It was dark. It was always so goddamn dark these days, he could barely stand it. Stifling, horrible dark that enveloped him from every side, that invaded his every orifice, forcing itself down his throat in choking clouds that felt more monster than mist.
And then, it clears.
Jason Grace sits at a rickety card table, attending to his weapons with a level of care he affords to few other things in his life. He's got gun oil out that has splattered on the newspaper one too many times, sword oil for the rest. They'd become a bit more advanced in their graduation from camp: modern monsters require modern solutions.
"Fuck, I'm going to be cleaning gorgon gunk out of this until the next millennia." Jason grimaces. The sun hits his hair so perfectly that it shimmers, prettier than anything here to Hades.
"Don't punch a gorgon with your gun next time," Percy sits down next to him. "Sword's easier to clean anyway.
Jason puts a hand down on the table to look at him and it shifts, sliding all of the tiny bits of his gun down to the edge.
"Shit— fuck !" He scrambles to catch the pieces.
Percy thinks he'll die laughing.
They were in a safe house, not too far from where they killed a pack of gorgons on their way to a job. They were more of a nuisance, but it was good to take out the trash every once in a while. They reminded Percy of his first time in Camp Jupiter; nostalgia was strong even when it came to monster hunting.
It had been a lot like this in the years since they left camp. Run down houses in run down towns with very little to call home about. Quests from gods they'd barely heard of for things that were long forgotten. When Olympus needed something done, they'd send Percy or Jason, sometimes both. They worked well together despite their troubled pasts and always delivered on what was promised. Reliable against all odds, that was them.
Jason collects all the pieces of his gun and glares at Percy as he puts it back together.
"Hey, you did this to yourself." Percy holds his hands up as he fights the urge to laugh again.
"Let's not be stupid here, little fish." Jason finishes reassembling his gun, now clean, and cocks it, looking down the barrel. "You did."
Percy pauses. "What?"
"You did," Jason says simply, putting bullets in the gun. He turns and his head morphs, the soft, shining hair gone now, replaced by nothingness. Jason's eyes cover in that dark fog, going unsteady and soft around the edges. "You did this to me."
Percy froze in place, unable to even scream as he watched Jason bring the gun close to his mouth. He moves the gun to the side, tapping his temple with the barrel.
"You weren't the smart one between us, let's be honest," Jason says. The grin that spreads is slow and wicked. "My little fish; always so slow on the uptake. Take a moment to think." His voice is soft; crooning, even. Percy hates how it makes his heart twist. "It's alright, I have you."
A hand caresses his cheek, mist weaving around Jason's wrist like shackles. Percy can almost feel it, the cloying darkness that would envelope him if he made even one false move. Jason's fingers don't feel like they should; clammy in their wrongness, cold to the touch.
"You could have stopped it," Jason murmurs. "You still have the chance."
Percy gulps. "What do you mean?"
Jason's face is so close, but it's nothing like what used to be. He knows where those lips are going and he dreads it; this wasn't his Jason. But he also knows that it is, it is in the most terrifying way. The thought sinks in his stomach like a stone.
"You'll see." Jason is inches from his face. "One day. I'll make you see."
A small gasp escapes through Percy's parted lips and he goes slack in Jason's touch, just as someone else touches him, pulling him from the rickety chair and away from the rickety table.
"Wake up!"
Percy shakes his head, his eyes shut tight. He reaches out for Jason, even though he knows it's not really him. Anything is better than nothing.
"Percy, you have to wake up!"
Breath returns to Percy's lungs as Rachel shakes him away. It takes him a few moments of blinking before he realizes what was happening.
"You were dreaming, Perce." Rachel looks at him with concern swimming in her eyes.
It was a dream, just a dream. That's all. It sounded so simple when she said it like that.
She hadn't seen him in the throes of one of his nightmares in years, and he imagines it's just as terrifying now as it was then. He used to have others wake him since they began: his mother, Grover, Annabeth, Jason. Another name sticks in his brain and he stubbornly pushes it away. No use thinking of a man who never thinks about you in return.
