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“Poseidon? Hey, you need to get to the hospital right now,”
“What? What for? Hestia, if this is you trying to trick me into – you know I’ve already signed off on the kid’s papers,”
“This has nothing to do with paperwork, Po. There’s been some kind of incident, I-I don’t know all the details yet but we're needed there, now ,”
“I…back it up, hold on. Is everything okay? 'Incident’? Wait, is Percy alright-?”
“As I said, I-I don’t really know all the details yet-,”
“I know you know something, you wouldn't sound like that if you didn't. Tell me nothing's happened to the kid...Tia?!"
“All I know is that he’s in surgery. Something’s happened and Percy is in surgery and the hospital’s been put on freaking lockdown or something. Just – Just meet me there. How soon can you-?”
“Fuck, ah, twenty minutes. No, ten. Surgery? Hestia, what the fuck-,”
“I know, I know. We’re going to figure it out, though. Together. Ten minutes, little brother,”
Poseidon had never driven so erratically in his life. He struggled to think of a situation that compared, but nothing came to mind besides the drive over to Thetis’s apartment to beat the shit out of her dickhead fiancé at her behest two years ago. And even that hadn’t been so…overwhelmingly panicked. As if there was a hand in his chest, squeezing and twisting his insides.
Something’s happened and Percy is in surgery. He’s in surgery. Why is he in surgery? Did something terrible happen?
Those words kept cycling through his mind, prompting Poseidon to keep his foot on the gas. His plates were almost certainly in the police systems after breaking so many speed laws. Not that it mattered, not that Poseidon cared. What he cared about was figuring out what the hell had happened to the boy who was son. Surgery, fucking surgery. Poseidon was wracking his mind for what this ‘incident’ could be, why the hospital was on lockdown, and if the facts were related. God, I fucking hope note. I'd rather him be ill - or, no, no I wouldn't. That's wrong. That's the wrong way of thinking. Shit, this is why I signed those damn papers.
To keep himself sane, Poseidon considered how the boy could have become so ill so suddenly. The last time Poseidon had seen him, he’d been fine - he’d looked like a kicked puppy, tears in his eyes and lip wobbling, but he’d been clinically fine.
I made him cry. He curled in on himself as if he was trying to hide, or trying to protect himself. From being beaten, again. He doesn't understand that I can't take care of a kid like him-
Shit, no, Poseidon wasn’t thinking about that now. He couldn't. He wasn’t bringing up all the guilt again, now wasn’t the time. Poseidon was selfish but not that selfish.
He skidded into a parking space haphazardly at the first opportunity (he’d find a ticket on his windscreen later for sure), leapt from his car and practically ran up to the hospital’s main entrance, dodging nosy journalists as he went. He scanned all the cop cars lining the street, not counting enough to feel his heart seize, but enough for his hackles to rise and for a few cops to shout at him as he hurried past. It was a good job Hestia had beat him here, standing as near to the entrance as she could with the tape cordoning it off for the time being, because he wouldn’t have been able to wait for her for more than two seconds. He was in the kind of mood to shove at anyone who tried to stop him on his current mission. Find Percy. Find out what happened.
His sister was talking to a cop on the other side of the tape and Poseidon wasted no time in inserting himself in the middle of it all. “What's happened?” he demanded without hesitation, glancing erratically between them. He wondered if he looked as wired as he felt, unused to this brand of concern that had flooded him. “Tell me, what’s-?”
“Take a breath and give me a moment, Po,” Hestia rested her hand on Poseidon’s arm, her touch soothing him in a way only she could manage, having had a lifetime of practice. He felt his shoulders drop, felt a breath whoosh free. Hestia nodded at the cop once and he took it as dismissal – giving Poseidon and his scruffy clothes (the basketball shorts he'd slept in, an ancient college hoodie and birkenstocks on his feet) a final glance before departing. Hestia sighed once he was gone, disappearing inside the hospital’s now-familiar waiting room.
