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If you had asked him five minutes ago how he felt about Hephaestus, Percy probably would have said that he didn't have any real beef with the volcanic god.
But that had been before his bronze bulls tried to set Percy's Prius on fire.
Muttering to himself about how unfair it was that these guys wouldn't even make a decent cheeseburger, Percy jerked the wheel again, diving across three lanes of traffic to avoid a spout of flame that would have turned him into the rotisserie chicken in a carbecue. He had successfully managed to avoid being roasted so far, but the closer he got to the city, the harder it would be to swerve all over I-495.
It was honestly kind of a miracle that the cops hadn't spotted him yet.
Rocketing through Queens, Percy chanced a glance over his shoulder. How were those things still gaining on him? He'd seen their speed in action once before, as a bewildered 13-year-old, and so he had known that outrunning them was going to be a challenge from the moment he realized what exactly was after him. But he had really thought that being able to jump in a car this time would have given him more of a head start than this.
He wasn't sure what the mortals were seeing - maybe a couple of guys in muscle cars trying to fuck with some poor schmuck in a Prius? - but he'd definitely prefer that they not see him, or anyone else, die in some kind of a fiery collision.
A tug in his gut reminded him that he was approaching the East River, and he frowned thoughtfully, worrying his lip between his teeth as he shot between two semi-trucks. Would he be able to harness the power of that river to take out the bulls, without also taking out the cars around them?
Traffic was starting to thicken, the way that it always did when you got closer to Manhattan, and even though it was almost 11PM, he knew it wasn't likely to get any better.
Percy grimaced, and put his foot on the floor as the bridge over the river came into view. If he wasn't driving like a maniac, or if there were less people around, he could probably (maybe) do it. But the thought of accidentally knocking some innocent family minivan into the river with a badly-aimed waterspout instead of the bulls made his heart twist. He needed a new plan, since it also made him feel sick picturing these things following him to his parents’ apartment.
He blew out a frustrated breath, thinking hard. The only thing he was coming up with right now was the idea of finding some deserted area between FDR drive and the river to pull over, so he could handle things the old fashioned way. It wasn't a great plan, but he didn't have a lot of time to come up with another.
Rumbling across the bridge, Percy gripped the wheel tighter and tried not to think about how long it had been since he had last faced an opponent like these ones. Now that he and Annabeth were settled into college in New Rome, most of his fights were exhibition matches, lessons, or just a convenient outlet for excess stress and energy - it had been a while since the stakes were as high as life or death.
It would probably have been helpful to have Annabeth here to bounce ideas off of, but he was happier that she had ultimately decided to spend one more night at Camp Half Blood, visiting with her siblings rather than with Percy's family. He hoped that this fight wasn't going to go badly for him, but if it did, he would always rather it be him hurt and maimed instead of her.
If he had ever had any doubt that it was him they were out to get (and he hadn't), it was confirmed when they careened after him as he drifted off of 495 onto FDR drive, still silently praying that no one would stop him. If he could just get to Thomas Jefferson Park, then he might have a chance. There was an old skate park there, right along the river, one that he had liked to hang out at in high school. It didn't have lights, so it was too dark at this time of night for it to be full of people.
Something must have been diverting the cops to other parts of the city, because somehow, he made it to the park without getting pulled over for his incredibly reckless driving. Skidding into a parking spot along a chain link fence, Percy killed the engine and dove out of the car, leaping over the fence and making a beeline towards the side of the skatepark closest to the river.
As he ran, he uncapped Riptide, swinging the blade around him so he'd 1) have enough light to see, and 2) draw the bulls to him, away from any mortals unlucky enough to be caught in their path.
A deafening metallic roar sounded from the direction of the parking lot, and Percy hoped the monsters wouldn't take revenge on the Prius when they saw he was no longer in it - it might not have been the coolest car ever, but it had always gotten him where he needed to go (against all odds), and he would hate to see it crushed and melted under bronze hooves.
But the bulls seemed to know their problem wasn't with their metal cousin, because a moment later they both came charging through the parking lot, through the trees, and through the chain link fence: headed directly toward Percy.
