Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

AUGUST 23, 2021.

Blood. Blood, blood, blood.

There is blood everywhere. On the floor. On his shorts. His hands. His mother's dress. The bottles of booze. Sally Jackson's paling face. The knife. The monster holding the knife. The knife, knife, knife.

Percy can see his own wide eyes in its reflection, coating half his young face in red. Noises wane in and out of his ears, indecisive on which was worse: torturous screaming or torturous silence.

He drops to his knees, scrambling to his mother's side. The blood is in all the wrong places. It's supposed to be in his mother's rosy cheeks, not draining from them, not splattered on her face or neck or hair. It's supposed to be pumping in her loving heart, not gushing out of her stomach. It isn't supposed to be on Percy's hands, it's supposed to be on his.

Smelly Gabe.

The name he christened him fits the man perfectly. He reeks of beer, dirty socks and week-old chip dip. Somehow, Percy finds himself almost longing for it, instead of the foul metallic stench overriding his senses. For the days when his mother was still smiling. He focuses on the body in front of him with frantic hands and distraught panting. He checks for pulse, only to be stopped by Sally's own weak hand.

"Percy, baby. Please leave. Leave now, my darling boy, I'll be fine." Her croaking voice can't even be identified as a whisper.

"No! You won't be—" the boy blubbers. Sally's hand drifts up to his cheek, hovering above Percy's skin.

"It's okay. Please leave now. Please." Her desperateness becomes clear with her last beg, lips and hands trembling violently as she forces back tears. Alas, her attempts are futile, a tear slipping down and carving a bloodstained track for many others.

Percy makes the mistake of looking up at Smelly Gabe. His drunken form is swaying near the door, knife still in hand. Spouting slurred gibberish — something about "brats and useless whores" — he leans on the doorway. Percy catches his deranged eyes.

"What are you still doing here brat?!" he barks. Percy flinches, his hands instantly clasping around his mother's. They begin to flicker between the weak hands of a boy and the scarred hands of a soldier. He attempts to drag her away as Gabe's thundering steps slowly neared.

"No! Don't you dare bring her outside, bastard!" Before he knew it, his knife is plunged deep into Sally's ankle and she's pulled back. The woman's shrieks fuse with Gabe's scream of rage. He's already pulled it out and stomps towards Percy. Sally's hand slips out of Percy's desperate grasp.

His vision blurs and tints red at the edges. Gabe appears beneath him, gripping the knife with quivering fingers. Percy realises he is standing at full height, with a familiar weight in his hand. Another glance at the knife's reflection reveals no terrified boy, but the stone-cold eyes of a man seeking revenge.

Riptide glints deviously.

A piercing scream tears through Gabe's vocal chords. Just as the arc of Percy's sword completes its climax, his sagging face turns ashen. Riptide slices clean through his stone neck. The crash and crumbling of the bust is wholly silenced by the ringing in Percy's ears. Or the chiming. Or the crash of ocean waves...

Perseus Jackson startles awake.

His phone vibrates next to his hand, beeping with annoyance as he finally shuts off his third back-up alarm. Percy releases a deep breath and pushes his grey streak of hair away from his sweaty forehead. Electing to choose peace this morning, he collapses back into bed. The freshly-painted blue ceiling stares back at him as he collects his thoughts.

This must've been the first dream about that night in many years. The first night terror in a month or two, actually. Percy is twenty-one now, years after the end of both wars and over a decade after that wretched night. However, he knows the ending scenes of his dream were far from what really happened. While he would have liked to introduce Gabe to the wrath of Medusa earlier, that only happened after his first quest. At ten years old after his mother's death, Percy did not stand up and fight. He ran. He ran and ran and ran until he collapsed in an alleyway, near ready to follow his mother's descent. He may have been successful, if he hadn't met Gotham's Dark Knight. Percy sits up in his bed, his memories effectively pushing the sleep from his system. Batman had scooped him up and whispered promises of a better life, one with his friend Bruce Wayne. Percy could never recollect how he ended up in a plush bed inside Wayne Manor that same night, or how he ended up joining the coveted Wayne family. All he knew of was the gentle hands of their butler tending to his wounds and the warm smiles of Bruce Wayne and his other ward: Dick Grayson.

Percy inhales sharply. He remembers the boy's laughter and reddening cheeks as young Percy commented on how unfortunate his name was. For the two years that he was a Wayne ward, Dick Grayson was his best friend. Percy swings his legs over the bed. He hadn't thought of the Wayne's in a while.

That is a lie.

The Wayne's had always been lurking near the back of his mind for the past two weeks, influencing his every decision. But Percy would never admit it to himself. He moved to Gotham because it was one of the few places exempt from monsters, not because he felt nostalgia for his old home. He bought an apartment four blocks away from Wayne Manor because he was used to a lifestyle of opulence, not because he wished to see them on accident. It isn't his fault that the Bristol township housed majority of Gotham's upper crust. Apparently Bruce Wayne had added a couple new wards, a few fully adopted kids, and even a blood son to his collection. Not that Percy searched him up or anything.

He dunks his face in cold water, drying it instantly. Slipping on a hoodie and track shoes, he decides that a morning run would be good repellent for these musings. He slips his wired earphones in and plays a random playlist, probably made by his friends.

Very few have described Gotham air as "comforting". It's stifling, putrid, and smoky. Tourists are few and far between, and Gothamites are more likely to get vitamin D from police car lights than the actual sun. Having lived here for most of his childhood — four years with Smelly Gabe, and two years in Wayne Manor — Gotham surprisingly embraces his presence. Percy has reached a state of calm that hadn't happened in too long. Perhaps it was the lack of monsters in Gotham. Monsters were rendered unable to spawn within the city by the will of the gods, apparently due to high crime rates. But Percy had a suspicion that the multiple wealthy dynasties residing in the city also had a big part to play. Bludhaven, Gotham's sister city, has an even higher crime rate that he can attribute to the lack of godly protection.

Percy coughs out the burning in his lungs, waving away the second-hand smoke. Or maybe Gotham hadn't fully embraced him quite yet. Maybe it just patted him on the head and laughed in his face, as a way of saying "good luck, babe". That's something Percy is more used to.