"You want water?" Rachel sits back on her heels next to the couch, her breaths coming fast.
Percy nods and clumsily sits up. "Fuck— did I pass out here?"
She smiles crookedly. "Yeah. Watching Property Brothers, no less."
He rubs his face. "Worse things to lull you to sleep. At least the Property Brothers are hot."
"Which one?" Rachel teases.
He shoots her a look and whips the blanket off of his legs. "Both. They're identical twins, Rachel."
"More power for your fantasies, I suppose." She claps him on the back. "Let's go get some breakfast."
He rises from the couch, stretching his limbs as they creak and crack. "Are you cooking?"
"Fuck no," she snorts. "We're going to the bodega and then you are telling me where you've been."
—
Percy found his cleanest set of clothes and figured he looked presentable enough to be seen outside the house (the rest in the washer of one Rachel Elizabeth Dare, forgotten by both of them last night as they ate takeout in front of the TV).
The air is thick, a classic Manhattan summer, and she steers him towards a cafe with outdoor seating instead of the bodega she promised. Something about wanting to get out of the house; a thing he felt was more for his benefit than hers. He looks like he needs to get out of the house, more his general aura than his appearance, but that indicates much the same.
Percy nurses an over-large coffee, while Rachel sips delicately out of her tiny cup of double espresso, intent on ordering a second and third depending on how forthcoming Percy was with the details of his jaunt around the world this past year.
"Tell me," Rachel says between sips. "What has the illustrious Perseus Jackson been up to since I last saw him?"
Percy adjusts his sunglasses and stares out at the sidewalk. He bides his time by taking a drink then presses his lips together. "…no comment."
She nearly laughs at that. Nearly.
"You don't get to get out of telling me the basic outline of what you've been up to, Perce. I need something to tell the inevitable hordes of Greeks who come knocking. At least enough to satisfy them so they'll go away." She places a menu in his hands, indicating that he should eat something.
"You're worse than my mother," he wrinkles his nose.
"That's the next person you should call," Rachel says. "Sally deserves better."
He sighs. "I know. Gimme— just, let me figure myself out for a few days before I have to do the whole song and dance, okay?"
She scrutinizes him over the top of the menu. "Alright. But I know something is up with you, so spill."
He rolls his eyes. "Rachel—"
"No, give it to me. I've heard it all. Oracle, remember?" She gestures to herself. "I saw your missions before the gods even knew to give them to you. Nothing will scare me, I promise."
He shrugs. "After Jason, I just— I needed to get away for a little while."
She laughs. "Disappearing is a good way to do that."
"Shut it, Dare. You wish you could disappear like I can." He runs a thumb over the menu, his appetite leaving him. "I traveled."
"That's it?" She raises an eyebrow.
"There's a lot of places in the world. Traveling takes time. Honestly, I could have been gone a lot longer."
"Mmm, you ran out of money." Rachel nods.
He scoffs. "I did not—"
She tilts her espresso cup to look at him. "Demigods aren't particularly loaded in the first place. I know you ran out of cash. It's okay."
He shifts down in his seat, wishing he could curl up into himself. Percy cradles the iced coffee to his chest. "Yeah, I'm broke." He sips the drink sullenly. "But luckily I have you, my stupidly rich friend, who can help bail me out."
"Is that why you came back? For money?" She tilts her head to the side.
He lets out another sullen sigh. "No. I needed a place to stay."
"Bingo." Rachel hails down the waiter and orders another espresso. "And if any members of your family come knocking, I'll tell them you went on a special mission as dictated by the Oracle."
Percy relaxes, his sullen sips transforming into relieved ones. "Thanks, Rach."
"Except for Sally," she adds swiftly. "I love that woman more than many actual members of my family. She gets the truth."
"Fine, whatever you want."
"Good." Rachel's smile is bright. "Because this sugar Oracle is paying."
He laughs now, a true laugh deep from his throat that makes his chest shake. "Please stop calling yourself that or I'll start introducing myself as your kept boy."