Poseidon opened his mouth, preparing to speak again. I need to know, he wanted to say. You need to tell me-
“I was just getting some more detail for us,” Hestia began to elaborate, cutting Poseidon off before he even started. When she took Poseidon’s hand, Poseidon knew that the ‘detail’ wasn’t all good. And when her eyes began to water- “It’s not good, Po, I’m not gonna lie. I-I need you to hold yourself together-,”
Poseidon squeezed her hand, probably too tight. “You need to tell me, Hestia. Did he – just tell me it’s got nothing to do with all these cops,”
The moment he said those words, Hestia’s eyes responded. She looked very pale, gaunt, and somewhat afraid.
"Fuck,” she swore, which made Poseidon want to punch something. Hestia hadn't uttered a curse in years. “He was attacked, apparently,” she told him. “Stabbed,”
It took Poseidon a few moments to process; his brain, which had been in overdrive, shuddered to a gritty halt. “Percy?” he checked.
“Who else?” Hestia scoffed in a moment of uncharacteristic sharpness. “Yes, Percy,”
“Percy,” Poseidon repeated, hearing his own voice and lowkey admiring how mellow he sounded. “My Percy – little, innocent, already-hurt-enough Percy has been – has been stabbed?”
Stabbed. Stabbed. The word didn’t sound right or real, especially not connected to the boy's name.
Hestia wiped her eyes with her free hand. It was trembling. “That cop’s gonna find out what condition he’s in and see if he can get us inside with him, since the hospital's still turning visitors away from the whole department,” she said. “I’ve tried contacting his social worker again but she’s still not responding,”
"Right," muttered Poseidon.
Percy, he thought, picturing the little boy in his mind. Big green eyes, floppy black hair full of messy, askew curls; a shy smile that always made Poseidon’s gut clench and heart do a wobble. His tan skin was freckled all over his nose and cheekbones, reminding Poseidon of Sally; his cheeks were pudgy and babyish and were always a little rosy no matter the circumstances. He was small and fragile like a waif, his head barely coming up to Poseidon’s ribs if he were to stand. Which he didn't often, confined to a hospital bed after the horror which was his discovery.
Poseidon remembered holding his weight when he'd dragged him out of the icy waters of the Atlantic (miles from any civilisation, how'd he even get that far? How did he survive?). He remembered how his little body had fought admirably to pull through despite the low, low temperature and a difficult resusciation. Poseidon remembered how it had been comfortable to hold him, in a strange, foreign way - as if it were natural. He supposed now it made more sense, knowing of their relation.
Poseidon could even hear Percy's voice, clear as day, as if he was right next to him. It was usually soft but strong, calm and edged with that strange hybrid accent of Greek and something else which Sally had also spoken in. When he was nervous, which was often, it grew weak and shaky. Painfully so.
God. He’d been nervous around Poseidon all the time, always staring at him with those big, extraordinary eyes as if he didn’t know what to expect from him (but daring to hope-). By the time Percy had warmed up to him, that damned paternity test had come back (he’s mine, I have a child, this little boy is mine) and Poseidon had run away like a huge fucking man-baby. Because he couldn't do it.
Why am I still thinking about this?! He wondered, shaking himself. There was a familiar, bubbling feeling in his chest, hot and itchy and needing a release. My child’s been stabbed and I’m bemoaning about my own decisions and pain and guilt. Pathetic.
“Who did it? Who’d fucking stab a child?” he whispered harshly, his eyes searching the ground as if it would provide answers. “Especially that child. As if he hasn’t had enough fucking pain-,”
The words triggered something in Poseidon, a realisation as he breathed heavily and fought with the rising, trembling anger wanting to burst free from him. Percy’s voice echoed in his mind, soothing him a little even though his words were anything but soothing:
Mama…they killed my Mama, and she sent me away before they could kill me, too. They chased me down but I got away. I-I don’t think they’ll know where I've ended up...or, I hope.
When Poseidon met Hestia’s gaze again, he knew that she was thinking of the same thing. The murder of Percy’s mother (don’t think about her, don’t think about her-) had been a regular topic of conversation between them, both of them uncertain of what to make about it. They didn’t know how accurate the child’s recollection of those events was, after all, disorientated and lost as he seemed to be. There were no reports of a dead Sally Jackson in any system in the world (Hestia had called in a favour with Hermes to check for them-), there was no evidence or any other witnesses, besides a half-drowned child. They didn’t know how wary to be of the warning he was shyly giving under the guise of an explanation. He had basically said: they want me dead too, and they’ll come for me if they can.