Things had changed three years after the Second Giant War. Leo Valdez, genius son of Hephaestus, had finally cracked the code for demigods and phones. All they needed now was his patented sim cards or USB sticks for computers, both of which masked the signal sent to monsters when a demigod connects to the Internet. Percy's best friend, Annabeth Chase, recently informed him that a couple of Athena and Hephaestus kids had even teamed up to start their own tech company based off his patents. Additionally, Leo had created portals solely for demigod usage, located all across America and even straight to Athens and Rome. Yes, portals — Percy still couldn't believe it sometimes. His cousin, Diana Prince, had once offhandedly mentioned the "zeta tubes" that her superhero teams used, and that set Leo off on a frenzy.

Percy rounds another corner, his eyes adjusting to the familiarity of it all. Memories and reality clashed against the other, a battle of old and new. Gotham has always been like that. It's the place where new technologies meld within traditional architecture. The arching theatres were refurbished as modern cinemas, and most quaint cafes offered a take-away or delivery option. The large supermarket at the opposite corner remained standing tall, but the original wooden sign had been replaced for neon lights. It was Percy and Dick's old haunt, whenever they'd sneak out from Gotham Academy at lunchtimes.

The taste of blueberry ice-pops resurfaces on his tongue. He winces.

The sliver of nostalgia in his mind urges him to enter the supermarket, to walk down memory lane once more. But the churning in his gut warns him otherwise, so he tamps down the cravings.
Stopping at the traffic lights, he jogs on the spot and nods his head to the song's beat. He crosses the road and momentarily closed his eyes to drown in the music.

"Oh my—"

His eyes fly open just in time to avoid a collision with an elderly man. He holds the man by his shoulders and steadies them both. Muttering a quick apology with an even quicker smile, he steps around him. Then, recognition flashes across both their faces.

Percy snaps his eyes to the ground. He may have been secretly hoping to bump into one of them at some point, but now that the opportunity is too close to his reach, he can feel its scorching heat. For a moment, Percy convinced himself that he is now unrecognisable. To the average eye, no one would make the connection between a once frail and teary-eyed kid and a now bulky war veteran who towers over six-foot. Then he promptly remembered that Alfred Pennyworth is no ordinary man.

He spins on his heel and raises the hood of his jacket, praying to whatever god of espionage that this half-assed disguise is enough.

"Master Perseus?"

Percy stops. He could have kept walking. He could have ignored him. He could have pretended like his name was Perry Johnson, just like Mr. D always wanted. He should have. But years of chiding had ingrained in him the instinct to fix his posture as soon as he heard his voice. Only two words, and he knew his cover was blown. Slowly, he turns around. Alfred Pennyworth looks the exact same. The same black butler suit and bowtie, grey hair around the crown of his head, and impossibly warm eyes. They stare at each other for a while, clearly processing the situation.

Percy speaks first, through a tight smile, "Hey, Alfred."

When the butler straightens up even further, if possible, the first thing Percy notices is the bags of groceries pooled at his feet. Subconsciously, he starts forward to help out, until Alfred's next words stop him.

"I've been expecting you, Master Perseus."

Percy flinches and trails his eyes back up to the man's face. "You... have?"

"Yes, I always knew you'd come back to Gotham eventually." Alfred gives him a cryptic smile. But then again, most of his actions have the same puzzling effect. Percy gapes at him, not even trying to pretend to understand. When Alfred leaned to grab the bags, Percy pries them out of his hands and walks over to the limousine. "There was no need for that, I could have easily done it myself, Master Perseus."

"Percy, not Perseus," he responds, out of habit. Tearing his eyes away from Alfred's wistful smile, he clears his throat. "And obviously I had to help. You shouldn't be straining yourself like this, Alfred. Bruce has so much money, why can't he hire more help for you?"

Percy cuts off his own grumbles by dumping all six bags into the trunk and slamming it shut. He wondered if Alfred needed help taking the groceries into the Manor as well. No, he should be fine, he admits internally. He's got Bruce's new kids to help him.

"I should really get going now, it was nice seeing you Alfred—"

"You should come for dinner tomorrow."

His eyebrows furrows. Before he could politely decline, Alfred speaks up again.

"I'm sure Master Richard and Master Bruce would be delighted to see you again. And you have yet to meet the others."

He fiddles with the string of Camp Half-blood beads over his collarbone. "Oh, it's fine, I really shouldn't —"

"Ah, I see that you're under the impression that this is up for debate, Master Perseus." Alfred's eyes twinkle with clear challenge and mischief. "I see I made it seem like you have a choice in the matter. I apologise for the miscommunication."

Percy gulps. He really wants to get back to his jog. Running is something he's definitely good at. He ran away at ten years old, then at twelve, and maybe again now at twenty-one.

So, he smiles at Alfred. The man's eyes crinkle in return.

"Sure, Alfred. What time should I stop by?"

He may be good at running, but then again, he also excels at grabbing a Minotaur by the horns.

Chapter Text

AUGUST 24, 2021.

Amphitrite, Percy's step-mother, has always stressed the importance of never going to another's house empty-handed. Whenever he tagged along on a diplomatic assignment as the Prince of the Oceans, she always thrust any gift into his hands to pass along to the delegates. "It's basic respect," she always said. Percy and Triton, his half-brother, both agree that it feels more like a peace offering.

Percy chucks a fresh batch of blue cookies in the oven to bring to tonight's dinner at Wayne Manor that he was so graciously forced to attend. Maybe it's Amphitrite's constant lectures on royal etiquette, or maybe it's because Percy truly felt the need for a peace offering to make it through tonight. 

Another rule Amphitrite drilled into him was to always dress for the occasion. But Percy doesn't think that dinner with his estranged family that he ran away from with no explanation has a defined dress code... So here he is, on video call with Piper McLean.

His friendship with Piper is arguably the silliest of all his relationships within the Seven. They truly enabled the chaos within each other, often harnessing their joint power to the fullest with some well-timed pranks and shenanigans. She had finally grown out of her prejudice against "girly" interests and found herself enjoying dressing up for herself. So now she's his go-to for anything socialite or fashion related. 

Now, the daughter of Aphrodite rests in her New Rome University dorm room, simultaneously watching Law & Order and getting Percy ready for this dreaded dinner. She munches on her popcorn thoughtfully as he showcases two options in front of her. 

"I think..." she starts. He leans forwards as she squints at him through the screen. "...Your kitchen is on fire."

