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.


Chapter Six: Thanatos


The child looked just like Poseidon and that, in itself, was hilarious. Zeus' banshee of a wife would have more than one child to screech at, it seemed. Hades almost pitied his brothers. They'd have a lot to deal with. First that starlet's daughter with her daddy's eyes and dramatic flair and now this shrimp of kid with maple syrup dripping from his chin and a voice so quiet a creak of the floorboards would drown it out.

Yes, his dear brothers weren't going to be among the living much longer. And Hades wouldn't even have to lift a damn finger. Hera would do it for him. In her war path, even two "upstanding citizens" such as his brothers wouldn't survive. In her righteousness and need of a perfect family, Hera was as savage as her brute of a son. After all, the volatile teen had to have gotten it from somewhere.

The small boy, Percy, didn't mince words. "Why're you here?", the Poseidon look-alike finished asking, a small tongue darting out and licking the corner of a sticky mouth. He was around Bianca's age, he thought painfully. He shoved the thought aside and focused on something happier—telling Poseidon why he had come here.

Hades might not be Zeus, but he was going to enjoy dragging this out and watching Poseidon squirm. Currently, his green-eyed brother was eyeing him with an increasing unease, his knuckles white as bone as they gripped the table top. His gaze switched from Hades himself to the small Poseidon-lookalike. Hades allowed himself a small, thin smile.

It's not that he hated his brother; oh no, that wasn't it at all. True, he didn't love him either, but hate was an exhausting emotion. Besides, he too remembered the days when they would creep around the backyard, firing pretend weapons and reacting all the major wars as their dear elder sister prepared peach pie in the kitchen just for them. He could even recall a time more recently, before... she and Bianca passed away—family dinners every Sunday, Poseidon and Hestia and Hades. They hadn't been a perfect family: they'd been broken, incomplete, but it was so much better than the useless blood ties that barely managed to hold them together now. It was a disgusting thought, a gross distraction. And Hades was a busy man. He'd dwell on their shattered family when he was dead. (But this isn't living, so isn't he already?)

So, he skipped right past sorrow and straight to condescension. "Well," he drawled out, "Hera gave me a call this morning." Poseidon paled. Percy only looked confused. Their faces, even when pulling different expressions, were remarkably similar.

"And?" Poseidon prompted, and Hades could detect the sudden burst fear running through his brother's veins like a poison. He felt a curl of delight.

"And," Hades said, but didn't continue.

"And?" the quiet but excited voice of a small child murmured.

Hades hid a grin behind a pale hand, and it was his frightened brother's face that popped into his mind's eye. The picture egged him on more than anything else, the need to see his brother upset and childish and angry not making any sense but being there none the less.

"She was really delighted, which was odd. She's never happy with anything."

Poseidon scowls, irritation settling into the fine lines of his young face. "You didn't come here to tell me Zeus' dear wife has suddenly had a change in heart. What's really going on?" Hades didn't bother hiding his fierce amusement; Poseidon looked a tad ill at his expression. Delight flared again.

"She mentioned a family reunion, the idiotic harpy, but now that I've come here, it seems like it would be the perfect time to show off your new bastard."

-P-J-O-

The first thing Poseidon felt was shock, closely followed by horror, because—a family reunion? Really?

Then came the rage. A quick, unrecognizable slur of words and images and sounds, a howfuckingdareyouinsultthisboysally'ssonmaybemyson followed by a roaring in his ears and red coating his tongue and another spew of howdareyouaccusemeyouassdon'tyouthinkiknowtheconditionsofbianca'sbirth. It happens so fast he's nearly breathless, but it's the unwavering need to protect that surprises the hell out of him more than anything else. It burns and burns and burns in his chest like a brand is being pressed and held there (and it screams at him father, father, father). It's mind blowing. The last time he checked, he was an asshole, through and through. Self-proclaimed and unashamed. If you don't care for other people, you ultimately can't be disappointed by them. Your heart can't collect wounds if it refuses to exist.

But before he knows it there's a growl forming in the back of his throat and fingers (his fingers) are screaming in agony from how hard they (he, it's him) grip the counter top. He doesn't let go, because he fears that's the only thing stopping him from leaping over the marble surface and decking his prick of a brother right in front of a seven year-old (his son?).

He feels unhinged; he feels confused. He feels like he's never felt before, and what the fuck does that even mean, really?

This just won't do.

Now Hades has this damn look on his face, so self-righteous and satisfied and all-knowing wrapped up in nasty amusement and a bow. There's a light in his brother's eyes and if Hades got up and left right now, Poseidon would willingly bet his lifetime supply of Twinkies (hidden in the back closet for when Hestia visits and wants to watch chick flicks with him) that he'd walk away with a skip in his step. He'd also bet that he'd trip him on the way out.

This just won't do.

When he opens his mouth, he's surprised. His voice is calm and smooth as it often is. There is no trace of anxiety or pent-up rage. "Percy," he says, and the name tastes like lost chances. "I need you to get dressed and grab your things." Stunned green eyes meet his; he refuses to back down to the gaze and narrows his own green gaze. A bottom lip quivers. His heartstrings give an unexpected pull.

