SUMMARY: Percy Jackson has a crush: on the bright moon that keeps him company during his night shifts, while he works at a common bar. However, falling in love with a trigger-happy moon goddess doesn't exactly fill the "crush" department. In which Artemis is both amused and horrified at the love-stricken bar boy, Percy likes the sound of trouble, and Aphrodite laughs from above. Pertemis
Gods did not love. There were plenty of romantic tales, of course, fitted to satiate Aphrodite's horrible, perverted interest in love. Zeus had a plentitude of entanglements, of the physical sort, with mortal women and goddesses—but that was only a cruel sort of lust. Meanwhile, Poseidon snuck off to bed other women, his marriage to Amphitrite one in name only. Hades had felt the obsessive need to house the light of the beautiful goddess of spring in his dark domain, and although there was a level of faithfulness in his marriage to Persephone, it too was still only a pale imitation of love.
Aphrodite, the goddess of love herself, did not love.
Although they were ever so close to the mortal variation, the gods' version of love and care was twisted, warped by the eons they'd spent wandering the earth. The tenuous bonds between married gods were eternal, but their ever-lasting quality made it impossible for love to flourish and grow. For love was fleeting, and gods were anything but.
Gods felt obsession, desperation, respect, and lust—love was a mortal emotion, and it stayed within the mortal realm of possibility.
Artemis had known all of that since she'd been born. It was the reason why she'd never surrendered herself to Aphrodite's silly delusions. Because while love was certainly possible between ant-like mortals, it was impossible among gods—because immortality was the root of boredom and loathing and greed. It was the reason why Artemis had sworn to be a maiden forever.
Artemis craved victory and success, and love was fated for tragedy from the start. There was no point in attempting romantic feelings—she'd breezed over that prospect with her only male hunter, Orion, centuries back, and the bitterness and betrayal of that dilemma still rang true.
Men were not to be trusted with hearts.
But Artemis could become obsessive.
It was the same feeling she'd gotten when her hands had melded with her bow and arrow, as she fired an arrow against her prey, eager for them to slump down and for the shot to ring true. She'd felt like the high of being a hunter, even as she honored the animals after their deaths.
Everyone—god or mortal—liked to win, and well... Artemis was no exception to this universal rule.
Although she watched over all of earth from her moonlit chariot, her attention was focused on one person in particular, her gaze diverted to him like he was a circus act—like he was her own source of entertainment. Artemis did not often feel guilt, but she imagined this was how it felt—slippery, light, and soft, but not nearly powerful enough to make her stop.
Percy Jackson was nothing special. Specialness was defined by divinity, by talent, by skill. Percy Jackson's life was dull and uninteresting, his pattern of daily tasks tedious and unfathomably depressing: a mortal life. He was a man in his twenties, with dark hair like crows' feathers and green eyes. Those eyes carried oceans in them. He was by no means godly in appearance, and his teeth were slightly crooked, and his nose was tilted a few millimeters from perfect symmetry, but yes, Artemis could admit that, although slightly average, his features were nice. Pleasant.
The boy reminded her of Orion.
No, she thought to herself angrily. She forced the thought to die a quick and brutal death. She clawed at her head, and she drew the silver chariot to a halt, her flowing auburn hair stilling from the sudden stop.
She stood there, leaning against the rim of the chariot, taking long breaths. The comparison had come so swiftly and easily, and she sneered at it.
The two were nothing alike. Some common bar boy against Orion.
In his best moments, Orion had been brave, brash, and talented with a bow and arrow. Percy Jackson was withdrawn and silent…and he looked like he could drown in his own tears…and he probably hadn't even touched a weapon in his life. Although Jackson was lithe, he dragged his body around like it was a big chunk of metal—whereas Orion had moved like water, fluid and always in motion. They didn't even look similar. Orion's face was devoid of that strange sadness, always alight with the victory of another kill; aside from black hair and lightly tanned skin, the two were as different as night and day.
Still, even so, a strangeness plagued her mind, and the feeling of familiarity had not died in her stomach.
When she had first come to Moonlit Liquor, weeks before, she'd come to recruit Grace to her hunt. Then she'd seen the back of a dark-haired head working a few tables away, chatting away with a group of older men and women, and something had prickled in her chest. Although Percy Jackson had been standing there, not fifteen feet away, in a little bar on the outskirts of Manhattan, she'd thought she'd been back in Greece—wind in her hair, summer air sharp, Orion whistling by her side.