She is exaggerating of course, but Percy summons a sphere of water while stalking into the kitchen nonetheless. Luckily, the oven has not started smoking yet when he opens it. In fact, the cookies are perfectly done, if not a little crispy on the edges. He glances back at the phone he had relocated to the kitchen counter.

"How?"

Piper shrugs, shoving another popcorn piece in her mouth and keeping her eyes glued to her TV. "I noticed you didn't set a timer, so I set one for you. You're welcome, dumbass." 

He sighs. Of course, leave it to him to be stressed enough to forget the most crucial step. Piper analyses him intently through the phone. 

"Okay, show me those options again?" 

Percy lifts both hangers up, face still firmly planted on the counter. The first option is a whole three-piece suit, tailored for his gala events at his father's palace. The second option is a stark difference: just a blue sweater and black distressed jeans. Piper snorts.

"Did you get those jeans from Nico or something?"

"Oh, c'mon! They're not that bad!"

Piper hums noncommittally, glancing between the options. "Okay, do not wear the suit. This is a dinner, not a gala."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, a dinner with Bruce Wayne and his little circus of trust fund babies."

"Details, schmetails," she waves her bowl, no fear for the lives of the kernels hanging on at the edge. "I say wear the button-up underneath the sweater and jeans, then untuck the collar around the neckline. And maybe add some silver jewellery."

Percy goes away to his room to follow her instructions, fondly listening to her absentminded commentary about her show. He comes back to find her spacing out, staring at her near empty popcorn bowl. He could've sworn on the Styx it was at least half-full when he left.

Percy waves a hand at the camera. "I'm back. Pipes? Hey, Piper, you good—"

"I still can't believe you were a ward of Bruce Wayne, and you're the literal Prince of the Oceans."

The Seven and Co. only found out about his old family last year. It started when Grover accidentally let it slip about Percy's accused terrorism at twelve years old. With their new access to the Internet, everyone was eager to do some digging. They found old articles of his kidnapping, a Buzzfeed Unsolved video, and even a badly edited wanted poster. All of this, he laughed off. Until someone dug too deep and found photos of Percy next to Bruce Wayne. Gala photos, paparazzi candid shots, all of it spilled out once someone unscrewed the tap. He could see the cogs turning in all of their heads. It made sense. All of the excessive media coverage over his "crimes" wasn't just about some crazy kid, but the missing ward of a billionaire.

(Piper knew. Piper, who attended galas years ago with her famous actor dad, since Brucie Wayne loved keeping friends with the latest celebrities. She knew his face, knew his name, knew what he had to say about tiny hors d'oeuvres, yet didn’t say a word. They kept each other’s secrets with a nod of understanding and a sigh of relief.

Rachel knew too, but Percy bought her silence with the promise of telling her about the godly world. She brought up Dick Grayson exactly once before Percy nearly started crying and she shut right up.) 

Percy shrugs it off. "Eh, I was his ward a long time ago. And , Triton is actually the Crown Prince. I'm just there for the ride, and the food of course. It isn't that impressive to be honest."

"You're a prince , Percy. A prince of 70% of this whole damn planet ." Piper stares at him dead in the eye. "That's not impressive? Really?"

He shrugs again. It was basically his life since he was thirteen. He entered Camp Half-blood as a year-rounder at first, until Poseidon suddenly realised that fathering a child meant he also had to take care of it. Then, he started an odd cycle of staying at Poseidon's underwater palace for a couple months, then going back up to shore and living in Camp Half-blood. It was almost as if Poseidon had partial custody over him with Chiron. After warming up to his new family, they decided that a coronation (or a "recognition of his princely status" as Triton stated, but was promptly ignored — through Percy's logic, if it involved a crown, it was a coronation) was well overdue. To him, it didn't feel any different to what he was before. Apart from the mountains of lessons he had to endure to suit his new position, ranging from royal etiquette to Atlantean healing to oceanic history. Percy was almost certain that it was Amphitrite's own little way of getting back at him for being a child out of wedlock. There was a period in time when Percy was forced to try out mortal school again, until he was expelled a few too many times for Poseidon to ever let him try again.

Percy sighs again, louder than before. Piper purses her lips.

"Okay, it may seem really easy for me to say that you shouldn't get so worked up about this, but remember that I have a pretty rocky relationship with my dad as well." She rubs her arm. "I've run away too — not for as long as you, but quantity over quality, or whatever."

Percy grins as she waves her hand flippantly.

"Dad was always so worried whenever I finally came back. You said your family was always caring and attentive, right? If their butler had reacted so warmly to your reappearance, then the rest wouldn't be any different." Piper smiles, soft and genuine. "They will still be your family, at the end of the day. You have nothing to worry about because you deserve their love. You deserve all the love you get. Don't forget that, Aquaman."

Percy smirks at the nickname, but his mind lay elsewhere. Piper notices this and shakes her phone, grabbing his attention.

She softly punches the camera. "Go get 'em, tiger."

"Ew, don't ever say that again."

Piper's clear cackles ring through the apartment as Percy grabs his keys and the Tupperware of cookies. 

Percy fiddles with his silver helix cuff and small hoop earring, continuously twisting it through his lobe piercing. He stares at the potted plants, anything to avoid staring at the front door of Wayne Manor. 

Front door is the biggest understatement Percy has ever thought. Two slabs of glossy dark oak sweep up before him, a prayer towards the sky. A god of wealth, or doors, or even Hephaestus himself could have sent blessings to embed in the labyrinthine designs weaving down the edges. A little below shoulder height, two intricate brass lions glare at him, with swinging door knockers hinged behind their canines. The metalwork is so pristine that Percy can imagine the beasts creaking to life, tossing their gold manes and roaring in relentless pride. The lions' snarls have turned into taunts. Look at what we have. Look at what we can hide behind glittering gold. 

It is breathtaking. It is horrendous. 

And Percy hates it. Percy hates this entire mansion, this whole grandiose display of obscene wealth and generations of power. But Percy cannot hate its inhabitants, no matter how hard he can try to. 

The doorbell to Wayne Manor echoes for less than two seconds before Alfred peeks out.

"Ah, Master Perseus." He ushers him in. "I was worried that you had decided to not show up after all, but I'm glad that you've done good on your promise."

"It's not like you gave me much of a choice, Alfred," Percy says with a wry smirk.

Alfred smiles, almost innocently. "As they say, 'desperate times call for dirty tactics' or something of that sort. Well, after our chat yesterday, I called most of the family to attend tonight, so we can welcome you back properly."

