It is past dawn when Natasha Romanov wakes.

She had long arranged her apartment for optimal rest while also remaining vigilant when it came to potential threats that may follow her. This wasn't the only apartment she kept in the States, let alone the rest of the world. It was a drop in the ocean, a single strand in the ever-twisting web that she had woven for herself.

But she liked this one the most so far. It had the best light.

She sits up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her gaze falls to the side, landing on the tousled hair sharing the bed with her, and she smiles. The sheets are rumpled around him, a pillow having found its way to the center of the mattress. He curls away from it, the sharp points of his spine visible.

Neither Natasha nor Percy were much for sleeping in the same bed as someone else. While Natasha was a lone figure, only sharing space when it was absolutely necessary, Percy had become used to his solitary bed in the Poseidon cabin. They slept on opposite sides of the bed, but they had time this morning. They could indulge, a little bit.

She traces a finger down his back and smiles again as her knuckle hits every point in his spine. He stirs, but does not turn towards her, stretching sleepily like a cat.

Bzzt.

Natasha's phone rings on the bedside table, vibrating against the lightly stained wood. She reaches for it, looking at the caller ID and answering.

"Clint." She keeps her tone light. "Something the matter?"

"New body," he replies, verbose as always. There's a pause in his voice. "Did you just wake up?"

She nods. "Mhm. We'll be there in a bit. Text me the address."

"We?" There's a smile behind the word. "Bucky is free to come along, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't always bring last night's leftovers to a crime scene."

She rolls her eyes and gets up, grabbing for her clothes. "Not Bucky. Percy."

The silence speaks volumes.

She pulls on a pair of pants. "Clint?"

"That was quick." His tone is flat.

"It's not like that." It sort of was. "He needed to stay out of his house for the night and I have a spare room."

"Sure." Clint is unforgiving now, his voice turning acrid. "Try not to come to work with sex hair. It's unprofessional."

She scoffs. "Look who's talking. We'll be there in ten."

Natasha glares at her phone after he hangs up, burning with unresolved anger. It was not his place to become upset at who she takes to her bed, when she more often than not took him there as well. His issues with Percy weren't hers; she was an adult and could conduct herself as such.

If Clint couldn't handle that, he could go fuck himself.

"Percy."

She nudges him lightly, her hand running down the points on his spine again. Natasha knew better than to wake him in any way that would startle, but it didn't matter how gentle she was.

In the blink of an eye, Percy flips them over so she's on her back, his hands pinning her wrists to the softness of the duvet. Breath leaves Natasha's lungs, but she doesn't struggle against his grip. Her eyes peer into his.

It's instinct, that's all it is, and it helps to ease both of their minds, even a little bit.

Percy lets out a breath and loosens his grip, rolling off of her to flop onto his back. His reply is mumbled. "Sorry."

"No problem." Natasha was far too familiar with fighting against instinct. "We have to go. Clint called."

Percy grunts. He checks the messages on his phone. "Stark texted me too. Not sure who gave him my number. Or why he's calling me 'kid' now."

"Wait until he decides on an actual nickname for you." Natasha pulled on her clothes. "He seems to like you. Well— he seems fascinated by you."

"Is there a difference?" Percy cracks a smile.

She throws him his wrinkled button down from the night before. "Come on. We have work to do."

—

The body wasn't in Brooklyn.

Either the killer knew that they had recruited Percy to their ranks, or there was a method to their madness, but this body was in Queens. No longer stashed in an alleyway, it stood tall in the middle of Socrates Sculpture Park, staged ever so carefully as if it were just another piece of art.

They're the last of their team to arrive, Clint already stubbornly smoking a cigarette along the perimeter of the yellow tape marking off the scene. He stubs it out when Natasha approaches, giving Percy nothing more than a backwards glance.

"You got another?" Natasha asks. Clint hands her his pack wordlessly.

It's a dirty habit, they both knew that in an abstract sense, but with a job like the one they had, it was even harder to kick. Natasha used to smoke for the feeling of it all, for the air of importance it leant her and the camaraderie it helped her to maintain with her fellow Widows and their marks.

