Chapter Text
Apollo is banished. It’s the middle of the war, and he’s banished. For what—doing his job? Octavian is—not his favorite, not by far, but he’s still one of Apollo’s descendants, and Apollo is trying to do better. To be better. But it’s hard, okay? To change thousands of years of habit.
But his father is banishing him to live as a mortal , blaming all of this—the war, Gaea—on his prophecy when his whole shtick is literally prophecies!
Anyway, he’s banished, and he doesn’t really know what that’ll entail—being stuck in a flimsy mortal body and having to do—urgh—quests, would be his best guess, if his father didn’t just look at him wearily and sigh.
“Apollo,” he begins, exhaustion pulling on his face.
“Yes, father?” Apollo answers through a clenched jaw. It’s not fair that he’s being punished for this. It’s just–not.
But before Zeus can say anything else, a bright light fills the room and three old ladies—the Fates—descend from the ceiling.
“Apollo,” says one.
“You have done your job, and done it well,” continues the second one.
“However, there is a task you must fulfill,” the third one finishes.
Apollo gulps. He doesn’t like the sound of that—is this what their children feel when they get a quest? “What task?” he ventures hesitantly.
“As a mortal.”
Apollo stares. What?
Sure , Zeus was about to send him down as a mortal, but this–a task commanded by the fates, and he doesn’t even know what it is. And he doesn’t—at least he can guess how his father will send him down. But the Fates?
“I don’t understand.” And he really doesn’t.
“We know. And so will you, eventually. For now—”
The middle one waves her hand, and Apollo blacks out.
.
Dick likes singing. His parents are very good singers, and loads of times the entire troop will gather around after dinner and sing together. His mom says that he has an amazing voice, a rare talent. His dad says he got it from his mom, and his mom blushes and hits his dad playfully and Dick will hug them both and beg for them to teach him new tricks on the trapeze.
And then his parents fall and he’s thrown in juvie and he’s taken in by fucking Batman , holy shit, and he’s Robin! He’s a superhero! It’s awesome , even if he doesn’t really sing that often anymore. Sometimes, though, when he’s alone, he’ll hum a lullaby his mother taught him. It makes him feel like she’s there with him, just for a bit.
He meets Leslie, and is immediately taken with her. He begs her to teach him about being a doctor because it’s so interesting, and if he ever stops being a vigilante, then hey, it’s always nice to have a back-up career!
Maybe, Bruce jokes after hearing him belt out Never Gonna Give You Up as a prank, he’ll be a famous singer, writing songs and traveling around the world.
Maybe, Dick thinks. He likes helping people more, is the thing. The thought of being onstage, in front of thousands of people—well, he has enough of that at galas, is all.
Bruce teaches him piano and signs him up for guitar lessons. Dick soaks it all in, every note and riff and strum. He plays when he can, for his friends and family. He doesn’t want people to watch him to pick out mistakes—he wants them to watch him so they can feel his love for them through the melody.
He thinks—hopes—he gets that across. Playing his instruments are an outlet; for sadness and joy, anger and happiness, love and regret.
.
Dick loves the sun. Whether it’s glaring down on a hot summer afternoon, or peeking through the clouds after a heavy rainstorm, Dick will go outside just for a glimpse of the warm yellow rays. It makes him feel invigorated, like he’s recharging. The sun is special to him, he knows that–he just doesn’t really understand why.
But. Does he need a reason?
“No, I suppose not,” Bruce says with a quiet smile. He reaches out and tugs on Dick’s hair. Dick squeals and bats his hands away with a peal of laughter.
“B, quit it!” he says firmly, stomping his foot on the ground for emphasis.
“Sorry, sorry.” Bruce chuckles warmly. “My little ball of sunshine.”
Dick glares at him with all the fierceness of a ten-year-old boy being called cute . Still, something in him preens at being called sunshine. He still doesn’t know what it is–maybe he’ll never know, but it doesn’t matter, not really.
He likes to stargaze, too, likes to imagine that he can see the moon waving to him, keeping an eye on him. He memorizes as many constellations as he can, sharing the stories with anyone who would listen. And there are a fair few, Bruce and Alfred and Clark and Wally and Roy and more and more as the superhero community grows and Bruce trusts a little more.
He loves the sun, but he also loves the moon, the soft glow warming him with its cool light–contradictory, maybe, but the truth. Sometimes, Dick feels as though the moon is watching him, keeping an eye on him, making sure he’s safe. Sometimes, when he can’t sleep and he’s not on patrol, he goes up to the roof and just…lays there, basking in the cool warmth of the moon.