Percy stops immediately, bunching up the carpet at his feet. His wide eyes strain under his furrowed brows. "What? You didn't need to do that, it's fine, you should probably send them all back and—"

"Nonsense, Master Perseus. The family would love to meet you. Though fair warning, they are a bit of a rowdy bunch."

"A bit? They are all undignified imbeciles, Pennyworth. There is no need to water down their true character."

The two men look up to see a small figure at the top of the stairs. Alfred tuts. 

"That is no way to talk about family, Master Damian."

The alleged 'Master Damian' is a short kid with spiky slicked back hair and an almond complexion. He strolls down the stairs with an air of importance, as if the stairs were specifically made for his personal usage. He nods once at Percy.

"Damian Wayne, Father's only blood son. I shall have you know, this automatically makes me the most important figure in this household, apart from Father himself. And perhaps Pennyworth." 

Percy has no qualms against violently rolling his eyes right in front of the kid. Damian, however, apparently takes great offense. 

"Did you just roll your eyes at me? The only time your eyes should roll is when they roll to the back of your head once I—" 

"Just two seconds of normal human interaction, and you're already threatening him?" A heavy hand pulls Damian back. "Tim, you owe me fifty bucks!"

A groan erupts from upstairs as the newest player cackles at his expense. He raises his eyebrow and inspects Percy, who stands at just an inch taller than him. He sticks his hand out.

"Name's Jason Todd. I like the hair."

Percy shakes his hand quickly. "Thanks. I like yours too."

Jason has a similar streak of hair that curls over his forehead, except his is stark white instead of muted grey. Percy is glad for that, because it means it's more likely to be a birthmark or a fashion choice than a matter of life or death. His grip is tight, as expected from a man built like a brick house. Damian tries to claw at Percy again, but Jason wraps a beefy arm around his neck and lifts him up like a stray cat.

"Unhand me, Todd! This vile intruder disrespected my honour!"

Jason jostles him around, unfazed as Damian whips out a knife from nowhere. Alfred narrows his eyes.

"Master Damian, no weapons in front of the guests."

He sulkily slips it back into his shorts pocket, choosing his bare hands to whack Jason instead.

"You're Percy Jackson, aren't you?"

Percy's head snaps up to meet two curious teenagers leaning over the upstairs banister. The girl parkours her way down with a few elegant flips, while the boy, the one who spoke, safely pads down the stairs.

"This is Cass, I'm Tim," the boy introduces. "And you are Percy Jackson: the mystery silhouette on the family portrait, and once the subject of a nationwide manhunt."

This last tidbit of information is the final dollop of icing on Damian's angry cake. 

"Pennyworth! Why would you let a known terrorist into the Manor?!" 

Percy put his hands up. "Hey, all of those accusations were pardoned..." 

He trails off after noticing Cass' inquisitive stare. Out of habit, he offers a handshake which she delicately accepts. The other boys still to watch their interaction. Her voice is soft and raspy like the crunching of damp leaves underfoot. 

"Old friend. Nervous." 

It's not an accusation or a jibe. Just a statement. True and solid, just like her smile. He smiles back. Jason and Tim watch them like a tennis match. Alfred, with his ever cryptic smiles, turns back around and heads further into the Manor.

"Come, Master Perseus. Shall we meet the rest of the family?"

They trail after him. Cass sticks close to Percy, occasionally fixing her keen gaze on him — not that Percy minds. He knew a couple kids at camp like her; those who prefer to observe than to react. 

Damian raises his nose into the air. "Fine. If Cassandra and Pennyworth have decided to trust him, I shall let this stranger into my house," he sniffs. "But don't think that this is over, Jackson."

"Your house?" Tim scoffs, straying a good distance away from the kid. "It's not like you paid for it. Hell, Bruce didn't even pay for it." 

"But I will inherit when Father deems me worthy! You, on the other hand Drake, will be left with our scraps."

Tim lets out a grumble that Percy would have missed if not for his enhanced demigod senses. "I'll turn you into scraps, demon spawn."

Miraculously, Damian hears him as well. Percy catches Damian mid-lunge by the scruff of his collar, giving Tim ample time to evade his insistent attacks. The demigod shivers.

"Gods, what are you feeding these kids? The blood of their enemies or something?"

Jason snorts. "Nah, demon spawn's just a little special." He risks his hand (and maybe his whole life) to pat the kid's hair. "He probably harvests that himself while we're not looking."

"I don't doubt it." 

"Are those cookies?" 

A flash of purple whizzes past the group, then Percy finds himself playing one-handed tug of war with the container against a blonde girl. 

"Isn't this a little unfair? Two hands against one?" 

The girl, who looked old enough to be in college, shrugs and tugs experimentally. "Sounds like a you problem, to be honest." She analyses his face for a second before flashing him a megawatt smile and tilting her head. "Hey, I'm Stephanie Brown. You're really good looking, y'know that?" 

Percy's eyes narrow. 

"You're not getting them that easily."

Her smile breaks into a scowl. "Aw, shucks."

Tim pats her shoulder. "Steph used 100 Flirt power. Attack unsuccessful."

"Shut up, Tim!" she snaps, blushing furiously. Her grip slackens in her annoyance, so Percy snatches them cleanly and places them in Alfred's trustworthy hands.

"Ooh, K.O! Game over— Ack!" Tim rubs his scalp. "Hey!"

"Steph used 50 Brute force! Attack successful!" A new voice calls out.

Stephanie grits her teeth. "Steph is gonna use 100 Brute force on both of you if you don't shut up."

"What, scared to embarrass yourself in front of a hot guy?" Tim grins. They all — Percy and Alfred excluded — send him a look. He backtracks immediately. "What? Am I not allowed to say that, or what? He is good-looking!"

Steph shakes her head in mock disappointment. "Of course you would say that, you homosexual." 

The new dark-skinned boy speaks to Percy overtop of Tim and Steph's squabbling. He waves sheepishly. 

"Hey, I'm Duke. Sorry about those two, they're kinda always like that. Never a quiet day in this household. And sorry about Damian as well, I saw how you were restraining him before."

"It's no biggie, don't worry about it." Percy scans past Duke's shaven head. "No offense, but are there any more of you guys? You kids keep popping up out of nowhere..."