There was no other explanation that Poseidon could think of – why else would someone stab a helpless child, if not because he had already survived one attempt on his life? He was a witness to what had happened to his mother and was a liability to...whoever wanted the two of them dead. Someone had tried to take him out.
“Who did it?” Poseidon repeated his question, voice harder, still surprised at himself for how easily he was holding himself together, holding in his rage amongst all the rest of his swirling emotion.
“I don’t know yet,” replied Hestia, staring warily at her brother. “Aren’t you, I don’t know…?”
“Oh, I’m not going to lose my mind just yet,” Poseidon assured her, knowing how oddly he was behaving. “I can wait. As soon as I know where to find the bastard,”
Usually, Hestia was the first to preach pacifism when her siblings threatened violence towards those who personally wronged them or their relations. She had kept Poseidon from countless fights throughout his lifetime – though he supposed none had rested on circumstances as bad as these. “Fair enough,” she murmured tightly.
Poseidon felt his lips quirk cruelly, letting his imagination run wild – thinking of all the things he’d enjoy inflicting upon his son’s attacker. It was a distraction for only a few minutes.
Then he heard Hestia’s sniffles getting louder and glanced down at his elder sister, only mildly surprised when he saw her barely containing her tears. She made of point of not meeting Poseidon’s gaze, which was all he needed to know. Hestia had always been the pillar of support in the family. When she wasn’t feeling up to the task of comforting, she looked away. She gnawed on her nails and stared at the floor, trying to act nonchalant, thoughtful.
Poseidon sighed and drew her to his chest, secretly thinking that this was his next distraction (and pretending that it wasn't equally comforting to him). Hestia hugged him back and sniffled more. Poseidon could only imagine the intensity of her pain; her heart’s capacity for love and care, especially for her family, was far larger than his. She was all their nieces and nephews’ favourite aunt.
Percy adored her immediately, Poseidon recalled distantly. And she doted on him. Calling him 'honey' and 'sweetie pie' from day one.
There was a feeling that had been growing in the centre of his chest since the moment he’d pulled the child’s limp body from frigid waters. The feeling stung now, rearing its head as if it were a sentient being – upset and enraged, mournful and guilted. Poseidon didn’t realise that he was biting down on the inside of his cheek until he felt a sting and blood on his tongue; he didn’t realise that he was trembling slightly until Hestia squeezed her arms around him, pulling back to peer up at his face. As she had before, Poseidon avoided her gaze.
“It’s okay to be upset,” she said softly.
Poseidon resisted the urge to step away from her and scoff and complain. He settled with a noncommittal grunt. “I’m disturbed,” he said. “He’s a child,”
“Your child. Your concern and fear for him is the most natural thing in the world, Po, trust me. You don’t have to hide it, especially not from me,” Hestia squeezed him again.
“I’m not…” Poseidon didn’t know what he was trying to say. He wasn’t concerned? He wasn’t afraid?
He didn’t deserve to be either of those things. He’d practically thrown this child away as if he were a terrible Christmas gift that he wasn’t pleased to acquire, getting rid of as soon as possible.
Percy had been on his own in the hospital since Poseidon had made his decision to sign away his parental rights. Only his new social worker saw him, apparently, as Hestia’s visits were limited greatly (stupid, ridiculous propriety and legality, honestly-). Percy had been alone, and someone had strolled into his room without trouble and stabbed him. Suddenly Poseidon was desperate to know the extent of the damage done to the boy – he needed to know exactly how guilty he should feel. Had he been stabbed just once? Just twice? Did it matter how many times? No one had been there to stop it. Poseidon hadn’t been there.
His anger rose again so Poseidon made the decision to step away from his sister. “How long does it take to find out some basic information?” he growled in irritation.