He could feel sweat break out on his forehead as they thundered forward, steam pouring from their nostrils and glowing red eyes swirling demonically. Putting his back to the slowly churning river, Percy took a deep breath and reached out, both with his sword arm and his powers. He was going to need to time this right if it had any hope of working.
The bulls cleared one concrete ramp, and started to stampede down into the main bowl of the skatepark. Percy, who stood on the lip above, watched, eyes narrowed, waiting, until…
Just as they reached the bottom and began turning to barrel up the sides toward him, he lifted his free hand, yanking tens of thousands of gallons of river water straight up into the air - before letting it crash down into the bowl, onto the heads of the unfortunate monsters.
Twin bellows of outrage reverberated from the brand-new concrete swimming pool, which became even angrier as Percy twisted his hand, willing the water to start spinning.
Clangs and crunches rang out as the creatures knocked into each other again and again in the swirling torrent, and steam as thick as fog rose as the heat from the bulls skin began to evaporate the water.
Percy winced as the boiling vapor rolled over him; he might have had unusual resistance to the unpleasant things water could do to a human body, but he was no longer as invulnerable as he once was, and that steam was hot.
A spark of electricity flickered in the depths of the steaming pool, and Percy gritted his teeth and kept the water spinning - if he could do it long enough to drown or short circuit whatever infernal engine was driving these stupid things, then he might actually be able to get out of this in one piece…
But that was really asking too much of his luck.
Without warning, there came a much larger boom from within his improvised trap. It was immediately followed by a blast of fire that, with his visibility obscured by searing steam, Percy was just a little too slow to dodge completely.
As the roaring wall of flame reached him, he instinctively threw himself backward, covering his face with his free arm and twisting to try and get away from the sudden inferno.
Some of the water that had been rotating madly beneath him seemed to leap up, cocooning him in a thin blanket of coolness that, in his dazed state, he didn't remember summoning. The water tried to absorb the worst of the blaze that engulfed him, but it wasn't a very substantial shield, and it evaporated away into nothing almost instantly.
The heat of the flames was so intense that it drove all the remaining moisture from the air around Percy's body. As he scrambled away from the explosion, he felt one side of his jacket catch fire, and one leg of his jeans catch on what was probably a twisted piece of rebar. Frantically rolling to try and put out his clothes only drove the sharp stick of metal further into his leg, and he let out a yell of pain as he felt hot, jagged metal pierce his shin.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the inferno seemed to collapse in on itself, flames sinking back down into the pool and dying with a wet hiss. Silence fell over the skatepark, broken only by the soft sound of a gust of wind rushing in, acrid with the scent of metal and smoke and oil.
For a moment, Percy just lay on the scorched concrete, curled in on himself and gasping for air. If that eruption of flame hadn't been the bulls’ death throes, he was in real trouble - he was still a little too stunned to catalog all of his injuries, but he knew he was hurt, and badly.
Slowly, so slowly, he uncoiled his limbs, trying not to scream. From the way the skin of his upper chest and shoulder cracked as he moved, he'd been burned there, maybe even as severely as he'd once been when he'd blown up Mount Saint Helens. Shakily, he looked down at his leg. His jeans were wet with blood, and he could feel his pulse pounding in his ears as the stain spread sluggishly down his calf.
Water. He needed water, ASAP.
And that meant taking a risk.
Crawling painfully to the side of the concrete bowl, Percy steeled himself, and looked down. Relief, strong enough to briefly make the pain recede, filled his mind and body. All that remained of the two bulls was a tangled hunk of bronze and wire, leaking some kind of dark fluid that looked like coolant into the residual water at the bottom of the pool. It seemed that that last blast of flame had been the bulls’ final act of defiance and revenge.
If he hadn't been so dehydrated, he would have spit on them.
Instead he frowned, trying to regroup and make his swimming eyes focus on the liquid. It was dark and smoky, and smelled terrible - definitely not the kind of water he wanted to use to heal himself.
Percy let his forehead rest on the rapidly cooling concrete and tried not to whimper. He needed to get water from somewhere, quickly - his pain-wracked body was starting to shake, which he knew was not a good sign.