She had the striking feeling of déjà vu. It was like lightning to her skull.
They had the same charisma, the same softness in their eyes, the same firmness in their shoulders. They'd been the same person—they'd been identical, molded from the same skin and bone and soul. It had to be—surely—
The thought had died then, stricken down with precise aim.
However, a feeling of odd comfort still lingered in Artemis's heart, grazing it with the same gentleness as a lover's touch.
She decided then that she had to know him.
Percy Jackson stayed on that sidewalk until nighttime. He filed a sick day for his shifts in the grocery store and the bar, his hands trembling as he gripped his phone, his voice coming out in short bursts. He could imagine his coworkers' worry, as they noticed his absence, the creases between their brows and lips. But Percy couldn't afford to care at the moment—he felt a gap, a chasm, an abyss, inside of him, and he needed time to mend it up.
Exhaustion was prevalent on his features, on the purplish-black lines around his eyes that made him look older than he was, on the weariness of his expression. Percy sat there alone on the sidewalk, his feet hanging over the walkway's ledge, squinting his eyes shut. Back in the old days, in high-school, Percy had always been talking, always been laughing. He was always in motion, in action, never stopping and never staying quiet.
He never would've been the first to leave in a group of friends. He never would've been the guy on the sidewalk questioning his life choices nine years down the road.
Distant passerby looked at him once, then ignored him, dismissing him as a homeless man. Sandwiched in between thirty-third and thirty-fourth street, Percy looked up here and there at the tourists snapping pictures at the Empire State Building and businessmen flowing in from buildings surrounding it. As night fell like a curtain over Manhattan, and temperatures dropped, Percy was left clutching his elbows in the crooks of his arms, shivering and alone.
Grand sycamore trees decorated his vision at ground-level, and gold and red leaves dotted the ground. Although cold, the air smelled fresh and pleasant.
Percy flicked his acerbic sea-green gaze to the sky above.
The Empire State Building watched over him, godlike in its size. But even it, in all its manmade glory, was overshadowed by the pale crescent present in the sky.
Percy tilted his head slightly. The moon gleamed innocently.
The moon was back to stalking him, and honestly—if Percy had to be completely, utterly honest with himself—some tiny, fractional, hopelessly miniscule part of him liked it.
Percy chalked it up to be a mixture of loneliness, desperation, and exhaustion. Even being stalked, which Percy had never glorified or seen as a "good" thing, was preferable to this desolate void in his chest.
For all of his life, he had been staring at the moon, memorizing every crater on its bone-white surface, pouring his heart and soul into it. He'd become obsessed, clinging onto the only constant in his life, whispering nothings into the bleeding black sky above. The moon was mankind's oldest companion, around since the dawn of time, but Percy liked to think he was special. The moon's glow his own personal nightlight, the moon itself his guardian angel. In the past, he'd gazed at the moon and composed letters in his head. He allowed every piece of his soul to freely flow into his words. Percy Jackson had never been good with words—cue the disappointed English teachers and the Fs on essays—but it was different when it came to Artemis.
The reciprocation, no matter how questionable and perhaps violently motivated, was welcome. He'd always wanted to be, well, wanted. It didn't even matter in what way.
"Hey," Percy said quietly, and his voice was almost lost in the air. Wind blew at Percy's hair, sending raven-black strands flying astray. He collected himself on the pavement the best he could, ringing his hands together, brushing his windblown hair back, but he looked alone and small there—a trifling shadow that blended in with dusk and darkness. Before speaking further, Percy examined the street, hoping he wouldn't look like a fool there, talking to invisible beings in the sky. He whispered, "Artemis."
The silence was expected, but it still hurt. A cocktail of bitterness, rage, and melancholy swirled around in his chest. Percy Jackson was so sick of being unwanted, misunderstood, and alone. He wanted to be noticed. Even if the goddess of the moon wanted him dead, at least she wanted him.
The goddess was deplorable, cruel, rude, and petty. Although she was beautiful on the outside—as Percy assumed all gods were—inside, she consisted of the worst traits of humanity. However, despite everything, a nostalgic thrum echoed in his chest at his thoughts. There was an intimacy to it, one Percy couldn't translate into words.