Duke chuckles. "Nah, I think we're just waiting on Dick, Bruce, and Barbara now."

"Did somebody say my name?"

When they enter the dining hall, a shorter figure exits the attached kitchen. Coppery hair rests on cardigan-covered shoulders. She scrunches her nose to push up her rectangular glasses while taking a sip of her coffee. Percy gasps weakly. 

Barbara Gordon meets his wide eyes with her own gaze, filled to the brim with disbelief. Her fingers go numb and the cup on her lap teeters dangerously. Percy falls to his knees in front of her, moving the cup as well. Her forest green eyes flicker across his face. Quivering hands hover over his skin, as if touching him would ruin the illusion. When Percy grabs both her hands in his, all feeling comes back to her limbs and her nails dig crescents into his palms. He pushes the glasses onto her head, allowing him to see the tears welling in her eyes. Percy's attention darts around her body, namely the wheelchair she sat in. 

"Babs? Hey, hi, w-what happe—"

"Percy?" Her hands move to his shoulder and his face. Her calloused thumb smooth over his rough cheek. "Perce, is that really you?"

He nods. Biting hard on his lower lip to keep his own tears at bay, he attempted to smile. This only brings a fresh wave of tears to Barbara's eyes. 

"Oh my goodness, I thought I'd never see you again..." 

He wraps a hesitant arm around her torso and cracks a tiny smirk. "Well, I live in the area now, so you might be seeing my ugly mug a bit more often than the past few years. 

"But..." He runs a hand over the wheelchair's armrest. Something dark and dangerous starts brewing in his stomach. "Gods, what happened to you? Who did this?"

Her eyes close in time with her sigh. "Just a freak accident. Don't worry about it, Perce." When she opens her eyes, her gaze flicks up behind his shoulder. "Oh shi—"

Crack.

All heads whip around to see Dick Grayson standing at the doorway, pale and shaking like a sheet in the wind. A broken bowl lays at his feet. Percy watches the milk and cereal seep into the plush carpet. Dick opens his mouth. Maybe he would say his name like Barbara had, quiet and unnerved. Maybe he would scream and shout for an answer, an explanation, anything that Percy had left them without. Maybe he would deny his own eyes, refusing to see ghosts in the middle of his house. 

Percy stands, and all that escapes from Dick Grayson is an ugly sob.

Before he can make any movements, Damian stands in front of Dick, knife drawn once again. 

"Grayson has never reacted so shockingly to a mere man." Damian bares his teeth and cocked his head. " Who are you? "

The rest of the family are tense, although no one but Barbara attempts to stop him. She extends her hand placatingly.

"Damian, put the knife away. Percy is a friend. We just..." She glances at him. "...Haven't seen him in a while." 

Damian starts to retort, but it dies in his throat when a large shadow engulfs him.

"What's happening here?"

There is a rustle of papers, followed by a blunt thud. Percy looks up to see Bruce Wayne, gaping and as white as the scattered files in front of him. The younger man plucks up the papers at the mercy of cereal milk. He tensely hands them back. 

Bruce stares at his extended hand. A moment too long passed before Percy begins to retract his hand. In a flurry, Bruce grabs his arm and pulls. Percy collides into his chest with a grunt. A large hand cradles his head onto a stiff shoulder. Percy's arms dangle uselessly until he feebly pats Bruce on the back. 

The billionaire no longer feels like a billionaire. He feels like the man who tucked him into bed, who laughed and sighed at his childish antics, who patted his head with adoration. He feels like the man who was once his father.

Bruce lets out a shuddering exhale.

"Percy... You're back..."

"Yeah..." 

When he finally approaches, Percy musters up the courage to smile at Dick past Bruce's wide shoulders. His freshly red rimmed eyes blink, clear blue lakes staring and processing. Dick holds his hand limply. Feeling the presence behind him, Bruce slips out of the embrace. The rush of cold air lasts only a second before the space in his arms is filled again.

Dick's hugs are different from Bruce's. Bruce's hug is a lone rock in a rushing river. You stand aware of the chaos around you but Bruce's embrace pulls you into a standstill. It's grounding. It roots you and keeps you in time with the rock's pulse. Over time, the rock will chip away and erode, but will still keep fighting for its place against the current. Dick's hug are full and intoxicating. He draws you in, purging every thought from your head until all you think of is his radiating warmth. The whole world stands still in his embrace. You could be everywhere and nowhere, left and right, up and down, but he leaves you senseless. All you want to be is in his arms.

Percy presses his cheek into his soft black hair. Dick is now a couple inches shorter than him, he notices. So, in true Percy fashion, he voices his thoughts.

"Look who's shorter now."

No one says anything. Percy winces as soon as he hears himself, his jokes probably too out of place in the tense atmosphere. Then, the figure in his arms shook. Hiccupping laughter breaks out from Dick, who attempts to muffle himself with Percy's shoulder. Barbara giggles a little, and even Bruce's ever straight mouth twitches up.

"Can someone explain what's happening here?"

Stephanie flails her arms in the air, sporting the same evident confusion on her face as the rest of Bruce's children. Percy, Dick, and Barbara glance between each other, then simultaneously turn to Bruce, who looks to Alfred. The explanation doesn't come from any of them though. It comes from one Tim Drake. 

"That's Perseus Jackson, also known as Percy. He was Bruce's second ward, taken in a year after Dick, then was supposedly kidnapped two years later, only to find his biological father and live with him from then on." He shows them an article on his phone. "At least, according to the statement Bruce gave. Then, it was radio silence for the next ten years. Until now, I suppose."

Percy raises an eyebrow. "First time I've had someone explain my backstory to me... But yeah, you caught me. This used to be my home too."

"It still is." Bruce interjects, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. "It still can be."

Percy smiles mirthlessly.

"We'll see."

Chapter Text

AUGUST 24, 2021.

Percy could inhale the food right then and there. 

It's the first time in a month that he finally gets to eat a proper human meal. Atlantean feasts made by the palace chefs aren't human, and two-minute noodles aren't meals no matter how hard he advocates for it. Except he chooses the path of dignity and calmly takes his portion. It's a draining endeavour, as no one really has self control when it comes to Alfred's cooking. (But no one missed the way he zealously eyes the various platters.) 