Clint was more of a mystery when it came to his vices, frustrating in his simplicity. Instead, he grasped at anything he could get his hands on to relax. Nothing ever stuck for too long— the pack he handed Natasha at least six months old and only half empty. He tried, though. He tried to get something to help: meditation, exercise, yoga, alcohol, sex. The list went on and on. Little bits helped here and there, but nothing stuck around for very long.

"Want one?" Natasha offers a cigarette up from the pack.

Percy shakes his head, but gets out his lighter and lights it for her.

Clint takes the pack back from her, stuffing it into his back pocket as he burns holes into Percy's shoulder with his gaze.

"Morning," Percy raises an eyebrow at Clint.

He grunts in response, indicating him with his chin. "You might want to prepare yourselves before you see this one. It's—"

Clint's voice dies in his throat as he locks eyes with Percy. He'd been avoiding it for as long as he could— glances to the side of his face, his neck, his throat where his Adam's Apple bobbed when he swallowed, the curve of his shoulder— but as soon as their eyes connect, his mind goes blank. Clint had never been one for eye contact on a good day— he found the act distractingly intimate, almost pornographic if he held the right person's gaze for the right amount of time. Eyes said more than words; he'd spill all his secrets if his eyes were allowed.

Clint could get lost in eyes like Percy's. Two beautiful pieces of sea glass, trapped for an eternity in a face so beautiful, he could never be sure he wasn't a sculpture or not. Clint had been to Greece once, seen the statues at the museums, but Percy put them all to shame. He couldn't imagine what the rest of the godly children looked like— if they lived up to the beauty of his former love or came up woefully short. He'd seen Jason in photos before, the one person he believed could rival Percy in beauty, and found him lacking. There was something about Percy Jackson that enraptured him, mind, body, and soul.

He wondered if Percy ever felt the same about him; if he ever spent his nights thinking about how beautiful his eyes were, or the curve of his spine, the softness of his thighs. As much hatred that Clint had allowed to fester in his heart for Percy, he could barely give it credence when confronted with the reality of him.

Natasha clears her throat.

"Clint?"

It takes Clint a minute to realize that he'd stopped breathing the moment Percy's eyes met his and he wrenches his gaze away, taking in a stuttering breath.

"Yeah, I— I mean— This one is bad." Clint swallows. He sees Percy's eyes track the movement. "The last one was bad, but this is— Just, tell me if you need me to pull you out, I guess. Carson and Teller already spilled their guts in the bushes."

Percy raises an eyebrow and runs a hand through his hair. Clint realizes that he's wearing the same suit as yesterday, the bloodstains still on the collar, and something deep tugs at his stomach. It lets him know his place: he isn't important in Percy's life anymore. Even Natasha could share his bed after all these years, but not him. Never him.

"We'll be fine, Clint," Percy says. "Thanks for the warning." He pauses for a moment. "Stark here yet?"

Clint narrows his gaze. "No. Why?"

Percy shrugs. "He sent me a text about the new body. I figure he'd already have been here. It seems like he's the kind of guy who wants to get in on the action."

Natasha blows perfect smoke rings, flicking ash onto the gravel path. "He'll probably be by soon, especially if more Stark tech has been used."

Percy frowns at his phone and puts it away. "Alright. Let's see what we're working with."

Clint had been correct that this body was something else entirely. While Percy hadn't been able to see the original crime scene with the body intact, he imagines the gruesome scene didn't measure up to what was before him.

A pedestal has been emptied, the sculpture that originally sat upon it sitting carefully a dozen yards away, and upon it stood the body. Much like the son of Moneta, his guts spilling forth as a torrent of drachmas, the body was staged meticulously, every piece thought of down to the most granular detail.

The first thing Percy noticed was the wings, and how odd it was that they were placed the way they were. He thinks it strange that his first thought was to criticize the work, how his morality must be so skewed at this point to not notice the cruelty before the beauty. The wings spread out from the hunch of the body, supported by several pieces of iron pipe to place the limbs in the perfect configuration to simulate being mid-flight. The skin was cut with surgical precision, the sharp ends of the ribs following suit as they were stretched away from the body. Blood glistened in the sunlight, almost sparkling against the darkness of the lungs, pulled from the body to sit as wings along the ribs.

The victim had been blood eagled.