Percy could get drunk on the sight of the moon. It was like he was losing himself to some ethereal force. "Why're you still spying on me?" he said softly, a hushed slur of words. "Am I…" Percy didn't continue, his mind racing and his throat constricting. He resisted the urge to place his hands to his face, lightly flushing.
For minutes on end, there was silence—sans the New Yorkers hurriedly walking back home, the airy faraway music playing, the young children laughing, the wind howling, the cars honking. Percy briefly wondered if, after seeing his desperation, Artemis had left. It'd be fitting.
Annabeth had broken up with him in high-school. His old friends had gotten new jobs in new places, and he'd never seen them again. They had all left, one way or the other, and Percy was left scrambling to hold onto the memories of their dreamy-eyed past. The names of those high-school kids all blended together in his mind, the experiences like a distant memory. They'd all left with smiles and goodbyes, waving and promising meaningless assurances of seeing him again sometime.
Perhaps Artemis had left too.
But that was impossible—
Percy still felt the thrum-thrum-thrum in the air, the sizzle of potent power, like magic almost, wrapping him in heat and decadence.
Being trapped under it was almost like burning, and Percy had been cold for too long.
"Artemis," he said again. "Will you talk with me?
Percy sat on the sidewalk and waited patiently, fiddling with his fingers. He could still feel that otherworldly, divine presence next to him, and he almost felt her there, sitting next to him on the sidewalk, waiting for the perfect moment to respond.
"I don't think you know me," said Percy quietly. Remembering himself, he made haste to clarify: "Which is all right…I don't really know you either." He flicked his attention back to the pavement, staring at one of the rusty-brown gutters. "But there's no point in silently seething and stalking me from the sky. Anger doesn't do anything—not like this, anyway. It's not going to change anything. If you want to talk, come talk."
She appeared faster than Percy had expected.
There was no beginning or end to it. One moment, there had been nothing—nothing physical, at least—on that sidewalk besides him, and then there was. Artemis, this time wearing a simplistic black shirt and navy-blue pants that somehow still made her look regal and powerful. She stood there, her silver eyes dark and piercing, towering over his sitting form. Her lips formed a simple line, and her skin was deathly pale in the darkness. The Empire State Building glowed dimly in the background.
Shock colored Percy's features. He hadn't expected such a swift and easy arrival. Seeing Artemis there, and feeling her godly power waft around the New York City streets, was giving him a slight bit of whiplash.
"Wow," Percy breathed out, and it sounded like a prayer.
Artemis ignored him. "I will not be made into any mortal's lapdog," she said defensively, and she stared at him searingly with eyes of silver fire. "But," she conceded, tension piling and releasing in her shoulders in an almost humanlike manner, "I am curious."
Percy's jaw was still slightly skewed open. He readjusted it back and opened his mouth to—
Artemis continued, not letting him get a word in: "I'm not stalking you, by the way, Percy Jackson. The moon only exists; whether you interpret that as stalking is up to you."
Percy's eyebrows creased. That didn't make any sense. If Artemis wasn't watching him, if he was just imagining it, how did it explain Artemis's presence in front of him? Was it just a happy-go-lucky coincidence that she'd appeared, right as he'd been talking about her? There was no doubt about it in Percy's mind; Artemis was clearly in denial, but it was true all the same. These past few days—perhaps, these past few weeks—Percy had been watched. The faint glow of the moon, which used to be his friend, was now a stranger with a penchant for staring at him. Artemis could not simply ignore this; Percy wouldn't let her.
He voiced these thoughts. "You have been watching me," he said, and he hated the way he sounded so passionate about the topic. "I've felt it."
"Now you can feel gods, mortal boy?"
"Only when they're making it obvious," Percy said in a mildly annoyed tone, biting his lip. "And my name's not 'mortal boy,' by the way. It's—"
"Percy Jackson. I'm well aware."
"I think you're smart enough to know how to use it, then," Percy replied, without missing a beat.
Artemis sneered at him. Percy had no idea gods could be so petty, and he shrunk back in his sitting position. He swallowed nervously, retracting his gaze and staring at the road. Finally, he asked, "Why are you here?"
Artemis's sneer twisted into an unwelcome smile. "Didn't you call for me?"
"Yes," Percy said. "I just didn't expect you to answer."