"Your food is as great as always, Alfred," he says after swallowing the first heavenly mouthful. Alfred expresses his thanks by heaping another spoonful of mashed potatoes onto his plate. He shovels more food into his mouth as quickly as he can without breaking his air of decorum. Which he really doesn't need to be concerned about, granted Jason and Stephanie tear into their chicken drumsticks like starved cavemen. Across the table, Babs rolls her eyes in both disgust and affection. She catches Percy's eye. 

"Remember, that used to be you whenever I came over to eat dinner." She nods to the two on her left side. 

"It's Alfred's cooking. Could you blame me? Or them?" He shrugs. "Besides, I've matured now. Mostly," he adds as an afterthought after glancing down at his demolished second helping. Dick coughs back a laugh next to him.

Steph glances up. "Hey, I'm plenty mature!"

Duke accusatorily stabs a fork in her direction. "Didn't you just make a 'your mom' joke?"

Percy snorts. "I mean, it was funny."

The blonde grins at him. The two air high-five across the table, much to Duke's dismay who groans and sinks further into his seat.

"Must we really add another fool to the family, Father?" Damian clicks his tongue from his seat beside Bruce. "Brown is already enough, and she's not even truly a part of the family."

Percy forces back the quip that he was taken into the family for years before Damian, except he's not a part of the family anymore , hasn't been for a decade , and Percy can't just come back and call them his family, these people who probably hate him under their smiles —

Bruce frowns imperceptibly. "Damian, they are both already part of the family. Even if they aren't adopted." He sends a surreptitious look to Stephanie who immediately holds up her hand in a stop gesture with a blank face in response. If Percy didn't know any better, he would say Bruce almost pouts. His ex-pseudo-father trains his gaze on him now, and Percy avoids that conversation with all the grace of a prince with how he snaps his head in the opposite direction and ogles a definitely not new painting on the wall. 

Damian huffs and stuffs a piece of fried tempeh into his mouth.

"Well, I'm not staying for long, so don't have to worry about that." Percy fixes his gaze on his empty plate. "This is just a brief thing, while I'm in town, y'know?" 

Three pairs of eyes stare at Percy in bewilderment. 

With a clatter of utensils, Dick latches onto his forearm. His glare drills holes into Percy's temple. "We just got you back, what do you mean you're leaving?" 

"Yeah, Percy." Tim looks up from his phone to see everyone's eyes on him. "What do you mean you're leaving after you bought an apartment in Gotham?" 

Percy's eyes widen marginally. Then he sits up straight and narrows his eyes at the teenager. 

"How do you know that I bought an apartment?" 

Tim scrambles up from his original slouched position and slips his phone into his pocket. He looks around the table, at the food, at his family, anywhere but Percy's sea-green eyes — how is this young man just as intimidating as Bruce? With an unexpectedly stiff voice, like his throat had seized up, he answers. 

"I-uhm well— Alfred told me!"  

The butler makes no reaction as he collects empty dishes. 

"You bought a place?" Bruce carves into his chicken slowly, keeping his movements controlled and precise. "Whereabouts?"

"Oh, y'know, not too far from here... Just four blocks away."

"Four blocks away... You mean the Ivory Apartments?" Percy stalls, then nods. 

Jason whistles lowly. The rest of the family seem to share the sentiment. Barbara's eyebrows lift past her hairline, while Steph and Duke regard him with a new found respect. Percy doesn't know what to think of their reactions. They all live in a damned mansion with a full fountain and a gala hall, for gods' sake. He doesn't know how living in a relatively expensive apartment building measures up to the modernised gothic castle that is Wayne Manor. So of course as Percy always does, he says something about it without thinking. 

"What, does it look like I can't afford the finer things in life?" 

They look between each other. Ah. He wonders what stereotype it is this time. Is it the fading scars littering his hands, or the rough texture of his cheekbones? Or maybe his cheeky, lopsided, troublemaker grin that promised he could never amount to anything in life? Or perhaps it's his cold and lifeless eyes, suggesting a meaningless nine-to-five with a measlier wage. (In all honesty, it might be the homeless chic ripped jeans. They did get a little muddy on the way.)

"You were completely off-grid for pretty much the whole time after you left, apart from the odd two or three articles accusing you of terrorism— Yes, I know they were all false claims, stop worrying—" Bruce sighs as soon as Percy (and Damian, expectedly) opens his mouth. "You would enroll in a school for the first couple years, only to be expelled after a few months. We genuinely didn't know what to think."

Percy isn't surprised that they had kept tabs on him throughout the years. With the money he has, it would have been all too easy for Bruce to hire a hacker or a private investigator to rummage through his footprint on the mortal world. Money and power often operate hand in hand after all. It's just a bit embarrassing that his mind had jumped to the most unsavoury accusations first. 

"The first year you were gone, with no contact at all… We kind of assumed anything was possible at that point. The scenarios ranged from you living a hermit life in the mountains to... being dead in a ditch." Dick's hand, which never left its place on his forearm, tightens. 

"Ah." Percy grimaces. "What vivid imaginations you all have."

"It's not like you gave us much to work with, Mister Nationwide Manhunt," Barbara ribs, with an unexpected bite at the edge of her voice. They both recoil.

"I didn't mean that—"

"I know. I understand where you guys are coming from." Percy rubs the back of his neck. "I suppose you all deserve an explanation... So, I told you I met my birth dad a little while after I left. He's kinda well-off, I guess. I was living with him and my step-family for most of the time."

"Most of the time?" Bruce catches on quickly. "What were the exceptions?"

I was out saving the world from two wars , is his first thought. It is immediately thrown out the back door. He then thinks about telling them about camp, until he realises that a man who can pull up his education history on an Excel spreadsheet will also be able to find out that an alleged strawberry company is not a summer camp. Luckily, his mouth is faster than his brain.

"I have a habit of running away, as you obviously know."

Unluckily, his mouth isn't any better than his brain.

"The times I ended up on the news were probably those times I ran away from home. Just some family problems. Deadbeat dads, what can you do?"

A concerning number of people at the table nod in understanding (including Damian, un expectedly? Knowing Bruce's tendencies, Percy doesn't question it). Bruce nods too, not exactly pleased with the answer, but resigned to accept it. 

"So..." Steph drawls, theatrically rubbing her hands together as a fly on the wall would do. "What about those cookies, huh?"

"Cookies?" Dick asks, cocking his head. "Alfred made cookies?"

"Nope, I did," Percy says just as Alfred brings them out on a silver platter. Dick's face spark with recognition. 