And that’s another thing—truth . Dick is a good liar. He spins and weaves stories through his words, beautifully eloquent and much, much better than his age would suggest. Especially considering that English isn’t even his first language. Dick brushes off concerns, deflects invasive questions, and dodges accusations with a grace that only one who’d been doing so for years have. And yet he is good at it.
And he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like lying, doesn’t like being so good at it. He likes telling stories, capturing people’s attention through his words but he doesn’t like lying. He tells the truth when he can, omitting some details and exaggerating others, and, well, the best lies are formed from truth and he’s good at truth, at being honest. He’s blunt and sharp and all hard angles when he can be, brusque and clipped and hey, it’s just the truth. Not his fault the truth hurts sometimes.
It does hurt, though. He likes being as honest as he can but sometimes all that leads to is hurt feelings and broken friendships and wouldn't just a little white lie have been so much better? It could have salvaged their relationship, and besides, it’s barely a lie. It’s only to make them feel better.
But the words, the phrasing, those matter. They matter a lot. And Dick knows that, has used that to his advantage even as he doesn’t know where he’s pulling from. And he knows it’s something, knows something’s just the tiniest bit off. There’s something there, so close and yet so far away that leaves him feeling empty. There’s something so intrinsically connected to his entire self that’s been ripped away and Dick wants it back, He just doesn’t know how, yet.
But he will, someday. He’ll get it back, whatever he’s missing.
.
He’s fourteen when Bruce fires him.
He’s fifteen when Deathstroke captures him.
He’s nineteen when his brother dies.
21 when he’s put in charge of a city, of a child that’s not his, will never be his, not completely. Still twenty-one when Bruce returns and Dick is booted back to Bludhaven.
He works and works and works and gets fired and gets hired and reaches out and gives and gives and gives and nothing ever gives back, no one ever reaches out to him and he’s so tired.
He does his best to repair his relationship with Tim, does everything he can to make Jason feel comfortable around him, gives Damian somewhere to go when he feels caged, does everything he can to be the perfect brother, the perfect son.
And then he’s twenty-three and two thousand and everything in between. He knows. He remembers. And he wishes he hadn’t.
.
Apollo wakes up in his bed, in his room, in his apartment, in his city, and promptly lets out a series of swears so vulgar and explicit even Ares would have blanched.
He sits up, puts his head between his hands, and screams. Quietly, so as not to disturb his neighbors through the walls, but also pretty loud, especially after he grabs a pillow to muffle himself.
“Gods—fucking—dammit," he groans. He lets his head fall back onto the mattress. He knows he has to get up. He knows he has to go back. But he doesn’t want to. He likes being Dick Grayson–no matter how hard it can be sometimes. He likes his life. He doesn’t want to just–give that up.
“Brother.”
Apollo doesn’t look. He pushes himself out of bed, grateful he had worn sweatpants to sleep.
“Sister,” he acknowledges, even as he turns his back to her to rifle through his closet and throw on a hoodie. It’s Bruce’s college sweater, the bold GCU standing out from the dark gray background. It’s the sweater Bruce gave to him when he was thirteen and high on a combination of Ivy’s pollen and Fear Toxin. He had drowned in it then and it’s still large on him now. It’s the softest thing he owns. (it makes him feel safe, makes him remember when Bruce would wrap him in his cape and he knew that nothing could touch him, not with his dad there to protect him.)
He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t want to.
“Apollo . . .”
Artemis sighs and he can hear her sit on his bed, sinking into the mattress. He knows why she’s here, and she knows he knows, which is why she remains silent, waiting for him to speak.
“When?”
Artemis doesn’t need clarification. She answers with a curt, “Noon.”
“I’ll be there,” he says reluctantly. He turns around and his breath catches as he sees his sister for the first time in well over two decades. Yet for her–for her, and everyone else, it’s only been a year. She looks the same–curly auburn hair pulled back into a high ponytail, large dark eyes standing out against skin as pale as he is tan. She still wears the same twelve-year-old skin as always, and Apollo feels a part of his soul slot into place.
She gives him a small smile, and opens her arms. He falls into them, clutching her desperately. They curl up together on the bed, Artemis shedding her skin for one that looks nearly identical to Apollo’s own. They’re twins, the other half of each other’s soul, Apollo’s sun to Artemis’ moon, and for the first time since he was reborn he feels whole .
They stay there for what feels like seconds and hours at the same time; not talking, just soaking in the other’s presence.
“I missed you,” Apollo whispers, and it feels like a confession.