Gritting his teeth, he took as deep a breath as he could, and tried to gather himself enough to pick up his head and take stock of his surroundings. Percy didn't generally have a lot of pride, but giving up now would make this a stupid, meaningless death - and if he had to die violently, he'd much rather go out in a blaze of glory, not a blaze of exploding bull parts.
And besides, he had promised his mom he'd be home by midnight.
Irritation at the dumb predicament he'd found himself in cleared his mind and sharpened his eyes, and he squinted at something promising looking across the park. Yes - a few hundred feet to his left was a rusty old water fountain, its spout already leaking clear water.
But was there any way he could make it there without help?
Pulling his knees up under him took more effort than it ever had in his life, and he grimaced and bit down on his tongue as he tried to rise on wobbly legs. They collapsed almost immediately, and Percy flopped back down onto his less-injured side with a groan. Well, that hadn't worked.
Time for Plan B: try to bring the water to him.
There was always a well of power within him, connected deeply to the waters of the world, but the reserves in it varied drastically - and right now, only a few inches of power seemed to bubble up as he reached down within himself.
It would have to do. As he sent out a weak burst of energy in the direction of the pipes he could vaguely feel beneath the concrete, Percy had to blink stars out of his eyes. This was way harder than usual - he typically blew pipes without even really thinking about it - and it was going way slower than he needed it to be going if he wanted to stay conscious.
When the top of the fountain finally popped off, and a torrent of water rushed toward him, there were black spots on the edge of his vision, growing larger with every second.
Sighing with exhaustion as the first splashes of water reached him, he closed his eyes woozily. Some of the tension in his tight muscles seemed to release as fiery pain slowly receded from his shoulder and the angry wound on his leg sluggishly began to clot.
He knew he should be grateful that he had this ability at all, but he healed so much slower now than when he'd been a kid. It was nerve-wracking to not know how long he'd need to lay in this ever-growing puddle before he'd be able to build up enough strength to limp back to the car. (And, even if he did manage to drag himself over to the Prius, how long would he be in any state to drive it?)
Percy swallowed painfully - still fighting the urge to to pass out - and curled up, resigning himself to waiting and hoping.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It was five minutes to midnight, and Sally Jackson's son still wasn't home.
Raising her mug of tea to her lips, she sighed, and set her book down over the arm of the chair she sat in. Paul would fuss at her for cracking the spine if he saw it, but she thought she could be forgiven a little book-maiming tonight.
Percy was an adult now, independent, self-sufficient, and rarely at home…but waiting for him to return never got easier.
She knew that most monsters ran from him these days, and the gods had (mostly) found other heroes to do their bidding, but the niggling fear that one day he just wouldn't come home didn't leave her.
That fear had been born the same day he was, from the first moment that had she stared into his swirling green eyes, held his tiny but oh-so-strong fingers, and heard his first unhappy wail. Her heart had cracked wide open, and never fully healed along the fault line - how could it, when she knew that her precious baby boy's very existence would be forever dogged by a thousand barely-seen and barely-understood threats? The long years had shown her that a better name for that fear was love, but no matter what she called it, it was terrifyingly all-consuming.
And on nights like these, wary nights, when Percy's lateness was making her well-honed and newly-reinvigorated mother’s intuition go haywire, it was almost too much to bear.
Restless, she got to her feet, taking her mug into the kitchen for a refill. She wouldn't be able to sleep until she saw him anyway, so what was the harm in another cup?
Just as the kettle clicked on, her anxious ears caught the sound of keys jingling, just outside the front door of their apartment. A smile broke out across her face involuntarily, and she glanced over at the clock on the wall. 11:59. If he'd still been a teenager, she'd have been teasing him for always having such difficulty removing his lips from Annabeth's.
But it seemed to be taking him longer than usual to get the door open, and Sally frowned, smile fading uneasily. She set her mug down as she heard the key finally turn in the lock and the door creak open. As it shut with a loud snap, she stepped into the hallway…
And into a scene out of her earliest nightmares.
Slumped on his side against the door was Percy, who had clearly used up all of his remaining energy just getting across the lintel. He was dead white, covered in blood, and a strangely metallic smoky smell clung to him as he stared dazedly up at her.
