Rated: T, for pretty obvious reasons.

Trigger Warnings (TW): Mentions of medication, swearing, disturbing thoughts, Percy being just too adorable for words, blood (but not necessarily gore), possibly panic attacks, and the usual innuendos that come with Poseidon being a total asshat with a thing for vagina among other sexual organs.

Pairings: Canon Olympian pairings, ones that go along with the original mythology—such as Hera/Zeus. There'll be some implied stuff, of course, like past Poseidon/Sally, past Athena/Poseidon, but it's mainly focused on Poseidon and Percy's father-son relationship. We'll see where it goes from there.

Spoilers: None, as far as I know.

Beta: Daughter of Apollo 14

Disclaimer: Don't own jack, man. But Riordan definitely owns my soul.

Chapter Eight: Chimera

Six months later.

It was a dreary morning, like every morning, and Percy tumbled off his bed and onto the floor in a twist of childish limbs. His already skinned knee slammed down on the hard surface below him, and his worn teddy bear protested with a furious squeak as it smacked against a wooden floorboard. Stars danced and shifted over his head, and it took a few bleary moments (only five minutes or so, honest) to realize that it was not the sky above him but his comforter writhing with his struggles to disentangle himself. He kicked off the covers with an embarrassed huff. That's the second time this week, he thought.

The world, he notes, looked to be a multicolored blur around him, made up of nothing but various blues and vague shapes. He blinked the sleep from his eyes. Percy waved at the gaping mouth and floating body hovering by his windowsill. The figure garbled a low greeting and wiggled its fingers made of intertwined snakes in response. The snakes also hissed out a "hello", or possibly a "you're looking extra tasty today, Percy". Also like every morning, yet Percy still couldn't quite discern what the snakes were trying to say. The severed hand resting on his nightstand, blackened with decay, handed him his glass of water with a well-practiced flourish.

"Thank you," he said and took a large gulp. Wrinkling his nose, he set the glass back down: it tasted metallic, like blood. But it did wake him up, and he found himself more alert than he was before the sip. In a practiced motion, he looked around his room. He saw his Captain America posters and all his old toy soldiers lining his windowsills; the dream catcher hanging above his head swung to-and-fro without wind. Percy padded to his bathroom with a tiny, satisfied grin. Nothing was smashed or broken, and for once, his eyes did not sting from the ever insistent Sandman begging him back to bed. That was not like every morning: it was the antithesis of every morning. Possibly every morning's arch nemesis.

The nightmares that he once had were gone, that's true, but it's rare that he gets a full night's rest.

He snagged a pair of jeans and a few other garments from his closet, ripping them from their hangers and pointedly ignoring the guilt that he will later feel at wrecking the room his foster father had helped him clean. A few of the hangers had fallen to the floor. He'll clean it later before Chiron can find out, he promised himself. The walk from his bedroom to the bathroom was a short trip, and his feet followed the routine they'd mapped out months ago with ease. His mind elsewhere and his head stuffed with cotton, he absentmindedly walked past the goat-legged man chewing through his old comic books. Percy considered himself way too old for those anyway. It's fine.

The bathroom was as spotless as ever: Chiron always made sure of that. The towels were folded into swans. Percy glanced up at the cream-colored ceiling and prayed for patience. That man. He ended up using one of the swans to wash his face, and if he left it crumpled up in the sink once he was done, where it looked sad and defeated, it was only because it looked at him funny. After brushing his teeth, he put the clothes he had tucked under his arm, unconcerned with tthe time. Chiron would be upset if he walked out of the house covered in suspicious stains.

Chiron would make a good dad.

He pointedly doesn't look into the mirror until he's layered on two tank-tops and a baggy sweater. Running his fingers through his hair, he squinted two inquisitive green eyes at his reflection. If he didn't brush his hair, Chiron'd probably notice. Percy shrugged at his mirror self. Nah, Chiron will let it slide. Then he slapped on some of his foster dad's aftershave on his cheeks—the woodsy kind he'd stolen from Chiron's bathroom cabinet—just because he could.