“And I you,” Artemis replies, and it feels like salvation. She nudges him, throws her legs over the bed and stands up, throwing him an expectant look. “Well? You have food, yes?”
Apollo barks out a surprised laugh. “Are you asking me to make you breakfast?”
“Perhaps.”
Apollo laughs again, loud and full of joy because he’s missed this, missed bickering with his sister and her bossing him around and reprimanding him whenever he tries to flirt with her Hunters. And that reminds him—
“I have put Cleo in charge for the moment. Thalia is spending some time at Camp Half-Blood.”
Apollo makes a noise of understanding and makes his way to his kitchen, taking out the ingredients for pancakes–he can cook, just like he’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself. (He just doesn’t.)
“So what’ve I missed?”
Artemis fills him in while he mixes the batter. He’s missed a lot, apparently. Leo Valdez is alive—Apollo hadn’t even known he’d died —and is dating Calypso. Apollo winces. Yes, it is mainly his father’s fault for not releasing the girl, but Apollo hadn’t thought of her either, hadn’t reminded his father. It’s not his fault, not really, but still.
Percy and Annabeth are engaged and attending NYU—New Rome being too far away and Percy not wanting to leave his mother or be too far from camp. Artemis was told this by Thalia, who had recruited Reyna to the Hunters.
And—Apollo almost burns a pancake when he hears this particular piece of news—Will Solace, his son, is dating Nico di Angelo, who, incidentally, is attending therapy sessions with Dionysus.
“Goddamn,” he says, turning off the stove. “Well, opposites attract, I suppose.”
Artemis eyes him. “You’re okay with this?”
Apollo snorts. If he could have sex with the guy who kidnapped him, tried to kill his friends, and was nearly successful in brainwashing him into hurting said friends practically the moment he turned legal, then he certainly won’t begrudge Will liking a son of Hades. Of course, he doesn’t say any of this aloud, but the sentiment still stands.
“I’ve dated aliens, Arty. This," he gestures, setting down the plate on the table, “isn’t even the top ten weirdest relationship I can think of.” Not even top fifty, if he’s being honest. Although to be fair, he knows some pretty ‘out-there’ people, including but not limited to an alien princess and a guy who dresses up like a bat every night to fight crime who sometimes has flings with a lady who dresses up like a cat to steal things.
He gives Artemis a plate and takes one for himself, helping himself to some pancakes. Artemis does this same, and they eat with minimal small talk. It’s nice, though. Just existing with his sister.
Eventually, though, he has to face the music. He can’t just sit around all day watching cheesy sitcoms, no matter how entertaining Joey and Phoebe are. It sucks, but…well.
Artemis flashes away after squeezing his shoulder and he appreciates it, he does, he just…needs to psych himself up. He paces in front of his t.v. and worries, going over contingency after contingency.
He can’t put it off forever, so he takes a deep breath and throws himself to the wolves.
.
He sprawls on his throne (eugh), and runs a tanned hand through his golden-blond hair. He misses his black hair but there are certain expectations he needs to meet, and if he can get away with it at all, he’s not going to say a word of where—of who —he’s been.
He surveys the room. Only Artemis and the kids have noticed him—and how fucked up is that? Gods, he feels like such a major douchebag right now.
He doesn’t say anything, and puts a finger to his lips to tell the kids to do the same. Percy rolls his eyes but looks away and Will gives what he can only assume is an exasperated sigh, leaning on Nico. and they’re cute, now that Apollo can see them in person. He definitely approves.
Finally, after like five minutes—and really, he’s disappointed—Athena clears her throat.
“Father,” she says, nodding towards him.
Zeus startles when he finally notices Apollo.
“Ah,” he says, obviously embarrassed but trying to hide it. And failing. Apollo does his best to capture this moment to memory—it’s hilarious. “Apollo. Welcome back.”
Apollo smirks, and with centuries of experience of pissing people off, salutes lazily. “Sup,” he greets. Zeus grits his teeth and Apollo knows that nobody—except maybe Artemis—thinks he’s changed at all. And honestly? Besides from trying to be a better dad, he wants to keep it like that. He’s found it’s easier when people underestimate him.
“Dad,” Will says, stepping forward. Apollo lets his smirk fade into something a little more genuine. He stands up off his throne (thank the gods) and strides over to his son.
“Gonna be honest, I did not see that coming,” he says, ruffling Will’s hair and nodding towards Nico. He can feel Will stiffening and adds, “Congratulations. But if he hurts you, let me know and I’ll make him babysit.”