Sally didn't remember running down the hall toward him, but she must have, because she was cradling his tight face in her shaky hands.
“Percy, baby, what happened?” She whisper-yelled, dropping to her knees on the now-ruined carpet next to him. She couldn't see where the bleeding was coming from, and that was making her horror turn to uncharacteristic panic.
“Tauroi khalkeoi,” he mumbled, head lolling exhaustedly into her hands, “Two of ‘em chasing me. Turned a skatepark into a swimming pool and trapped ‘em it in. But got caught in the blast when they blew up,” he finished, voice so weak it was barely audible.
Sally had been trying to take inventory of his appearance and injuries while he'd been talking, especially since he kept sliding in and out of Ancient Greek, and she noted the ugly burns spreading up his chest and onto his left shoulder. The clothing that had been there had been burnt away, and the sodden fabric that still remained on his body reeked of smoke and blood and cooked flesh. The blood seemed to be mostly confined to one leg of his jeans, and though he was holding that leg very gingerly, she was relieved to see that it didn't seem to be actively bleeding anymore - probably, she figured, because he'd been able to get himself to some water afterwards.
She shuddered, trying not to think about what would have happened had there not been any nearby.
He tried to look up at her again, eyes glassy. “Sorry about the mess, Mom,” he whispered, sounding miserable.
Sally wanted nothing more than to pull him into the tightest, most strangling hug she could, but she knew that would only hurt him, so she pressed a gentle kiss to his sweaty, sooty forehead. “Who cares about the mess?” she whispered back. “You're alive, baby.”
A tiny smile barely lifted one corner of his mouth. “More or less,” he mumbled, eyes closing. “Might need to just…sleep here though.”
Sally bit her lip and spun on her knees, trying to see if there was any way she could lever her son to his feet. But he was a tall, fully grown adult man, and while having another child had renewed some of her stamina, she had always been a small woman. She was going to need help. Frowning, she patted his feverish face gently, trying to get him to open his eyes.“Oh no you don't, mister. Let me get Paul, and we'll get you to the shower.”
She didn't know if it was the patting or the mention of Paul, but his eyes opened groggily, slivers of washed-out green. “No, don't wake him up,” he whispered, reaching out a trembling hand that Sally tried to squeeze reassuringly before turning toward their bedroom.
Paul was in bed, happily munching on something that looked a lot like one of the cookies she'd baked earlier for Percy, and he started guiltily as she flung the door open.
But that guilty expression morphed into concern as he took in her wide eyes, and he immediately rolled out of bed, ready to move. “I heard Percy come in. Is something wrong?” He asked, smile-lined face suddenly sober.
Throat tight, she nodded and grabbed his arm, pulling him out of the room and down the hallway. He went without complaint, and it was nice, she thought - a little frantic, but mostly grateful - to have a partner who was always willing to jump into action, without her having to say anything at all.
It was also a good thing that Estelle was a heavy sleeper, because there was no way that they were going to be able to move Percy quietly.
Paul swore, briefly and viciously, under his breath, as he saw Percy. Like Sally, he immediately dropped to his knees next to his stepson, whose eyes had shut again. “Percy? Hey buddy, can you hear me?”
Percy's eyes flickered open again, their usual vibrant green cloudy and bloodshot. “Mmmhmm,” he mumbled, before closing them again.
Sally's heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest, but outwardly, she was doing her best to stay calm. She knew that panicking would only make this already awful situation worse, and honestly, this wasn't even close to the worst situation they'd been in together. “Paul,” she whispered, reaching across her son's limp body to grab her husband's hand. “We have to get him to the bathroom.”
Percy mumbled something that vaguely sounded like “Don't wanna move,” but Sally just shushed him, stroking her other hand across his damp curls.
Paul nodded, looking nervously determined. “How should we do this?” He whispered, looking slightly sick as he stared at all of Percy's cuts and burns.
“Quickly,” Sally said grimly. “Before he passes out and can't help us.”