" Blue cookies?" he asks with a glint in his eye. On the other side of the table, Jason asks the same question but with a tad bit more skepticism and aversion. On his right side, Cass taps Percy on the shoulder. He looks at the girl's raised eyebrow, tilted head, and curious eyes.

"Things are just better when they're blue," he explains. 

Unlike Jason, Stephanie and Duke have no hesitancy in grabbing a warm cookie for themselves — two, in Steph's case. Percy and Dick watch the exact moment when the dessert melts on their tongues, and they seem to melt along with it.

"Holy—" Duke cuts himself off, sheepish under Alfred's pointed stare.

Steph has no such reservations. "—Fuck-a-moly."

"Miss Stephanie!" 

"Sorry Alf." She digs into her purple bomber jacket and drops a dollar into the awaiting 'swear jar'. "These are just too good!" 

"Thanks, It's my mom's recipe. I kinda spent all my free time trying to recreate it." 

Stephanie leans forward and bats her eyelashes fakely. "Could we have it? For, uh, research purposes, of course."

"Nuh uh, it's a passed down family heirloom." Percy smiles as the others bite into their own cookies, garnering similar reactions to the first two. Barbara scoffs at Dick trying to bite two in the same mouthful. 

"Could I join your family then?" The only viable options are a merman, a cyclops, and a very vengeful goddess. Choose your fighter, I guess. He bites back his tongue. 

"Please, you wouldn't be able to make it even if you followed the recipe to the tee. Which you still couldn't do, with your pitiful cooking skills." Jason swallows over half the cookie in one bite and brandishes the remaining like a sword. "This is obviously made with love. Nothing you would know about with your shriveled black heart." 

Stephanie's hand dramatically flies to her chest, meeting Jason's cookie strike with a parry. Tim slinks further under the table between them. "At least I have something there. You can't relate to that." 

"You just wanna join his family because he's hot, don't you?" snarks Timothy, shooting glares at the cookie crumbs falling in his lap. 

"Okay Tim, we get it . Keep it in your pants, would you?" she scowls playfully. "Some people are trying to have a civilised dinner here."

"What did I do?!" 

Sometime during the night, they all moved to the lounge. Percy doesn't know how he had been dragged into another two hours of conversation, filled with little anecdotes and bursts of laughter. Percy stays between Dick and Barbara, keeping his hand on top of hers. He refused to move from her side. She often caught him examining her wheelchair with a clenched jaw, only snapping out of his reverie when she pats his hand and provides an alleviating smile. Percy hardly joins into the conversation, letting the family swap stories on his behalf. Stephanie shakes a Monopoly box, eliciting groans from throughout the room. 

"That game takes hours !" exclaims Duke, collapsing against the sofa arm.

"And we all know Father or Gordon would be the winner," Damian points out, to Duke's delight. 

"I don't know Stephanie, it's getting pretty late," Bruce says, glancing at the pitch blackness outside the window. Percy catches the covert looks passed around the room, before standing up and dusting off his jeans. 

"I should get going before it gets too late," he says, reading his phone's clock. 11:46 PM. "Which it already is..."

"Your bedroom is the same, Master Perseus," speaks Alfred. "I'm sure Master Richard or Master Jason wouldn't mind lending you some more comfortable clothes to sleep in."

"What?" Despite his high-speed brain, he can't keep up. 

"You're staying the night, no?"

Percy waves his hands in front of him frantically. "What, it's fine, I could just walk home—"

"No!" 

Blinking, he processes the family's united disapproval. He presumes they've all been Gothamites for a while, so they know of Gotham's nightly troubles much better than he does. Cassandra tugs his sleeve from where she sits on the ground, shaking her head at him. Her hands move rapidly in a way he can't understand. 

"She says it's too dangerous at night," Babs translates. "And I agree. Sleep here for the night and leave in the morning." 

It's very difficult to say no to the whole family's pleading eyes (apart from the ever nonchalant Damian and Jason, but even they have a hint of worry in their downturned lips). He soon finds it easier to just relent to their wishes. As the family disperse through the Manor and he follows a familiar path up the stairs, Percy hears someone call his name. He turns to see Bruce waiting at the foot of the stairs, reaching out like he could have grabbed his hand despite being metres away. His hand drops.

"I just wanted to say... thank you."

He laughs at Percy's scrunched up expression. "For what?"

"For... being here. It's been a while since we've all had a dinner together like that." Bruce scratches the nape of his neck, scanning the carpet for specks of dirt. They both know Alfred does a damn good job, so he finds none. "I know I wasn't always the best father figure when you were here, so I'd understand if that was part of your reason to leave. But I'm doing my best to change."

He looks up at him, an ever so slight hint of a smile lighting up his features. "I'm glad you came today, Percy. And I'm glad you're alive." 

"I..." Percy looks away and clears his throat. "You should probably thank Alfred instead. If I had met anyone else yesterday, I think I'd already be two cities over by now." 

Bruce chuckles. "I'll be sure to do that. Good night, Percy."

"Good night, Bruce." 

Percy remains at the top of the stairs while Bruce walks away. He releases his death grip on the banister, feeling the blood come back to his fingers. That was... something.

He lets muscle memory carry him to his old bedroom, his mind still reeling from Bruce's sudden words. That was incredibly unlike the Bruce from his childhood. The Bruce that tucked him in at night would soothe and comfort and apologise on the rare occasion, but never admit to his own faults . That was unheard of. 

He stops in front of his old bedroom. His fingers trace around the empty slot in the door, made for a golden name placard that is present for all the other rooms around him. Gently, he pries the door open. 

It's like he never left. The air is soft, permeated with dust bunnies, nostalgia, and ocean-scent Febreze. Was his room always this small? 

Maybe if he waits and listens hard enough, he will hear his long-gone innocent giggles bouncing off the walls. He nudges the furry grey rug in the middle of the floor with his foot. Gone were the days when he could sit and sob on this rug, and within minutes he would find himself cuddled in the strong arms of someone, anyone, who would sway with him while whispering sweet nothings. He frowns at the little seashell souvenirs scattered around that young Percy would collect from their highly anticipated beach vacations. (A mental note is made to take them and release them back into the sea where they can rightfully live out their purpose.) A string of swimming trophies and medals decorate the shelves. Pasted and peeling posters of deep sea creatures cover majority of the wave themed wallpaper near his bed. The bed itself is clearly ocean inspired as well; spiralling and curlicue patterns embedded in the blue blanket, and various fish plushies accompany the cornflower pillows. 

