulled the box from its hiding place and carried it to the desk across from his bed. He lifted the top, and stared down at curled, yellowed pieces of paper he'd refused to look at in years. Carefully, he picked one from the bunch and unrolled it, wincing when a tear at the top spread a little further down the page. His fingers ran over the curled script, all big loops and extravagant lines, graceful and elegant.

The words inside were the exact opposite.

P,

The gentleman with the eagle-headed cane–what do you think? I think it's made of gold. I say you take the cane and I snag his coin purse.

- G.

Percy could invision her as clear as day-her brown hair thrown up, cameo and pearls strung around her neck, dressed in layers and layers of the dark blue fabric he had bought for her. He could see her gray eyes staring at him over her ivory fan, mischief sparkling in her winks as they skirted around each other in the ballroom.

He turned over the note to see his response.

My Jewel,

As astute as always, my love. What say you–do we rid his wife of her finery as well?

- P.

Her sleight of hand had been unlike anything he'd ever seen. Give her ten seconds and Grace could rob a man blind. That night had been no exception, and she performed beautifully as the highborn lady everyone thought she was while they lightened the pockets of every partner they danced with. He could distinctly recall watching her blindly pull jeweled hair pins from a woman's tresses while conversing with a young gentleman standing right next to the lady.

He never doubted for even a moment that she wouldn't be caught. And she never was. She was too nimble, and much too quick for anyone to realize until they returned home and noticed all their gaudy jewelry and coins missing from their persons. And after several weeks of searching, some lucky victims would find parcels on their doorsteps, signed only by a Gratia, their precious baubles packed inside.

Percy had never quite understood why she returned many of the objects she stole, and when he asked, she would always give him an impish smirk and shrug. "Because I can," was the only answer he was ever given. He figured it had to do with the thrill of the challenge, and maybe of proving herself to her father. To him, she had never needed to prove anything at all.

He lifted a muslin bag filled with dried lavender to his nose, inhaling a scent long gone and far past his reach. With one last longing glance at her wedding band, Percy replaced the note and bag in the jewelry box and closed the top, moving the container to the side. He pulled a drawer of the desk open, retrieving a leather portfolio, and plucked out all the useless papers within. Reaching into the pocket of his jean jacket, the green-eyed god removed shredded pieces of paper and a few intact notes, and opened them up. He read them again, blocky lettering and all, and then deliberately creased their edges once more, and slid them into a pocket of the folder.

This one would have to be embossed.