Paul grimaced, but nodded again, eyes narrowing as he carefully inserted himself between Percy and the door, lifting Percy's less injured arm. Even that tiny movement was enough to make the demigod groan quietly, and Paul murmured an apology. “Sorry, Perce. Can you put your arm around my shoulders? We need to try to get you on your feet, but I don't think I'm strong enough to pick you up on my own.”
Percy's eyes cracked open again. “You could just leave me here,” He whispered, almost breathless.
“Not a chance, sweetheart,” Sally responded firmly, but gently. “Lean on Paul. I'm right here.”
For a moment it seemed like Percy was going to protest again, but pain and exhaustion had taken all the fight out of her spitfire son. She saw him take a deep breath, before turning his head to bite down on the hood of his sweatshirt, which had fallen over his unburnt shoulder.
(Sally hated that she knew what he was doing, but she hated even more that he'd obviously done it so many times that it was second nature to him.)
Squeezing his eyes shut, he obeyed her, leaning into Paul - who wrapped his other arm around his waist - as he got his knees under him. “I'm going to stand on 3, Perce,” Paul said softly, sympathy and concern etched into every line on his face. He looked up at Sally, who interpreted that quick glance as a plea for help.
Shuffling forward on her knees a little more, Sally gently reached out and got a firm hold on the belt at her son's waist. “I'm going to hold you steady, honey,” she murmured. “Ready?”
Sweatshirt still in his mouth, Percy nodded, looking even paler.
“1…2…and 3,” Paul grunted, staggering as he pushed himself and Percy to their feet. Sally, holding onto her swaying son as tight as she dared, bit her lip as she heard a muffled, choked-off whimper of distress. She hadn't heard him consciously make that sound since he'd been a very young child, and memories threatened to pull the cracks in her heart open wider.
Moving down the hallway was a slow and awkward process, and it took long enough that Sally was grateful that she'd never let Paul talk her into moving into a bigger apartment. Mercifully, Percy was still alert enough to support some of his own weight, but all three of them were sweating and gasping by the time they made it to the bathroom door. Sally loved her husband dearly, but Paul was no weightlifter, and it had been many years since she'd last been able to carry her son.
Worried about the state of both of the men in her life if they kept this up much longer, Sally released Percy and darted inside to pull back the shower current and twist the tub faucet on.
Diving out of the way as Paul all but dragged Percy over to the bathtub, she stood on her tiptoes to reach the very top of their medicine cabinet, where a very specialized first aid kit lived. Estelle was still too young to understand why she couldn't eat something as deliciously brownie-like as ambrosia, so the small stock of godly food that they kept for demigod emergencies had to be stashed out of reach of her grabby little hands.
Sally couldn't remember the last time they'd had to use it, and her overactive heart seemed to skip a beat as the lid flipped open to reveal a box only half full. Shit. Would that, combined with the water, be enough? It would have to be.
Biting her lip, she turned back to Percy and Paul. Her husband had gotten her son perched on the edge of the tub, but Percy was so limp and shaky that he hadn't yet stepped away, ruddy face and tired eyes worried.
“Paul, let's just put him in the tub,” she decided, dropping the box on the tank of the toilet as she stood to help.
Paul frowned dubiously as he compared the length of the tub to the length of Percy's long legs. “He's not going to fit.”
A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled up within her at the image of her college boy squeezed into a bathtub like an oversized toddler, but she held it in. “No, not completely, but at least it'll let him lay down.”
Percy mumbled something that she didn't catch into his sweatshirt as she and Paul helped him swing his legs over the chipped porcelain, before biting down hard with a pained hiss as he slid more fully into the tub.
Paul was, unfortunately, right: in order to lean back on the slanted end of the tub, he had to draw up his knees, one of which bowed out of the bath. Neither of his arms fit very well either, which really only enhanced the image of misery he presented.
“Come again?” Paul said, leaning down.
Percy's eyes had shut again when his head hit the tile, but now he spit out his sweatshirt and cracked them open. “I think I’m double parked,” he said hoarsely.
“Don't worry about that right now, baby,” Sally murmured absently, dragging another, more conventional first aid kit out of the medicine cabinet to supplement the limited supply of ambrosia. “We can move it later.”
