Chapter Text
Sally Jackson is crawling out of a small, shitty gas station window in its shitty restroom with a four month old for what feels like the hundredth time because of the monster no one sees in the store when she thinks to herself—
I should have taken his offer.
Immediately, she hates herself for it.
Sally Jackson refused a life under the sea, an immortal life with a god because she likes the way crappy gas station walls dig into her skin when she tries to climb them; she hates it because it hurts (her shoulder blade digs into the corner between wall and window) but she loves it because its a reminder of the heart the pulses behind her ribs. (Sally grits her teeth when her back decides to protest). It reminds her that she only has so long here, on this earth and that that's what makes the time she has all the better.
To her, living is a privilege, a wonderful privilege. To a god its a given.
Sally Jackson refused immortality because the thought of never dying scared her. She refused immortality because she loves the way the wind rustles leaves on trees and cheap gummy bears at CVS. She loves having a cup of tea in the morning with too much sugar. She loves her creaking bones, the way her skin stretches and changes with age—a map of her life—and talking to random people at the store because they're buying the same thing.
loved might be a better word, though. Because after him, after the boy in her arms, she hasn't been able to enjoy what she loves about living.
With the sinks help Sally gets one leg over the window. The edge of it is uncomfortably sharp but if she goes any lower she'll bump his little head. Sally twists and her anger roils as she's forced to squash her hand against the rough, jagged concrete of the window sill and her own body weight so she doesn't drop the baby in her arms.
The baby that every monster in a five mile radius wants to eat.
"You're more work than your worth." She mumbles into his wispy hair; her attention solely on the ground that's—frankly—too far away.
He has a name; legally. Somewhere back at her apartment sits a piece of paper with it stamped upon it: Perseus.
The thought makes her sick and Sally swallows. Perseus, because rarely did demigods meet kind fates. Perseus, because it's a strong name and this boy needs to be strong if he wants to survive being a broken oath. Perseus, because Sally thought he would be her little hero.
She remembers the way she thought she would love him.
Sally lands on one foot and stumbles when her ankle twists. She curses but she's already out of the alley and speed-walking down the block.
"Perseus." She says; and it's a confession, a sin. It's the ache in her very being. "You had better be worth it."
She's going to have to move, isn't she?
𓈒𓂃⠀˖⠀🜲⠀˖⠀𓂃𓈒
Two more months, a new apartment that has probably seen more than one crime, and Sally finds that the stench of smoke and alcohol and anything horribly strong will hide her because she takes up a waitress job at a bar.
The owner lets her keep Percy in the back. She checks on him every ten minutes. He's a fussy baby, wakes at the slightest sounds and wont sleep unless everything is quiet. But in the same breath he's a silent thing. Never makes noise when he doesn't have to. He never draws attention if it can be avoided. Sally pushes aside her fear at his behavior in favor of relief.
If he were a loud baby then they'd be dead ten times over.
She is horribly aware of the fact the monsters—and divine beings—are sensitive to scent. She herself, as a clear sighted mortal, is partial to the smell when it's extremely strong. As in a dead body fermented in the sun for days with rotten yogurt strong.
Sally hadn't truly known about it until Poseidon explained it to her. Even without such an explanation she has been the subject of far too many monsters interest lately to doubt their tracking ability.
So when she's cleaning up a table and sees two men with one eye and sharp teeth her heart clenches. At their feet sits a black hound with red eyes and a bright orange vest that says in bold letters: SERVICE DOG.
Is that dog legal? She thinks before her brain registers the three monsters a room and a half away from her baby. Her baby that smells like a delicacy to them.
Sally feels the blood drain from her face and her expression school itself.
She ends up having to serve them.
The worst part is that they're better than some of her other customers. They ask nicely for drinks and burgers and the entire time Sally has to force her hand not to shake so she can write down their order.
Don't notice me. She pleads. Her eyes shifting from each of their faces, desperate for any sort of tell to tell her that shes been caught. Don't notice him.
"I'll have the double patty, bacon. Wiiiith… cheese!"
Sally scribbles something that's more hieroglyph than letters. If you like burgers why the hell do you eat kids?
The hound inhales.
Sally feels her muscles lock.
It sneezes.
She stutters away like a robot and gives them their drinks with a smile that hurts her cheeks. As she waits (like prey waits for predator) for their order to be finished Sally busies herself cleaning tables.
Her heart thunders in her chest and she has to bite her lip and shake her head to keep herself from checking on Perseus.
Don't don't don't. You've been lucky so far, woman. Don't test it.
Still, her eyes wander to the closet the manager lets her set him up in. It's illegal; most definitely. If CPS were here they would take one look at her, one look at Perseus, and take him away in an instant. The thought both relieves and stresses her out all at once.