Will tilts his head in confusion. “Babysit?”
“I have a friend with a few hyenas,” he says, grinning. Everyone in the room except Percy takes a step back, or leans back, or does something to move away from him. That’s fair. It is Harley. He does have to give credit to Percy though, no matter how much he wishes he didn’t. Kid’s tough, for all the wrong reasons.
“Dad,” Will hisses. Apollo laughs—he consciously does not snicker—and goes back to his throne (maybe he can like. Import a copy of Bruce’s office chair? It’s comfy, and definitely less pretentious than what he has now).
“Hyenas,” Percy repeats.
“Hyenas,” Apollo agrees, nodding. He schools his face into something serious, even though he desperately wants to laugh. This is hilarious.
“Enough nonsense,” Zeus thunders. He looks pissed, and Apollo feels a sharp sense of satisfaction. Good. How much farther can he push Zeus before he breaks? “Apollo.”
Apollo straightens. “Yes, father?”
“The Fates had given you a task. Have you completed it?”
Apollo barely holds himself back from snorting. Task? What task? To be a traumatized, fucked-up person who can barely hold himself together on a good day? What was his task, hmm? To die? Because he’s done that. Most of his family has done that. His best friend has done that. He doesn’t know why he was sent back, and honestly? He doesn’t want to think of what would have happened if he hadn’t. Would there still have been a Dick Grayson? Would—nope. Not thinking about it. He really doesn’t need to have an existential crisis, especially not now.
“I don’t know,” he says. “If I did, I was given no sign.”
“Then it was for nothing?” Zeus demands. “What reason—”
“Father,” Athena cuts in, glancing at Apollo. He shrugs, grateful for her interference. “As of right now, it does not matter.”
“You dare—”
“If he has completed the task,” Athena continues, “then we can forget about it and just welcome him back. If not, then I’m sure that when it comes time he will do everything in his power to do…whatever it is he has to do. Right?” She glares at him, wordlessly telling him to agree, even though he would have without her trying to drill holes in him with her eyes.
“Right,” Apollo says, sighing. He props up his head with his hand, making a fist against his forehead. Gods, he’s so tired. Shouldn’t being a god cancel out sleep deprivation?
Zeus scowls. “I…suppose,” he concedes reluctantly. “You are to resume your duties at once.”
“Yep.”
Apollo spaces out after that, drumming his fingers on his leg. He can sense eyes on him–Hermes is trying to be subtle but Percy is just straight up staring. Will is too, but he’s at least attempting to act normal. Eventually, finally, the meeting is over and the demigods start heading back to camp. Apollo kind of wants to go with them, if only because he really doesn’t want to deal with the council. Alas, he has his duties.
He also promised to pick Damian up from school which ends in like, two hours, so he really hopes that they can be done soon.
“Welcome back, Apollo,” Hera says, almost warmly. He’s impressed, and annoyed.
A few of the others echo her, and Apollo thanks them.
“I appreciate it, but if you all wouldn’t mind, I have duties to attend to.”
No one ever said he wasn’t a master of getting out of things.
He flashes out before anyone can argue, landing in his room. He changes into something a little more comfortable, running a hand through his dark hair and slumping on the bed.
“Fuck,” he says to the empty room. He laughs hysterically. He drops his head into his hands, wonders if he can get away with murder. Which, yes, he absolutely can. Not only has he been trained by both Batman and Deathstroke he’s also a literal fucking god. He wonders if Percy would help him murder Zeus. Probably. He wants to. He really wants to. Zeus is a bitch and a pain in the ass and way too paranoid. Unfortunately, there are worse options, and as long as those options are out there, Zeus stays on the throne, the lesser of two evils.
He doesn’t like it, can absolutely see where Luke Castellan was coming from, and hates being complicit, but there’s little he can do except start being there for his children.
.
Damian clambers into the car, and Dick feels something in him relax.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says. “How was school?”
Damian huffs. “It was…adequate, I suppose.”
Dick grins. That’s high praise, coming from Damian.
“How was yours?”
“Ah, you know, same old, same old. Hey, you wanna stop by Batburger?”
Damian looks at him, brow furrowed in a way that’s nearly identical to Bruce, and Dick nearly laughs at the similarity. It’s adorable how much Damian is like Bruce, and although he objects to the comparisons, Dick knows he likes it. Dick liked it too, when people would compare him to his dad. Of course, there’s not many people around that knew him enough to compare, but Dick treasures what he knows, holds the knowledge and the memories close to heart.
Damian agrees and Dick turns left instead of right.