That, and it made him feel pretty darn cool.

When his socked feet pounded down the steps, he nearly tripped on the last step. The mouth-watering smell of extra-cheesy scrambled eggs and ham beckoned to him. Chiron greeted him with a warm smile and arms opened for a hug. And Percy's heart sank to his feet.

"Breakfast?" The man in the wheelchair asked. His beard was trimmed to be extra neat today, and Percy dimly wondered what the occasion was.

"No," Percy said and felt awful. "I should get going." It was a school day; Conner and Travis and Luke were either on their bus or already in their first class of the day. He ignored the arms outstretched to him, and they lowered, wilted really. Chiron's smile became a tad forced.

"What about the bus?"

"I'm gonna walk." He then snatched half a bagel right as it popped out of the toaster, shoved it down his throat, and went to march out the front door. A lady with one eye in the middle of her pretty face tossed him a jacket, and he mouthed a thanks to her. "Bye," he called. Then he walked away. He tried not to think too much.

See, the thing was, since he stopped taking his medicine, his life was a constant teetering between better and worse.

The strange creatures did not vanish: no, not at all. The whispers turned to screams, and the shadows turned to looming figures. It was a gradual thing, like slowly turning up the radio volume in the car until everyone's eardrums buzzed. Everything was intensified, and Percy's mind fizzed with a thousand different thoughts, each passing before he could blink, leaving only imprints behind. The shadows grew loud and Rachel's eyes took on a permanent green cast.

It was a sensory uproar, and he might've been drowning in the new feeling of everything, everything at once.

Men had goat legs and women bared their fangs. Boys made of sand scraped their hands across his skin to leave friction burns. Scary monsters leered at him in class and ripped giant gashes in his clothes, in his skin. It was a constant thrum of activity, and it swirled around him in a synchronized dance. Maybe ballet or ballroom.

It was odd. The dreams stopped almost immediately, thankfully—almost as if they'd been meant to entice him into believing, nothing more. He no longer saw the long brown hair or snapped neck. At least, he did not catch his mother in anything more than quick, flashing glimpses. It's not her, it's not her, you know it's not her—

No longer did he need nightmares to see them. Percy knew they were real. They could touch him, not only when he was asleep, when it was impossible not to believe in them, but also while awake, and others could see where they had left their marks. Grover saw the claw marks on his wrists; Rachel caught a glimpse of the bruises on his throat, where pretty ladies with their snake eyes would press their lips into the junction where his shoulder and neck met before he could flinch away. ("What a pretty boy!")

Sweaters were a godsend, probably.

To his astonishment, he found they were a lot like him. Just kids. When Percy became mad—and boy, did he—they noticed, and before he had time to process, they'd pout like little children and melt into shadow and vapor. It's only then that he could not see them, but that didn't mean he didn't know they were there. Their presence clung to his skin. Sat at his scratched up desk in school, he could feel them out in the playground, climbing the monkey bars and pushing each other on swings. It was disorienting at first, but usually, the monsters wanted to be seen. The disappearing act displeased them. When Percy had ignored them for too long, they grew restless and bitter, pulling at his hair and whining to play.

He arrived at school early and sat outside on one of the benches near the front entrance, scratching in a distracted manner at the long series of scabs on the inside of his tanned wrist. The monsters still loved to scratch. That hadn't changed.

He could handle all that, though. That wasn't an issue. A little pain never hurt anyone, and while their constant seeking him out was obnoxious, it could definitely be worse.

The problem was that Percy couldn't touch anyone.

It was a slow development: a realization that triggered a series of events he couldn't put a stop to.

He'd hugged Conner once, to thank him for reminding Chiron to pick up his favorite blue Kool-Aid powder packets. He'd wrapped his skinny arms around his waist with a stream of "thank you, thank you, thank you", and he'd seen the older boy's eyes widen. Percy watched as his gaze settled on something just beyond Percy's shoulder, recognized his shock and horror as he'd pulled back from his surprise embrace. Percy had let go quickly, seeing the boy's mouth open to let out a loud shriek.