She waggles her eyebrows. "Is that such a bad thing?"
"It is if you don't want your stock with the local girls to tank immediately." He waggles them back.
"Fine," Rachel scowls. "You're my lodger now. Happy?"
Percy hums. "We'll work on it."
They settle into an amicable silence that has Percy smiling despite himself. It was a pretty day out despite the heat, the sun shining and birds singing. A picture fucking perfect time as far as these things went. He thinks of camp, how it was always perfect like this, and how he can never go back to how happy he was then.
Rachel nudges his leg with her foot.
"Hey," she says over the top of her espresso cup, a small smile on her face.
Percy smiles back from where he's slouched down in his seat. "Hey."
She takes her time looking him over. "I'm glad you're back." After a moment of decoding his expression, she adds, "You are back, aren't you?"
He uses the excuse of his coffee to take time before answering. It's cold and bitter, zipping through his mind like a reset. Percy nods. "Yeah, I'm back."
Rachel reaches for his hand and squeezes it. "Good."
—
SHIELD meetings were Clint's least favourite part of his job. Not only did he have to experience horrors previously unknown by both man and beast, he had to recount those experiences at least twice to some suit who's most interesting fact about themselves is that they are neither a walking red nor green flag, but beige.
Fuck, he could really go for some pierogi right about now.
He rounds the corner after exiting the debrief room, meeting up with Natasha on his way. They fall into an easy step, their bodies angled towards each other and eye on the prize.
"Fury?" Natasha checks in with him.
He nods, his brows slung low. "Fuck, I need a drink."
She snorts. "As soon as you use the drachma, I know someone who can get you one."
He almost stops dead in front of her just out of spite, but shakes his head instead. "How about you take the mentally unstable guy with creative uses for his water powers? I've had my fill of nonsense today."
"Touchy," Natasha tuts at him as she reaches for the door to Fury's office. "Save it for the make-up sex."
"The what, Agent Romanoff?"
Natasha and Clint go still, then shuffle into the office. Clint's palms begin to sweat.
"Nothing, sir." Natasha clears her throat.
"Good, that's what I thought." Fury turns to face them, letting a large file drop to his desk with a smack. "Debrief team told me you might have a specialist who can help with this."
"Specialist? What kind of specialist deals in child murder ?"
The sharp voice of Tony Stark cuts through the room as he enters. Clint bites back a beleaguered sigh; Tony always made things more complicated than they needed to be. He loved the man like he did his brother, but it was unfortunate for both parties that Clint's brother was a fucking asshole.
"Sir, respectfully, what is Stark doing here?" Natasha asks.
"Ouch, Natalie. You wound me." Tony clutches his chest in mock-pain.
"Stark tech was found at the crime scene," Fury says. "We found it best to bring him in since other Avengers were already involved in the case. He might even be an asset."
Clint crosses his arms over his chest. He'll see that day when it happens. While Tony could prove incredibly resourceful, it was normally only after he'd fucked everything up for everyone that said resourcefulness ever reared its head. He liked working with Iron Man, when Iron Man stayed himself. Tony Stark was another beast entirely, and one that was often better caged.
Drinking— now that was a different story. He'd drink with Tony any time, as long as he's paying.
"Murderers using my tech is bad publicity," Tony says. "But continue, tell me more about this specialist ."
Clint fights the urge to roll his eyes and places a hand on the table. "The murder victim was trained at a certain… academy. Or his murderer was. Either way, several aspects of the murder scene point to an affiliation and we have a contact with roots in the community. He could help us identify the victim and would be able to pick up on details we can't."
Natasha glances at him, hesitating. "The way we contact him is… unconventional at best."
Tony snorts. "More unconventional than how we get in touch with Thor?"
"A bit." Clint clenches his jaw. He looks to Fury. "Just don't— Don't laugh, okay?"
Fury narrows his eye, but gestures for him to proceed.
Clint fishes the drachma out of his pocket and raises the blinds, letting the sunlight shine onto the table. He nods to Natasha, who gets a small spray bottle out and readies it with a meaningful look.