The next ten minutes were a cycle of Poseidon snapping, Hestia soothing, Hestia struggling to hold back tears and Poseidon robotically offering minimal comfort, because when Hestia was sad, you had to make her feel better. It was a family rule. He messed with his phone occasionally, being sure to send a text to Thetis to cancel any and all appointments or jobs that required his presence for the foreseeable future. He didn’t let himself type out any kind of explanation, like: I’m at the hospital, Percy’s been stabbed. To write it out would be…no. No. There was enough going on as it was.
Eventually, blissfully, a pair of cops emerged from the hospital doors and one of them pointed out the brother and sister. They strode over, and Poseidon met them halfway.
“Well?” he demanded impatiently. Hestia touched his arm.
“Miss Olympia, Mr Olympia,” the unfamiliar cop acknowledged. He looked like some sort of higher-up, a sergeant or whatever. He introduced himself as Smith and that was all Poseidon caught, his mind working and impatience getting the better of him. “If you’ll follow me, I can tell you what we know so far about the incident,”
They followed, Poseidon’s nerves grated at their steady, nearly leisurely pace. Into the hospital, through the waiting room, past some tape marking off another section of the crime scene and towards a nearby relative’s room. It made sense, Poseidon supposed, as the operating theatres were probably on the bottom floor. That meant he had to be nearby.
“Would you like some tea? Coffee?” Smith offered once the door was closed behind them.
“I want to know what happened to my son,” replied Poseidon, ever-more frustrated.
Hestia clucked at him, “Sit down, Poseidon, c’mon. We’ll both have tea if you don’t mind,”
The second officer left on his errand. Poseidon barely noticed. He forced himself to bend into a chair and sat with his arms propped on his knees, leaning towards this Smith guy. “Well?”
Smith sighed, at least seeming understanding. “I’ll just say it as it is,” Good, Poseidon nearly said with venom. “An hour ago, approximately, a visitor was given entry to the Percy Jackson’s private room after the child assured his social worker that he would be happy to see him – his social worker, a Mrs Janice Worthington, was absent on her lunch break at the time, so the child was alone with his visitor,”
“Well, that’s certainly breaking many regulations,” asked Hestia, her hand having taking Poseidon’s at some point. Poseidon bit back a sneer as she squeezed his fingers, still capable of silencing him without words like a little kid.
“From what we understand, only a few minutes passed before staff and patients reported hearing shouting and screaming in the room – the door to the boy’s room was locked, so it took a couple more seconds to gain entry,” the man’s expression turned grave as he spoke, and Poseidon’s heart-rate picked up, his mouth feeling dry and his skin unusually sweaty. “Bystanders pulled the attacker away and subdued him, while nurses and doctors examined the child. He was taken to theatre almost immediately,”
“What was the damage?” Poseidon asked furiously. ‘Immediately’ told him nothing good.
Smith frowned, looking apologetic. “I believe the current report is, ah…" he had to think about it. "Eight stab wounds,”
Had Poseidon been stood up, he would have staggered. Hestia sucked in a deep, shaky breath, “Eight…?!”
Poseidon had been thinking two at most. Surely, after stabbing a child even once, a man with any measure of humanity would stop and reconsider what he was doing. Surely. Especially a child such as Percy, young and wide-eyed and innocent-
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Poseidon gasped, wrenching his hand out of Hestia’s to cup his head when he let it fall. “Eight?! You’re fucking kidding me. No,”
He made the mistake of imagining it – little Percy, strewn across his hospital bed, drenched in blood and clutching his wounds and sobbing and begging and trying to writhe away from his attacker. It made him grimace and shudder, coughing to hide the hitching in his chest.
“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Smith spoke as if from a script. “From what I understand, Percy is currently in a stable condition. There was some internal damage, of course, but…nothing he can’t heal from,”
That made Poseidon turn his head like a whip, his foggy, red-tinged vision clearing subtly.
“You’re saying he’s going to be fine?” checked Hestia.
“Of course. I’m told only half of the wounds were on his abdomen, the rest,” Smith gestured vaguely to his arms and legs. “He is getting the best possible care, I promise,”
Poseidon didn’t know why he felt so relieved. They were still fucking stab-wounds, he was still in a critical condition even if he was stable. At least I’m not going to lose him, a voice in the back of his mind practically whimpered.