There's pageantry akin to Julian Varus's death, the body made almost to look like Icarus. Feathers float gently down from the pedestal the body is placed on. One lands in Percy's hair as a gust of wind passes through the park. It is dark with blood.

Gods.

Percy wants to say it aloud, but he doesn't care to invoke their name anymore. Saying the swears he grew up with in the outside world feels even more inadequate for the situation. Instead, he approaches the body, careful not to disturb the team taking careful photos of the scene.

The body was that of another boy, around the same age as Julian Varus, but a much slighter build and sporting a Camp Half-Blood shirt in the signature orange. His curls are brighter, almost white, and in them sits a golden circlet that Percy has never seen before. Around his neck is another camp necklace, this time with six beads.

Percy's blood runs cold.

"I know him," he whispers.

Natasha whips her head around to look at him.

"He—" Percy almost reaches a hand out to touch the body. Feathers dust the body's hair, his eyes closed as if he were merely sleeping. With a frown, Percy notices that his face has been painted to mimic signs of life. "He came to camp when I was… seventeen, I think. He was around a decade younger than me at the time and wandered in during our fight with the Giants. I was a leader in both camps by then and barely had time for myself, but I remember seeing this kid come in. He was so… tiny ."

Their faces are barely a foot apart, the body suspended over him. He was sleeping, Percy told himself. Just sleeping.

"He— he was a son of Apollo," Percy says. "He was claimed after Gaia was defeated, after everything settled down again. And then this whole mess began with Apollo himself and—" He shakes his head, stepping away. "Topher. That was his name."

Natasha glances at the body, then to Percy. She's silent as she observes him before speaking. "Do you know who did this?"

He runs a hand through his hair, trying to breathe. "No. The only thing that knows this kind of cruelty are the gods themselves."

She lets out a deep breath and turns to get a briefing from the SHIELD and NYPD teams who arrived before them.

Percy stands at the base of the pedestal and gazes up into the face of Topher, son of Apollo. He stares as if any of this will become clear in the face of the dead child, as if he could speak to him and make this all go away.

His lips remain closed. His voice remains silent, as it will be until the end of time.

A crowd gathers outside the perimeter maintained by police and nothing seems to stop the onlookers from being rooted to the spot, gazing upon the grotesque display. They stand in awful symmetry to Percy as feathers swirl in the breeze. It takes him a moment before he can wrench his gaze away from the body and onto the crime scene as a whole.

Words were painted across the grass and the stone of the pedestal as were at the death of Julian Varus, the white paint splattered and haphazard. For all the details that went into the placement of the body, the message seems to have very little care put into it.

Percy steps back to read it. He stills.

You will find no forgiveness, nor grace.

Stark Tech had been used again, but in the most mundane way that it was almost frustrating to have Tony involved in the investigation.

"The killer, or whoever they have on their team, used some Stark tech to jam the security cameras in the area," a SHIELD agent reports to the team as they're loosely assembled in the corner of the crime scene. "They also redirected traffic and managed to keep any pedestrians out of the area while they were transporting the body. How, we have no idea."

It's been hours since Percy and Natasha had arrived and they're waiting for Tony to show up, hoping he could give any kind of insight into what his tech would be doing here. Stark tech showed up in all kinds of places, but the link is suspicious, possibly leading to a Stark employee being connected to the murders.

Percy sits against the back of a bench and rubs his temples, as if it would make the current nightmare go away any faster than it had appeared.

"I don't understand why they would be using so much tech in these murders when that's not how we're raised," Percy says, more to himself than to anyone else.

Clint shrugs. "New York is a city of constant surveillance; you kind of have to know how to use some kind of tech to get by. I don't see how he could avoid it even if he tried."

"Any kind of technology tends to attract monsters, it's why not many of us have phones or computers. I get by because monsters know to steer clear of me, but I can't imagine a demigod being able to be surrounded by Stark tech and not get torn to shreds the minute they step outside."

Clint's eyes light up. He holds his hand out as his thoughts race through his mind. "That's it. If the killer is a demigod, they've gotta be working with a bed of nails technique."

Percy crosses his arms and gestures for Clint to continue.