Sally didn't ask for him. She did not ask to carry this burden. She did not ask to be hunted for something entirely outside of her control and she hates every second of it. She hates herself for the anger she feels when she looks into little sea green eyes and she hates herself for not thinking ahead.
She refuses to fail him.
Jesus. A god. What was she thinking? Sally, like every other public school kid, has read Greek tragedies since middle school!
My fault. My mistake. Her brain murmurs. My responsibility. The murmurs turn into chants every time she looks at him. At the baby.
The service hell hound boofs. A lady with star earrings asks if she can pet it. They let her.
Sally all but jumps out of her skin when Gary, who works at the desk, signals the food is ready.
With a forced steadiness Sally flits to their table—ignores the puddle of saliva the hell hound pools onto the floor—and hands out the food.
"Double cheeseburger with bacon?"
A predator's teeth flash. "Here; thank you."
Die. Sally thinks as she smiles and plops a warm burger basket in front of him. Choke on a piece of bacon and die.
The other one politely takes it from her hands. He winks at her.
A titter of a laugh claws from her closing throat.
Sally waves at them as she hurries off to the kitchen. When she reaches it she feels like she's just barely managed to dodge the snapping jaws of a beast.
Sally brushes past the cooks and fumbles with the knot on her apron and throws it at the hook. She doesn't bother to see if it lands.
"Bathroom." She breathes out as she slips by confused faces.
Sally enters the staff bathroom—double checks the lock—and slumps against the sink with trembling arms as her stomach heaves. Her knees wobble mid gasp. The world narrows.
A strained, choked sound escapes her as she struggles down bile and food. Her throat is clogged with it.
She inhales and forces her head up to wipe at the tears that dare to leak past the customer service smile she wears like a weapon.
The mirror—when she manages to look at it—shows a harried woman with teeth bared in a strained smile and a red, blotchy face that shines against the white light. Violently, her chest stutters up and down as she strangles sobs and forces down air.
It takes a long moment before she manages to gather herself.
When she does, her legs take her back to the kitchen, though she hesitates to open the door. When she does her skin prickles with her hackles.
Like a wounded warrior huddled behind a shield Sally peeks out from behind the wall that separates the kitchen from the counter. Her pupils dart around like scared fish in the pond of her eye.
Gone. Sally's nails dig into her palms. They're gone.
Or they could be waiting outside for her. It would be stupid of them to cause a scene in somewhere so crowded.
She chews at her thumb.
Quickly, with the grace of a spooked deer, she hurries back into the kitchen and into Percy's little abode. It's small and holds as many boxes as it does cobwebs. Sally leans over the little travel crib she had found at a thrift store and there, bundled like a hastily made burrito, lays Perseus.
He's sleeping.
Sally blinks.
He only ever slept when he was one hundred percent certain he was safe. Meaning he only ever slept when he was in their little apartment a few blocks down with Sally a few feet away.
He only ever lightly dozed at the bar. An oddity that she has been willing to write off.
Hesitantly, Sally picks him up. He does not wake as he normally would.
Ignoring her inner turmoil Sally turns on her heel and—without any notice to any of her superiors—exits the bar.
Just as she's passing the alley next to it (her hackles still raised to run at the slightest provocation) a voice calls out.
The monsters voice.
"Oh! miss!"
Despite herself, Sally freezes. Her head whips towards the source.
In the alley rests the three monsters. The service hell hound wags its tail from its place on the ground between them. One monster has a lit cigarette in his lips and his eye on her. The other holds his cigarette between his clawed fingers and brandishes his free hand.
Sally's bones jolt with the need to run. Her feet remain planted in place.
"Huh?" She manages over the internal argument shes having with her frozen legs.
Perseus slumbers on. Unaware of the danger. She envies his obliviousness.
The monster waves his free hand and Sally's vision focuses on the dollars in it.
"Forgot to give you a tip." He grins. Not kind. But not malicious.
Sally's thoughts return to her when the door to her apartment slams closed and the lock clicks into place.
On autopilot she places Perseus into the wicker crib she had thrifted. She sets the tea kettle on the stove and sits down before she lets her thoughts take the stage.
A ten dollar bill sits, sweaty and crumpled, in her fist.
They didn't smell him. She thinks, still slightly spiraling. Her eyes flash to the wicker crib. Perseus lies still, his breathing even. He didn't smell them.
If Sally didn't know any better she would write the monsters off as a stress hallucination.
It's when she's reflexively inhaling the plain smell of her tea, crumpled bill forgotten on the floor, that it hits her.
Oh. Sally blinks. Steam whispers onto her face. Scent can be covered.
.
.
.
Why didn't I know that?