The goddess in front of him didn't speak for a few minutes. The statement had been so quiet, so honest, that Percy felt his heart leap in emotion afterwards. She stared at him some more, probably categorizing his every human flaw, before she fixed her gaze on the horizon. Butter-yellow rays of light rose from it, mostly obscured by the night's inky-violet color. The moon's pale, fragile light made everything look peaceful and calm, even in such a bustling, bright, chaotic city. Percy thought the sight was pretty, but he didn't understand why Artemis was staring at it. He wanted Artemis's silver eyes on him. He wanted to bask in her attention, to simmer under her scrutiny-filled gaze.
"I didn't either," she finally admitted, after the silence had stretched thin. Her eyes flicked away from the city's sky and towards the Empire State Building; her gaze was still far from him, and Percy felt a physical ache in his stomach.
Then her eyes met the Empire State Building, and her mood instantly shifted. Silver eyes darkened, coloring into rusted iron, fury imminent in her expression.
Percy squinted at the view, trying to discern Artemis's expression. It didn't look all that interesting to him. "It's a building," Percy explained. "Do gods not have buildings?" he said, his tone slightly sarcastic.
Artemis's eyes were acidic in nature.
"We shouldn't be here," she declared quietly, breathing in. Her lips curled in distaste, and she was evidently agitated, though by what was anyone's guess. "They're probably laughing down at me from there. Of all the places to be…"
"What?" Percy asked, looking around carefully. Artemis seemed to still be staring at the Empire State Building—or more precisely, the top of it, where the building hit the skyline, meeting a genera of light grey clouds.
Artemis's gaze was back on him.
For a moment, they just stared at each other. Percy was sure Artemis was trying to wordlessly communicate something to him—but it was hard to place just what exactly it was. He swallowed tensely, but he didn't stop staring. He wanted this small victory, at the very least.
Finally, Artemis pulled her gaze away from him. She extended her arm out to him. "Grab my hand," she said firmly.
"What?" Percy asked.
"I said," Artemis indicated again, "grab—my—hand."
Percy blinked at her, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion and some light surprise. This all felt so strange—but it didn't necessarily feel like a threat. Although Percy was never one to trust strangers, he also felt defeated, desperate, and above all else, stupid. So he bit his lip, and he stood up to meet her.
Still staring at her with wide eyes, he hesitantly placed his hand over hers.
There was a flash of white.
And then, when the light cleared, new surroundings entered his vision.
A restaurant, by the looks of it, and not some cheap one either; judging by the fancy décor of it, it seemed to be upscale. A glass chandelier hung over polished marble floors, making a million glittering lights reflect across the velvet-colored room. There was a table next to them with posh seats and polished cherrywood, with red roses neatly arranged in a pretty bouquet in a baby-blue porcelain vase. Piano music lightly played in the background.
The restaurant was elegant and dazzling. And although it wasn't divine—at least not like Artemis was, stunning and ethereal—it was close. The restaurant was the culmination of the "finer things" in life, things that Percy Jackson had never had the pleasure of getting to know.
Percy had never been there before. But judging by the scenery outside the stylistically circular windows, they were still in New York City.
Percy had not known what he'd been expecting, but somehow, a grand, magnificent restaurant was not exactly what he'd expected. After arriving at the restaurant, Artemis sighed in relief, her voice airy and light. A beautiful peace finally overcame her sharp, rough features—and Percy's own facial features eased up. The tension that'd piled on Percy had released with ease, and he felt weightless.
Of course, Percy was still the perfect epitome of confusion, surprise, and hesitance—but at least Artemis had teleported him somewhere nice, a place away from the hustle-and-bustle of the streets. There was a metaphor in there, somewhere, but Percy was too tired to think about it.
"Go on…take a seat," Artemis ordered. She seemed fond of giving him orders, and Percy was sick of it all—this divine superiority that made Artemis act like she deserved every good thing in the world.
Just to spite her, he stood up, tall and sturdy. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. He attempted to get rid of every emotion on his face.
Artemis raised a thin, crescent-like brow at him—before she conceded and sat down without him. The seat was glaringly beautiful—rich leather decorated with a golden-colored material on the sides—and for someone who'd just spent hours sitting hunched-over on the pavement, it looked enticingly comfortable. Percy continued to stand there—in his common-looking jeans and in ugly plaid—ignoring the looks he received across the restaurant.
Percy's gaze flicked over to the exit, weighing the options in his head.
Finally, after a few seconds of deliberation, curiosity won out, and he took a seat there.