Percy's eyes were becoming more alert as the tub slowly filled with water, and he frowned. “I can't afford the ticket, Mom,” he mumbled, avoiding her eyes. “And I really can't afford for it to be towed.”
Sally paused her perusal of the gauze and neosporin to catch his eye. He was already red from the fire, but if anything, he got a little redder. Sally held his gaze for a minute, hoping that, even in his pain-wracked state, he was getting the message she was trying to convey: this wasn't the moment to discuss it, but if he and Annabeth were having trouble with money, they could always ask for help. Percy swallowed hard, but nodded, so she kept silent.
Paul rested a hand on his unburnt arm gently. “I'll go move it, Perce,” he said quietly. “You need anything else?”
“Thanks,” he whispered. “Uh. We should probably call Annabeth,” he said miserably, in the tone of a man who knew his girlfriend was probably going to be unhappy with the situation that he'd found himself in.
Sally suppressed another smile. She was relieved by the color that was returning to her son's cheeks, and by his ability to speak and reason coherently. He wasn't out of danger yet, but she was pleased that his eyes were clearer.
Paul nodded gravely. “Should I start by saying that you're still alive?” he asked, getting to his feet. Percy snorted softly, and Paul seemed to take that as a yes. “I'll be back in a bit.”
As he slipped out the door, Sally took his place next to the bathtub, and Percy's hand. He leaned his head into hers, and for a long moment, they sat silently, the only sound Percy's slowly-becoming-less-labored breathing and the water running from the faucet.
It was oddly peaceful, the way it always had been between them, no matter what was going on around them.
But then the glint of the ambrosia from the box in her lap caught Sally’s eye, and she stirred. “Okay baby, time for some medicine,” she murmured.
Percy side-eyed her. She held up the ambrosia, and his expression cleared. “Okay, that I'll take,” he muttered. “As long as that's all it is.”
Sally fixed him with a look as she handed him a square. “If Annabeth thinks we need to do something other than give you ambrosia and have you sleep in the bathtub tonight, then I'll be taking her advice over your protests, baby.”
Percy pulled another face as he chewed, but as he did, the angry red and black of his chest and shoulder seemed to get lighter. The charred smell seemed to be lessening too…or maybe she was just becoming nose blind.
“No buts, young man,” she continued, forstalling any complaints by picking up a washcloth and wetting it. “Hold still.”
Percy sighed, but leaned back against the tile and submitted to her gentle hands washing the soot and blood from his face and arms. Since she was being careful not to pull at any of his healing injuries, it was another slow process, and she could see he was starting to get dozy again. This time, noting how relaxed his tight muscles were becoming, she let him be.
An old memory, awful at the time but fond now, surfaced from somewhere warm and murky in her mind. Percy had only been five years old, and he'd had his first run in with something that…probably hadn't been human. He'd been crying on the edge of the bathtub, his skinned knees and scratched face almost overshadowed by the wide-eyed terror in his gaze. Sally had done her best to soothe him, body and soul, and he had clung to her, confused and hurting, but sure that he'd find what he needed in her arms.
A soft snore shook her out of the moment, and a tiny smile lifted one corner of her mouth. At some point in her rhythmic cleaning, Percy had gone from dozing to truly sleeping, and his head had fallen onto his shoulder, trapping her hand beneath it. His breaths were soft and even, and the lines of pain on his forehead, while still present, were well on their way to smoothing out.
Her smile widened, and she made herself comfortable, unwilling to wake him by freeing herself. The terrified young mother that she'd been didn't know how to be afraid and smile anyway. The seasoned mother that she'd become knew that that was the only way to live with a heart that the world was constantly breaking. As long as he kept coming home for her to hold and to heal, as he fell asleep, then she could live with the cracks.
Or, rather, as they fell asleep.
“Percy, you'll be happy to know that Annabeth is on her way to make sure I wasn't lying about you being alive…” Paul stopped in the doorway, soft voice cutting off abruptly as he took in the scene before him.
He smiled, and silently stepped out, shutting the door behind him as he strode down the hall toward the linen closet.
It looked like they might need some pillows.