An over excited Clint dives to the ground to get a handful of pebbles off the path. "One rock really fucking hurts in a shoe. Think of that as a demigod using a phone; they stick out like a sore thumb. But if a demigod surrounded themselves with technology…"

He gestures to the gravel on the ground, pressing with his hand. "It's not nearly as noticeable. They'd almost be cloaking themselves."

The breath is knocked out of Percy's lungs at the realization. "Hiding themselves from both monsters and other demigods by appearing just like any other human."

"Whoever it is, the likelihood they work for Stark or in a Stark-owned project is very high," Natasha says, observing both of them.

Percy's mouth sets into a line. "We need to get to the Tower."

—

Traffic was packed on the way to the tower, Percy and Clint in the back of Natasha's car as they made their way through constant stop and go at the mercy of her very Russian road rage.

"Who taught you to drive?" she shouts out the window, slapping the crook of her elbow while letting off a litany of Russian swear words.

"Christ, Nat, don't make any more enemies for us while we're on our way to get another one," Clint grumbles.

Percy is trying to make himself seem as small as physically possible in the seat next to Clint, but it's not easy. He's all but crossing his legs to phase into the car door, gritting his teeth as they shudder to another stop behind an ancient car that definitely didn't pass any kind of inspection known to god or man.

He was never one for the silent treatment, his natural chattiness pushing him to fill the silence with endless talk, but with Clint in the car, his voice seems to be lodged in his throat. The silence puts him on edge and his mind begins to race.

"I don't think the killer is mortal," Percy says. "The things they keep leaving at every crime scene… they would need some kind of insider knowledge to even begin to understand what they're doing. They have to be a demigod."

"Never said they weren't," Clint replies.

"No, I know, but—" Percy feels frustrated before he even begins. "They could have mortals working with them, maybe. The mortal could be using the tech and following their specifications."

Clint looks out the window, thinking about Percy's words. "Maybe. Don't get in over your head with theories, Percy."

Percy curses under his breath. "I'm not . Fuck— Listen, the Greek is written so shittily, I don't know a single demigod that would fuck it up that badly. But if a mortal was writing it for them—"

"What did the Greek say this time?" Clint cuts him off. His features look very schooled to reveal no emotion; a forced sort of casual that veers into the uncanny valley.

Percy sits back against his seat sulkily. "None of your fucking business."

Clint rolls his eyes. "Don't be a child."

"A child?" He laughs. "You've been the one acting like a child since I came back."

Clint turns to look at him, the amusement in his eyes verging on cruelty. "You weren't supposed to come back. You made your intentions very clear. Or is your memory so shit that you forgot that the way you forgot me?"

That manages to shut Percy up. He gulps, casting his eyes downward.

"You will find no forgiveness, nor grace ," he says in a low tone. "That's what the Greek at the crime scene said."

Clint looks straight ahead, locking eyes with Natasha in the rear view mirror. She says nothing.

"Jason?" Clint murmurs.

Percy nods.

He's almost afraid of the answer, but he has to ask. "What happened between you two?"

It takes a moment before Percy can even bring himself to answer. When he does, his throat is close to closing up on him, his vocal chords seizing. There was a time during the past year where he didn't speak for months. Not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't . He had never experienced anything like that before and the thought of it coming back terrifies him.

That silence… if he isn't careful, it will swallow him whole.

"Dead," Percy says.

Clint clenches his jaw. "How long?"

"A year."

"So these deaths. They're about him?"

Percy shakes his head. "No. Not just him. The reference to him feels like a cheap shot."

"Alright." Clint nods, rubbing his chin.

"If we're going to do this, Clint," Percy looks over at him. "We need to call a truce. It can be as temporary as you like, but our issues can't get in the way of figuring out who killed these kids."

Clint stills. For a moment, Percy isn't sure if he'll agree to it, but after Natasha cusses out another driver trying to cut in front of them, he sticks his hand out for Percy to shake.

"Truce," He says and grasps Percy's hand. Clint's grip tightens and he pulls Percy close. "For now. Don't think you've been forgiven for what you did to me."

Percy refuses to bow to his intimidation. He shakes Clint's hand, a glint of something dangerous in his eye. "Truce."

—

The important things in the Tower were never on the normal floors. This is something Clint has to remind himself of as they descend into the depths of the place. He has a room somewhere in the building— Tony had made sure of that— but he very rarely used it. For all of its faults, the apartment complex he owns is home.