He'd watched Conner blink when his touch had left him, watched his eyes lose focus. Watched him shake his head and laugh it off with an awkward, uncomfortable grin. Percy turned and a jackal-headed monster wiggled his fingers innocently back, his eyes only interested in Conner. Percy had felt sick. Monsters weren't supposed to be seen by people—normal people. Only Percy could see.

He couldn't touch Conner.

The next time something similar to that happened, was when, nearly a week later, Chiron had scooped up Percy into his lap to give him a ride around the house. Before Percy could even let out a gasp, a giggling sprite with no whites in their eyes and sickly green skin had grabbed onto the man's shoulders and nearly pushed him out of his wheelchair. Percy had cried for a straight hour. Monsters weren't supposed to be able to touch people—normal people. Only Percy could be touched.

He couldn't touch Chiron. He couldn't touch anyone.

But that was okay. That was fine. If only it weren't so hard to avoid the touch of everyone around him.

Percy's school was low budget—their classrooms were small and their hallways were smaller. With everything so pressed together, it was difficult not to bump against another body, even when walking in straight lines through the stained, carpeted halls. He had to practically hug the off-white, inspirational poster-speckled walls in order to dodge the children walking past him. The cafeteria tables were no better, and they all sat side-to-side, shoulder-to-shoulder. Unfortunately, with so little wiggle room, he found himself having to curl up in a ball so tight his entire body ached. Percy did his best to make himself as compact as possible—his shoulders slouched into one another, nearly touching, and his back hunched terribly. His spine always twinged in protest when he straightened out.

He could handle it, though. Really. No trouble at all.

Admittedly, Percy was a tactile person. He always became jumpy when people touched him without notice, true, but that never meant he didn't need that sort of positive contact. When it came to his friends, he needed touches such as brushing shoulders and friendly handshakes to feel secure. It reinforced the bonds he made. Without it, he found himself becoming anxious, and his hands often shook wildly with the need to reach out and initiate contact. He liked sitting in Chiron's lap when they went grocery shopping, and while he'd never admit it, he found Rachel playing with his hair during recess after a few games of hide-and-go-seek to be nice. It eased the stress out of a monster-infested day. Fist bumps with Grover were becoming a daily ritual, and the idea of having to look over his shoulder before even contemplating moving his hand frayed at his nerves.

Okay, so maybe he couldn't handle it as well as he said he could, but it was a start. At least now he could identify when they showed up and when they left. He could dodge when they struck out, and know which were mostly harmless and others that were to be avoided at all costs. It eased his mind, and for the first time since the recently-dubbed "Sea-God Incident", he felt less afraid and more determined to not allow them to ruin his life.

That didn't mean the monsters didn't try to anyway. They definitely did. But he wasn't a little kid anymore. He was almost nine. Four months to go.

A bell rang; Percy jolted and looked around in a panic. The outside of the school had filled up in his thoughts, and he hadn't noticed the front grass and sidewalk of the school beginning to fill with the students and parents of HB Elementary School. Everyone began to pool inside, and the parents waved goodbye with soft smile, hugs, and claps on the shoulder. Percy felt a pang in his chest.

A dog made only of jagged bone barked at his feet and nipped at his baggy jeans. Percy had no idea how all its pieces managed to stay together and function. He pat it roughly on the head, and when he proceeded to do nothing more, it totted off, peeved.

Percy walked into the school.

Monsters of a Different Mold

Percy decided to walk home from school. He always preferred to do this, actually, but considering the long walk and the bad neighborhood, Chiron usually insisted he take the bus. However, with the new desire to escape contact with Chiron as much as possible, he'd chosen to ignore that advice. Sorry, Chiron.

So, here he was, walking home alone. An odd creature growled at him, its lion face twisted in menace and its tail ended with the head of a hissing snake. Percy instantly jumped back. A chimera, something in him supplied.