Another voice snorted. You were about to give him up, you selfish bastard. You were never to see him again and you were glad for the fact. Don’t act like you care now. Don’t act as if you’re suddenly a father.
When Percy had first been brought in to the hospital, he’d been attached for a heart monitor and a myriad of other wires and tubes for the better part of two, three days, to ensure he stayed in a stable condition after - after drowning, being rescusitated and being hypothermic all at the same time. The fact that he had bounced back from that so quickly had been extraordinary, and Poseidon had been glad for the kid. He'd had plans to stick around until the kid had a family to go to, so that this story could have a conclusion, but - but of course Hestia would go behind his back and order a paternity test. And, of course, Poseidon had never wanted to be a father, for selfish and selfless reasons. Poseidon chose not to take him in. He chose to leave him alone in this place.
Had he not done that – had he been more of a man and acknowledged his new responsibility, no matter how changing and threatening it felt – Percy wouldn’t be on the heart monitor again, nor attached to even more tubes. He'd already forgotten how fucking annoying the heart monitor's beeps could be.
Annoying, yet relieving. The beeps were all that assured him that his son was still alive.
He’d been left to enter Percy’s room alone, Hestia insisting that he should take his time or whatever. Poseidon had stepped through the door, closed it behind him, and moved no further. He couldn’t bring himself to.
Percy was in a new room, a new bed (the other was a bloodstained crime-scene). It was a nicer room and a nicer bed than the one he had occupied earlier, the least the hospital could do for the child they had practically forgotten about and allowed to be attacked by a random, unannounced visitor. Cops flanked the outside of the door, stationed there for the foreseeable future. Poseidon thought bitterly that it was a little late – the damage had been done and the child in the bed looked dead.
He’d also looked dead when Poseidon had pulled him out of the ocean, so it wasn’t as if it were something new to see. That scenario was different to this one, though. So very different. Poseidon hadn’t known that it was his child then, and drowning was far different from being repeatedly and visciously assaulted.
Percy looked smaller than Poseidon remembered, though it had been four days since he'd last seen him, and he was unusually still. His chest barely moved beneath so many wires and layers of gauze, bundled beneath sterile white blankets. His eyes were closed and his lids looked blue, his lips lilac, his veins showing beneath grey skin which had been recently scrubbed clean of blood. Poseidon was torn between staring at his young (too young, too small) face and the screen of the heart monitor, the sharp lines a clearer sign of life than anything being presented in the child. Torn between taking in the face of the child that had almost been taken from the world and the only assurance that he wasn’t as dead as he looked.
It took a long time for Poseidon to wrench himself away from the door, crossing the room. Slowly. As if the boy was a mirage and moving too fast would shift the air and disturb the illusion. Eventually he grabbed one of the two chairs sat in the room, hesitating before sitting it near the bed. But not too near the bed. Poseidon sat down and realised it wasn’t near enough. He inched it closer. Closer.
God, but it was embarrassing how long it took for Poseidon to bring himself to sit by his injured son’s bedside. And once he was there, he didn’t know what to do. What were fathers meant to do in a situation like this? He was sure this was something which didn't happen often.
He was back at the start of his original problem, he thought. Sitting near his sleeping, oblivious son and warring with himself at what to do, this was a familiar feeling. His options had been: run away or hold his hand. Poseidon had succumbed to the latter the first time around.
And never have I made more of a mistake in my life, he thought mournfully, feeling more anxiety and guilt than he had in years. His anger had boiled down into something deep and agonising. Melancholy. Taking Percy’s hand was suddenly the easiest thing he’d ever done.
It was holding on that became more and more difficult as the minutes dragged on. Poseidon began to worry that he was holding his hand wrong, readjusting his grip – holding Percy’s fingers in his, then turning his hand over so their palms touched, then threading their fingers together. Then he picked up his small, cold hand in both of his and cradled it carefully, mindful of the cannula. That felt right, the most gentle he could manage to be. Percy looked, and felt, so breakable. It was terrifying. Poseidon’s heart wouldn’t stop racing.