That, and he can never get used to the litany of AI that Tony has hooked up in every room.

"Mister Stark is in his workshop," JARVIS says in a calm and collected tone the instant they step into the elevator.

It makes Percy jump.

"Take us down, JARVIS," Natasha says.

"Of course, Miss Romanov."

The tension in the elevator is thick. Percy shifts from foot to foot.

"Did Stark answer anyone's calls this morning?" He asks.

Natasha shrugs. "He rarely does. Tony probably got wrapped up in whatever experiment he's working on and forgot to go to the crime scene entirely." She looks at him. "Why?"

Percy shakes out his hair. "No reason. I just— I have a bad feeling about this."

They find Tony in the middle of something that looks both dangerous and incomprehensible. Pieces of wire and metal are strewn about the workshop, steam coming from a variety of half-finished projects as they lay on tables. Tony Stark is in an impractical tank top, a welder's mask down on his face as he binds something together. Sympathy for the Devil blasts over the room's speakers.

"Stark," Clint says. Having not heard him, he tries again. " Tony! "

The music cuts out. Tony flips up the mask and turns to them with low-slung brows.

"What are you doing here, Hawkguy?"

Clint rolls his eyes. "We have a lead."

"On?" Tony gestures with his hand.

"On the second body," Clint says.

Percy steps toward Tony as he starts to open his mouth, his phone displaying a conversation he had with Tony just that morning.

"Did you send this to me, Tony?" He asks. He already knows the answer.

"No," He grabs the phone out of Percy's hand, scrolling through the short conversation. "I didn't even know you had a phone considering you fight with a damn sword. I thought you'd communicate via smoke signal or messenger pigeon."

"My pigeon's in the shop," Percy pockets his phone. He turns to Natasha and Clint. "We're going to need to trace who it was that sent these texts. They had to have access to our investigation, or at least the building."

Natasha crosses her arms over her chest. "A Stark employee."

"Or a SHIELD agent," Tony throws back at her.

"I—" Percy pauses, his ears picking up something from the other room. He looks at Tony. "What else is on this floor?"

Tony's eyes narrow. He wipes off his hands with a rag, getting up from the bench. "A server room, but—"

Percy's expression darkens. He pulls Riptide from his pocket and lets it grow to full size. "We're not alone."

He puts his fingers to his lips, slipping into a fighting stance as easily as breathing. Percy gestures for Natasha to go in the opposite direction of the sound, circling back around, while he and Clint went towards it. She nods, reaching for her gun.

"Stay here," he growls at Tony before disappearing through a side door.

The server room is dark, the only light coming from the gentle pulsing of the tech, the only sound the whirring of the fans. Percy is careful to control his breathing; the likelihood of whatever is in the room being monster or mortal was high and he doesn't want to be caught unawares.

He steps carefully. The first row of servers is clear, as is the next. They work their way through the labyrinth of the room until Percy sees a small flash of fabric. At the end of the room is someone in a dark purple sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over their head.

"Hey!" Percy calls out. The figure immediately bolts.

"Why the fuck did you—" Clint throws a hand into the air. He tugs off his suit jacket with a huff. "Let's go."

Percy caps Riptide and shoves it into his pocket. They dash through the server room and through a door that had been broken off its hinges. It leads to a set of stairs for the emergency exit. They had to be at least five stories underground at this point, but Percy launches himself up after the blur of purple.

Mortal or demigod, this person was fast . Clint and Percy are just barely keeping pace with them, almost within reach but too far away to catch them. It takes mere minutes before they exit through a side door leading to the outside.

Percy darts out of the building, Clint hot on his heels as they pursue the figure. The sidewalk is choked with people, but he spots the purple hoodie in the crush and pushes past the crowd, much to the chagrin of the pedestrians.

Shouts of outrage follow them in their pursuit, but it's all for naught when Percy crashes headfirst into someone.

"Fuck—" He swears, trying to regain his balance long enough to continue chasing the figure. Clint dashes past him and he hopes he can catch them.

"…Percy?"

He pauses. He knows that voice. Percy turns to see who he collided with and comes face to face with a ghost.

"It's good to see you."

A smile spreads across the face of Annabeth Chase.