The knowledge came to him in a quick, shocking burst, and he jolted a little at the intrusion.

He remembered his mom telling him about the chimera in Greek mythology, and he grinned wide at that, hearing her voice lower in mock seriousness as they curled together on his twin bed, his stepfather's snoring oddly similar to a snarling beast. He recalled how they'd giggled and gasped whenever his snores rose in volume, sounding like roars and accidentally mimicking that of the chimera. Percy may have been only four when Sally Jackson died, but he never seemed to forget those stories. With his eyes firmly glued to the sidewalk, he felt something akin to homesickness curl in his belly. His foot caught on a crack in the sidewalk.

He crashed into someone's broad chest. He fell.

Someone caught him. Pulled him back up.

Hands on his shoulders. Green eyes.

"Oh," Poseidon Olympia said.

"Oh," Percy replied.

Monsters of a Different Mold

Poseidon worked a lot. He drank a good bit, too, but that was never really his thing, and honestly, he did a bad job at it. He wasn't exactly sure why he was drinking so much, but as Hestia told him quite bluntly—you're trying to forget, and also, you're an idiot. Well, she wasn't wrong on either accounts. If anything, she was startlingly astute as usual. Poseidon was both trying to forget, and of course, a complete idiot. Though he wasn't convinced that it was the reason he was drinking. Personally, he thought his father was enough to drive anyone to drink. Considering that he worked more than he did anything else, even drinking or partying or living it up with women (and men, he wasn't picky), he figured he had the right to blame Kronos for his life at the moment.

Hestia just shook her head and said, "We're pretty sure you had an illegitimate son with the only person you've ever loved. This is all on you, dear."

Yeah, well. Thanks, Hestia.

Hestia was the only person he'd been willing to admit the whole "might possibly have an eight-year old, whoops" to, and she reacted just as remarkably helpful and sisterly as she had when he crashed Hera's family reunion.

When he'd told her, hands shaking and eyes averted to the side, ashamed and frightened and feeling very much twenty-four for the first time in a long time, she'd shocked him by smiling. She smiled a very large, very excited grin, and said, "Is he as cute as you were as a kid, Nicky?" After Poseidon managed to breathe again, as well as scowl and insist that "you don't get to call me that ever, it's Poseidon; Nicky is fucking dead, Hestia, how dare you, etc, etc." in childish exasperation, he felt the relief sweep over him in a wave.

He told her, yeah, he's pretty cute. "Then you better let me babysit him—Hera never lets me, and Hades is much too awkward to ever ask."

And that was that.

Not everyone was as accepting as Hestia, however, even though she was the only one to officially know of his son-related concerns. Hera somehow heard the news, of course, most likely through Zeus, and was calling him every hour of the day, insistent on her quest to discover the truth. Oddly enough, she didn't seem too angry, merely curious, with a desperation he hadn't been expecting. She asked for detail after detail: who's the mother, what does he look like, is he like you, are you sure he's yours, when can I meet him? She seemed ravenous for every detail. Poseidon still ignored her, obviously, but he was a tad more kind during the times he could no longer avoid her calls. Sometimes it slipped his mind that she was unable to bare children. Zeus was a different matter.

The man was livid.

Now, Poseidon always preferred to call Zeus the "younger brother", usually in jest due to their seven year age-gap with Poseidon's twenty-four years and Zeus' thirty-one, but in moments like these were, he could truly say Zeus fit the bill of the younger sibling. He had stormed into his home just yesterday, right in the middle of the night, demanding an explanation about this orphan bastard of his—Poseidon had been so livid at that he'd nearly spit—and had refused to leave until Poseidon "admitted to his wrongdoing". Yeah, like hell. Hades had stood near Zeus' shoulder, looking ever-so-slightly smug to see Poseidon's rage yet still put upon to be on Zeus' side for once.

Poseidon wasn't having any of that.