He clenches the drachma in his palm, hard enough to make an impression, and opens it with a twitch of his jaw. Clint returns the nod to Natasha. "Do it."
She sprays a perfect rainbow.
"O Iris, goddess of rainbows. Accept this offering. Show me Percy Jackson."
Clint flicks the drachma into the spray…
… and it clatters to the ground on the other side.
" Shit ."
Clint puts a palm to his face, the metallic smell of the drachma filtering through his nose. He was sure he'd done it right; had he not memorized those words over and over in the two years since he saw Percy Jackson disappear into the watery deep and never return? Was he just not taking his calls?
"Clint," Natasha, pulls him back. "What does that mean?"
He bites his lip. "I have no fucking clue. Maybe I said it wrong? He told me she's kind of particular. He could be screening calls, but I'm pretty sure it's not like that."
"Oh?" Tony says mockingly. "The goddess of rainbows is particular ?"
"Shut up," Clint throws back.
Natasha readies the bottle again. "Try again. Try new words. Don't treat him with kid gloves anymore, Clint. He can handle an unexpected call or two."
He sighs, stalking around to the other side of the table to retrieve the drachma with a sullen expression. "Fine. Let 'er rip."
The rainbow is made, Clint flicks the drachma into the spray.
"O Iris, goddess of rainbows, please accept my offering. Show me Percy Jackson."
The drachma dissolves the moment it hits the spray.
"Holy shit," Clint blinks.
"Huh," Natasha looks at the shifting rainbow. "Maybe it was the 'please.'"
Before he can reply, the image changes not to Percy Jackson, but to someone else. The man is younger than Percy, but not by much, his hair dark and messy in much the same way, but that's where the similarities end. He's shorter, with pale skin that is nearly translucent and pronounced dark circles under his eyes. Behind him is a messy office, stacked high with files and papers indiscernible through the Iris Message. It takes a moment for him to notice he's being called and when he does, he drops the files in his hands.
"Fuck."
"Everyone here has such a filthy mouth," Tony remarks as he crosses the room to mess with something on Fury's shelf.
"If it isn't Clint Barton," the man replies. He leans back on his desk and looks over the others on the call, Natasha catching his eye but without any glimmer of recognition. The man worries at his lip. "I knew you'd call eventually. It took you long enough. By the way, photos do not do you justice. That or Percy is a shit photographer."
"Percy is a shit photographer," Clint replies. "Who are you? Sorry— I'd have more tact but we're in a bit of a crisis situation here."
The man laughs. "Yeah, you would be, otherwise I can't imagine you'd stoop so low as to call Percy." He stacks a few files.
Clint bristles at that; he can be mad at Percy, but god forbid anyone else point out his anger.
"My name is Nico di Angelo. And we've got a big fucking situation on our hands."
—
Percy Jackson never thought of himself much as a park guy, but Rachel needed him out of the house and the lack of greenery was already getting to him. His year of rest and relaxation, while anything but restful and relaxing, never brought him toward a city. He missed the country, in any country.
The city was equal turns familiar and unfamiliar in a way that made it jarring for him to exist in it. He likes his anonymity, he expects to be able to keep it, but he is also braced for anyone and everyone to recognize him and ask him the question he's been dreading.
What happened to Jason?
He sits on a park bench and looks out into the vast expanse of greenery. He wishes Jason were here; he wishes a lot of things. For a moment, he knows what peace might be, and then someone else sits down next to him.
"You're a hard man to find."
Percy sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. "What are you doing here?"
Nico di Angelo stretches his arm out along the back of the bench, the corner of his mouth quirking up. His expression is indiscernible underneath a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses. "Now, is that any way to greet your cousin?"
Percy scowls. "I don't want whatever shit Chiron is trying to shove off on me. Tell him he can go fuck himself."
Nico lets out a low whistle. "I see the rage hasn't simmered down at all."
"No." Percy looks out at the pedestrians enjoying their day in the park, trying to let them distract his frantic mind. "Not this kind of rage."