"Why are we here?" Percy asked finally. Relaxing his shoulders, he took another deep breath of the restaurant—it smelled lovely, scents of calming lavender and sweet-smelling magnolia drifting lazily around. "What's with…?" He gestured around to the luxurious surroundings of the restaurant, as if it spoke for itself.
"That's not the right question," Artemis said dully, as if somehow she was disappointed in him. She let out another sigh. "The question should be 'why aren't we there?'"
Percy rolled his eyes. "Okay, then," he said in a sardonic tone. "Why aren't we there?"
Artemis admitted, "I wanted to talk without being looked upon." Her voice was clear and cutting like a knife.
After this strangely honest declaration, Percy wasn't sure if he should feel intimidated or not. He felt himself furrow his dark brows, and his face must've communicated his next question effectively enough for Artemis to clear her throat and say, "Never mind. It doesn't matter."
"Speak for yourself," Percy spat, and he leaned away from the chair's back. He waited, cocking his head curiously for Artemis to reply. "Why do you care about people watching you? No one cares. Are you seriously scared of some businessmen watching you, or—"
"My godly brethren," Artemis said, her tone plain. "The twelve Olympians."
Percy's eyes widened. "Oh." He put the dots together, his dark brows furrowing in thought. "Wait…the Olympians are…" He thought deeply about their past surroundings—the tall, large Empire State Building splitting the sky, glorious and magnetic—and everything came together. Slowly, then all at once. "The gods…the gods live in the Empire State Building."
Wonder slowly seeped into Percy's expression, making his eyes shine like the ocean under the sun.
"On the building, but yes," Artemis said dryly, looking impassive.
Percy felt an uncanny smile grow on his lips. "You're telling me they've been living in the Empire State Building this whole time, and I just didn't know?"
"You are mortal," Artemis replied, her eyes like iron. She still looked bored by the topic, though Percy couldn't understand why. "Why would you know?"
Percy was still bubbling with happiness. He felt like a child again, being tucked in with his daily dose of Greek mythology from his mom. And to find out all the magic was closer to home than he thought it'd been—it was gratifying, hypnotizing, distracting. His home-place was also a home to gods. What could be more interesting than that? After a lifetime of mediocrity and blandness, this new discovery was life-changing. Percy stood up, tingling with excitement.
His world had just begun to expand.
His eyes brimmed with newfound anticipation and excitement. Artemis's were brimmed with nonchalance and uninterest. They couldn't have been more different at that moment, and Percy knew exactly why.
Because while she was a goddess, while she had everything she wanted in her grasp, Percy had nothing. He had an ailing mother to take care of and a job he hated. His world was small, just days of bagging grocery items and pouring drinks and pretending that Sally Jackson was going to survive. Artemis's world was expansive and magnificent—grand and thrilling; she was immortal, free, and powerful, and she could never understand Percy's struggles.
But for Percy, this news could change his life. Suddenly, for the first time in a long time, Percy felt like he had a solution. His life of mediocrity could be snapped away. Gods lived, and magic lived, and hope lived—and that could be enough for him. Percy could cure his mother, breathe purpose into his half-lived life, and find happiness. Although it was a purely glorified way of looking at it, Percy didn't know how else to—when approached with the possibility of magic and divinity, Percy could only think optimistically. His life could be good again.
It was all in front of him, and Artemis could be his ticket there.
"Do you think I could meet them?" Percy asked wondrously.
She shot him down so fast that it didn't have time to hurt. "You are mortal," she stated again. Mortal. It was such a simple word—reducing humanity down to two syllables, down to their limited lifespans—and it made his chest clench, not exactly in a painful way but certainly in an uncomfortable one.
"You wouldn't be allowed on Olympus," Artemis continued, still with the same blasé inclination as before. "And even if you were, why do you think the gods would ever want to talk to you?"
"Then," Percy said unfalteringly, regaining the bits and pieces of his hope, "why are you talking to me?"
A/N: It's been a while, but at least it's done...?
I'll be honest—I've had 3K of this already written last chapter, but it just wasn't going where I wanted it to go, so it took a while to get the rest written. It's still not exactly as I intended it to be, but I just need to get something out, so I can work on the rest of the story. I want to thank BlackjaxCXXIII for the last comment, giving me motivation to finish this chapter up. I know it seems small, but comments and PMs really do help with motivation. Thank you for the read.