So, here Poseidon was, sipping at some strange concoction at four o'clock in the afternoon in some dive bar on his first day off in weeks. The strange beverage was a toxic blue and tasted vaguely minty with the added burn of vodka. The bartender, a kid barely looking twenty-one, lifted their heavily pierced eyebrow and offered him a tiny umbrella. It was dotted with just as minuscule pineapples. Poseidon took it.

"'Ya looked like 'ya needed one," they told him. He couldn't argue against that, so he merely twirled the tiny replica in response. "And I know it's no cure-of-all-ills, but it's still cute as fuck." Well, they weren't wrong.

The woman seated next to Poseidon let out an amused snort over her drink. It was Athena. Did he forget to mention her?

It's been a weird day.

Athena was drinking primly from, to his astonishment, a beer bottle. He ogled her for a moment, eyes glued to the drink clasped in her elegant fingers. It wasn't even a craft beer, he noted, more like piss water. Noticing his attentions, Athena paused from her disinterested sips, and turned to look at him for the first time since she arrived at the bar twenty minutes prior. Her grey eyes looked into his, piercing and sharp, nearly glowing in the dim lighting of the establishment. Deep plum-colored nails tapped against the bar's wrecked surface, mindful of the nicks and craters that had been carved into the golden wood. She looked... not curious, exactly, but something clearly caught her interest. Her face looked more open than he'd ever seen it, even during their short stint of a relationship.

"Is it true?" She asked it in a way that took him a few seconds to process, without her usual fanfare made up of careful diversions and sly words. Poseidon winced.

"Is it true you have a son?"

Poseidon considered his options carefully, imagining himself telling her off, imagining flipping her the bird. He could rant and rage, throw a tantrum. He could down his drink in one gulp, slap down a twenty, and bolt from the place and never look back. He could deny it and shrug, say "no, of course not", and leave it at that, ignore the responsibility an eight-year old boy placed on his shoulders. Poseidon could forget Percy Jackson ever existed. If only for a moment.

The bartender left the two of them, seemingly used to the heavy conversations that occurred around them. Just another part of the job, despite the heavy topic and the shock of the question being asked. Athena continued on, not waiting to see if he would answer.

"I have a daughter," she told him, and Poseidon blinked, nodded. He knew; he had never met her, though. "I only have part-time custody of her, and sometimes I think she just might despise me as much as she seems to imply she does." Her gaze seemed to soften then, if only a fraction, just the easing of the lines around her eyes and mouth. "I love Annabeth more than I can ever say. And I'm going to do my best to prove it to her."

Poseidon didn't know what to say.

"Don't waste your chance, you ass. You'll regret it." At that, she turned her head, and the conversation was over. He watched her throat bob as she took a long drag of beer; he shut his eyes in brief defeat.

"I think I might," he said, "I think I might have a son." He set a crumpled twenty on the bar and left.

Monsters of a Different Mold

Poseidon Olympia bumped into a child while walking to the bus stop, unwilling to chance his nice car or take the damnable metro. He caught the boy gently, surprise making his wrists weak, using the boy's shoulders to pull him back up before he fell and cracked his head on the concrete. The first thing he noticed was the scrawny stature, all sharp edges and angular points, the slight hollowness of the cheeks and the dark bruises under the eyes. The kid looked fragile, surreal. Even his hair seemed to be drained of life, and while not greasy, it held an unhealthy flatness.

The second thing he noticed were the green eyes framed in Sally Jackson's lashes. Un-fucking-believable, he thought.

"Oh," Poseidon said, and he should've stayed in that stupid bar and gotten smashed.

This is the unedited version of this piece. I realize there are many mistakes within it, of course, but hopefully you'll enjoy it anyway. The edited and polished piece will be posted at a later date, probably around Wednesday or Thursday, and I'll write a quick author's note whenever it's up. I'll delete it a few days after. I hope you enjoy, and I'd like to give a thanks to my beta, who has been absolutely fantastic with everything! Thank you all for joining me on this ride so far. Can't wait for the ball to really start rolling. ~Loyalty

8/8/16: Edited! -Loyalty