He dared to give Percy’s hand a little squeeze anyway, rubbing his small, cold fingers. They hadn’t warmed up in the time that they’d been sandwiched in-between his. It would have been more worrying had Poseidon not been told that he was still lacking blood. Though he and Hestia had readily offered their arms to be leeched of all he needed, apparently a transfusion had been deemed too risky. Some doctors or scientists or whatever were still puzzling over the blood samples they’d taken when he’d first been admitted; they worried about a haemolytic transfusion, Percy’s body rejecting any blood they tried to give him, even o-negative. The alternative involved pumping him full of nutritious liquids, growth hormones and iron, in the hope that his body would speedily replace its lost blood itself.
And it had better be working, Poseidon thought darkly, reaching to fix the blankets over his son’s torso. They’d given him special heated ones to keep his core warm (and Poseidon couldn’t help but think that it was an offensive, terrible shame that the boy still had no personal belongings). Eight stab-wounds and over a litre of blood lost…
The wounds were spread across his body; four in his stomach and side, two on one thigh, one on the other near his hip, one on his right shoulder. Some were deeper than others, some more like slashes than puncture wounds because Percy had been fighting so much. It was a miracle he hadn’t lost more blood than he had, that his most vital organs had been spared.
“He’s lucky,” Poseidon laughed bitterly, his voice barely audible. The mental image of this little boy writhing in his bed, screaming and crying, desperately trying to fight off such an attacker and losing… “Lucky! Pfft…”
He squeezed his son’s fingers again, closing his eyes and sighing. Sally…he thought, shaking his head a little. God, I’m so sorry, Sally. You sent him to me - making him take an odd route, but still - because he needed to be kept safe, loved, given a home. I may as well have told him to ‘fuck off’ and he almost died because of that. There was no one here to protect him.
“I’m not leaving now,” swore Poseidon, for all it mattered now. It wasn’t as if Percy could hear him, but the words came from him anyway. “I’m staying with you ‘til the end, kid. As I should have. I hope you won’t mind having an idiot for a father…It’s a good job we have Hestia, huh? And Thetis. To take care of you when I inevitably fuck up,”
Poseidon snorted at himself, rolled his eyes, and – at last – relaxed. Like the words, the promise, had been a weight on his chest and he was finally free of it. It wasn’t enough, of course. It was gonna take more than a few words to separate himself from the guilt of what he’d inadvertently done. So long as Percy was in this hospital bed, so long as he was weak and pale and marked by his attack, Poseidon wasn’t going to stop feeling totally responsible for all that had happened. And even after he’d recovered, he doubted the guilt would fade…
And that’s just on my side. It’s totally possible that Percy won’t forgive me, that he won’t blame me. I’m a presumptive bastard just being here when I tried to discard him before.
Shit, if that wasn’t a depressing thought. It made Poseidon feel so ill and heavy, he almost recoiled. Almost. The reminder of what had happened last time he’d done that – recoiled – lay in front of him, however, and so Poseidon held on this time. It was the least he could do. His first steps into being a proper man, a proper father, he supposed.
The thought was punctuated with an automatic gesture by Poseidon. He lifted himself out of his seat and leant forwards over his child’s broken body, reaching for his hair, brushing a hand through it. It was as soft as it looked, if a little greasy with the need to be cleaned (Poseidon pictured it damp and curly and his heart swelled fondly, adoring the image). Percy seemed to shift at the touch, the most movement he’d displayed since Poseidon had entered. He let out the slightest whimper, then leant a little forwards in his drug-induced sleep. The indication of pain made Poseidon grimace and soften his touch even more, carding his fingers through his hair until he seemed to settle down again. His little face didn’t appear as flat and lined with pain, he noticed.
Poseidon wondered whether Sally was so soothingly affectionate with Percy every time he was inflicted with injuries. The scars that already littered his very young body were a haunting indication of a very painful past.
This will be the last time he suffers as such. No one will touch him again, whether he hates me for leaving him or not.
Poseidon sat back with his son’s hand still in his, preparing to sit in vigil for the foreseeable future.