Nico looks Percy over, tilting his sunglasses down. "When did you get back in town?"
"You know when," Percy says. "For all that talk about not knowing how to find me, I've got a feeling you keep pretty good tabs on my comings and goings."
"You're not wrong." Nico hums. "Give Rachel my best."
Percy snorts. "Likewise to Will."
A comfortable silence settles between them and then Nico pulls a file out of a worn canvas tote bag.
"I got a call earlier today," he says, handing Percy the file.
"Oh?" He narrows his eyes.
"For you. Iris's forwarding system is still holding up. But this time it wasn't some kid on a quest or a prank call from the Hermes cabin. It was a call from a man named Clint Barton."
Percy's blood runs cold. His grip on the file is hard as steel. "What did he want?"
"Try not to sound so excited, Perce." Nico is far too casual in his response. "He's working on a case that could use your help."
"Then he can die waiting." Percy shoves the file into Nico's chest. "I don't do that any more."
Nico raises an eyebrow, taking the file back. "I wish you had a choice in this one, but you might want to take another look before the scary government ken dolls also on that call subpoena your ass."
"Will introducing you to TV was such a mistake." Percy groans and presses his fingertips to his temples. "The fuck does SHIELD think I did now? I steered clear of their operations for two years. Unless they were deeply involved in the hammock I made to take naps by the sea, I don't want to hear it."
"Mmm, I wish, but this one involves a real trifecta: child murder, cadaver artistry, and the name of famed hero Percy Jackson." Nico opens the file to a picture of the crime scene, pointing out the writing to Percy. "See anything familiar?"
Percy swears. He looks at Nico. "You know I didn't do this, don't you?"
"Of course," Nico says. "But someone wants everyone to think you did, specifically Greeks. And while I do enjoy cleaning up your messes on a good day, I'm not exactly equipped for this level of smoothing over."
He swears again. Just as he tries to carve out a small island of peace for himself, it's smashed apart as quickly as anything. The edges of the picture wrinkle, his thumb obscuring the words painted by the killer.
I was killed by Perseus Jackson .
It was written sloppily, but by someone who knew how to use the ancient Greek instead of the modern. A large trident is painted off to one side and he narrows his eyes. Whoever did this was meticulous in the casual presentation of it all; suspiciously unsuspicious.
"I didn't promise them anything, if that's what you're worried about," Nico says. "SHIELD, I mean. But if you do go, dress a little better."
Percy sends him a withering glare. "Time apart has made you kind of a bitch, you know."
Nico laughs. "I'll take that as a compliment." He checks his phone. "You have a suit?"
He sighs. "Somewhere. I think I destroyed it around Bosnia six months ago. If you're quick, you can probably still find the shreds on the side of the road."
"Rachel has some of your spare clothes that I dropped off when you left a year ago. I figured you'd come back eventually and they were about ready to memorialize your cabin. Didn't want it caught in the crossfire."
Percy sets his mouth into a frown. "Thanks, Nico."
"Don't mention it." Nico stands, holding his hand out for Percy. "Show up to SHIELD whenever you want. My work here is done."
He takes Nico's outstretched hand and rises. The weight is familiar, grounding. He misses Jason all over again, Nico's image blurring into one with blonde hair and a shimmering smile. He shakes his head and it's clear again, his cousin standing before him with curious eyes.
"Percy?" Nico pushes his sunglasses up to look him in the eye.
"Yeah?"
"You're going to be okay." His eyes bore into Percy's, as if he can telepathically send him the comfort he needs. "No matter what bullshit they're going to try to pull. I've got your back."
Percy gulps. "Nico—"
But Nico is already placing his sunglasses back on his face. "Like I said, don't fucking mention it. Now, I've got a medic to go get dinner with. Will you be good?"
He bites at the inside of his cheek. "Yeah."
"IM me if you need anything." Nico backs away with a wave. "I'll pick up."
Percy stands by the park bench as Nico retreats. He gives a wave, but it's too late; he stands alone.