"Huh?" the child mumbles, helpless. It's almost too easy, because Poseidon can already see a resigned acceptance rising to the front of those expressive orbs. Years of being tossed around must have taken its toll. Poseidon hates that he's relieved (but he is and he can't take it back), but it makes everything so much easier. "I thought you wanted me to talk to a reporter for you?" It's a dying man's last hope, like desperate fingers groping for a ledge to stop the inevitable fall.

Poseidon doesn't pause to think, just does. "I'll find someone better." And the kitchen door swings open then shut.

So much for progress.

He looks to Hades, who hasn't spoken a word since he turned towards the young look-alike, and watches his thin eyebrows slowly ascend to his hairline in an astounding show of skill. Watches one of the corners of his mouth tick upwards in a startled sort of confusion. It's not much of a reaction, but it's enough. Briefly, deep satisfaction curls in his belly like a snake, but it dies a pointless death too quick. Nothing good lasts. A silent sigh escapes his lips before he can hold it back. He wonders if he's made a huge mistake. (You're not sure if this is your kid, does it really matter?)

(It matters, it matters. Now you'll never know.)

"Tell Hera to shove it."


Monsters of a Different Mold


Percy is surprised that's he's surprised, and it's this surprise that keeps him from bursting into tears as he storms out of the kitchen. He nearly stubs his toe on the doorway, but he doesn't stop. Doesn't think he can. He's on autopilot. A smudge of countless colors whirls past him as walks (runs, he's running away). His breath comes out in choked gasps. Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends is on the television; he hadn't noticed it before. He wonders if Poseidon turned it on just for him, and suddenly he's so upset he stumbles on the first step of the staircase and nearly falls face first into a wooden ledge. He thinks he hears a laugh, a hiss. For a flash, he sees blood on the steps, dripping and twisting and drowning everything and everyone—

He bolts up the steps. (Monsters, monsters, Poseidon, monsters, Mommy, monsters.)

When he hits the guest bedroom, he's barely breathing. His forehead is too warm and everything around him is closing in. There's a person standing in the corner of his vision, one with long brown hair streaked with grey and a neck at an unnatural angle. He wishes for the creaking branches again.

Something is wrapping around his throat: he can't see it, but it's there. His silent gasps become strangled whimpers. This has never happened before, not like this; this isn't normal; this isn't a panic attack; this isn't okay, please please please...! And suddenly, he's crying. Big, fat tears are streaming down his cheeks and there's the feeling of something locking around his pinky—a promise. Percy wants to sink through the floor. Percy wants to not exist, if only for a minute. Then the room rights itself. Then the figure is gone.

He takes a deep breath and it leaves his body as a pained wheeze.

Percy grabs his stuff and doesn't look back. Shoves it all in his bag and doesn't bother to change his clothes. He feels like a baby: a big, disoriented baby, but still a baby. He muffles his soft, panicked sobs with a shaking hand as he trips down the steps, waiting until they die out to sniffles. His vision is blurred by tears, and he's lucky he hasn't fallen and cracked his head open already.

He finds his red sneakers by the couch and wants to apologize to them for not appreciating them sooner. They're safe and they protect him like no one else ever has. He almost starts crying again. His eyes itch.

When he enters the kitchen, Hades is long gone. His chair is pushed in; it's as if he was never there. Poseidon's head is resting in his calloused hands and there's a fancy invitation beside his elbow, embroidered in royal purple and tiny bows. The plates that were originally on the counter are gone, and when he looks, he doesn't see them in the sink, either. When the man looks up at Percy, his eyes are dulled. A shadow looms over Poseidon's shoulder, and there's a sickly grin and curling talons and Percy feels cold and hot all at once. His skin stings—there's a thousand small needles stabbing him simultaneously and every hair on his body stands on end. He wonders why he hadn't noticed it before. He wonders if it's his fault that it's even there.

He hopes he never sees this man again.


Monsters of a Different Mold


The ride to the halfway house is silent. The air is thick in the confined space, stuffed full of what-ifs and could've-beens. It's tense, uncomfortable, and cruel in nature. Mocking. A small boy huddles in the back seat, shoulders hunched and knees drawn up into his chest. Nervous, trembling fingers pick furiously at frayed pajama bottoms. His eyes continuously dart back and forth between the back of an emotionless Poseidon Olympia's dark-haired head and some place above a broad shoulder. If one were to peer into the car's window in that moment and look inside, they would find it odd. There was nothing there for the child to look at. Only empty air.

Of course, they wouldn't think much of it. Sometimes, children imagine the strangest things. Fairies and dragons and imaginary friends. Lands of wonder and intrigue, all in one backyard. Monsters tapping on windows and hiding under beds. Shadows and talons and stretched grins. Snapped necks and long brown hair.

Sometimes, children imagine the strangest things.

A boy leaves the car, and with a numb mind and blind determination, he says "goodbye".