The innate influence of his heritage on his child self is painfully obvious. He nearly cringes. 

Percy softens into the mattress, letting it engulf his lower body. He squeezes a small whale toy, surprised that an army of dust doesn't attack his face. 

"Alfred routinely cleaned your room."

Dick Grayson pushes off from where he was leaning on the doorframe and walks into the room. He places a set of sweatpants and a shirt over the edge of the bed.

"He said it was to keep it ready for when you came back. I guess he was right all along."

"When is he ever wrong?"

Dick laughs airily. "That's true. Maybe I shouldn't have doubted him."

"You doubted I would come back?"

Dick inhales steeply. "I... I'm sorry."

"No, don't be." Percy smiles at the air, his lips pulling astray and off-course. "I didn't think I would be here either."

Percy shuffles across the bed. The mattress creaks and dips under their joint weight. Dick props his legs up next to him and taps their toes together, like he used to in their childhood. 

"After that call… I didn’t think you’d wanna come back to us…" He laughs, self-deprecating in a way Percy never thought could be possible for the ever sunny Dick Grayson. “I mean, you did tell us to never contact you again.” 

Percy flinches. “I’m sorry.”

“I think we’re both sorry.”

They stare straight ahead in silence.

"So many things have changed... Gods, I can't get over what happened to Babs." Percy drops his head into his hands. Soothingly, Dick rubs the skin of his knee that peeks through the ripped fabric. Percy flinches away. Dick relaxes his hand between their thighs, leaving an open invitation. Soon enough, a feather light touch encases it. 

"You don't... hate me, do you?"

"No. Never ." Dick sits up to face him dead in the eyes. "None of us hate you."

"Hmm, I doubt that. I'm getting the feeling Damian hates me, that lil' pipsqueak," Percy laughs.

"Eh, Damian hates everybody at first." Dick rubs the pad of his thumb over Percy's knuckles. "I— We ... just want an explanation."

Percy leans back into the pillows. Dust still lingers in the air, alighted by the touch of moonlight filtering through the windows. They dance around his hair, a hazy imitation of a halo, a glowing crown. Soft moonlight reflects off his high cheekbones, making him look regal. 

"We can wait." 

Percy's attention flickers to Dick.

"We know there's an explanation for why you left. We can wait for as long as you need." Dick's head is lowered, focusing on kneading Percy's coarse fingertips. "Until you're ready."

With his thumb, he circles the heel of Percy’s palm. “It’s only fair, since we always kept you waiting back then.”

Percy’s hand jerks back. 

A black blur flashed past in his peripheral vision. He jolts up straight, staring at the door.

"Percy?" Dick's hand presses into his knee. He eases.

"Sorry. I just thought I saw something."

Dick glances at the analog clock on the bedside table. He curses softly. Now it's Percy's turn to be concerned. Ignoring the way his stomach clenches at Percy's soft calling of his name, Dick swings his legs out and hops off the bed. 

"It's getting late. Almost past my bedtime, y'know."

"You've got a bedtime? Still?" The other man smirks. 

Dick shoots him a grin, lying between his teeth with sugar on his tongue to hide the rotting taste of guilt. He waves a melodramatic hand around his countenance, a habit of seduce and distract . "A face this pretty takes effort. I've got to keep up my beauty sleep somehow." 

Percy seems to buy it, if his little chuckle is any reassurance. His black hair falls in front of his bright sea green eyes and another habit, brushing it away and tucking strands behind his ear, tries to take control of Dick's hand. 

You're lying again, like you always did back then. Dick's hand pauses in the air between them. He retracts it and robotically jabs a thumb behind him. 

"I'll get going now. Sleep well," he says, walking backwards.

Percy hums. "You too."

The door closes with a soft click. As soon as Percy feels Dick's presence leave the West Wing, he clambers over to the wooden study desk on the far side of the room. Everything is clean but untouched, as is the trend with the entire room. His fingers run into the crude grooves of the etchings he'd make with safety scissors. Even the stationary remains undisturbed by the looks of the yellowing note paper in the top drawer (not that it was ever disturbed even when he was a constant occupant of the house). Tearing the first page out, he scribbles down a quick note with Riptide in pen form — the déjà vu of the whole situation is not lost on him — and leaves it folded on the bed. 

He lets himself indulge in the sentimentality that took the life out of the room, while he stuffs his pockets with seashell décor. He closes his eyes, stopping before he sinks too deep. (How can he bear to revisit the room of a bygone child as a ghost of a man? How can he dare to poison this untouched innocence with his blood-soaked hands?) 

Climbing out the window the second time round is much easier than the first. 

Spoiler flips onto the railing that Nightwing perched upon, watching Red Robin land beside her. 

"Did you really have to research our guest while we were having dinner with him?"

Red Robin sends her a look, which she deftly ignores. Nightwing remains silent. 

"Hey, I was just doing what I do best." 

"Fucking shit up? Pretty sure that's my forte." 

Nightwing knows that was his que to leave before they drag him into their tussle. He leaves them on the building to swing around his designated area before spotting Orphan on a roof. He crouches next to her, staring out at the horizon. 

"It's been quite the night, huh?"

Orphan says nothing, but he knows she is listening. 

"I'm pretty sure Steph likes him. In a few weeks, they'd probably be like two peas in a pod. Damian obviously isn't thrilled about his presence, but I'm sure he'll come around. What about you, what do you think?" 

Orphan draws out a heart in the air. He grins and gathers her into a hug. 

"Aw, I know he likes you too, Cass." 

Wriggling out of his hands, she shakes her head. She prods a finger into his chest, makes a heart shape with her hand, and then points to the outskirts of the city — towards Wayne Manor.

Nightwing froze. A sharp intake of chilly air burns through his nose. He walks backwards to the edge of the building, letting the soles of his boots sway between the concrete and the thin air. Orphan remains quiet as usual, but Nightwing's silence is loud. He runs a hand through his thick hair.

"It... it's been a while." His mouth tastes wooden, like he'd sucked on a dry popsicle stick.

"I need time. We both need time." 

Chapter Text

AUGUST 24, 2021.

Did they add new traps in the gardens? 

Percy licks the blood off his thumb, glaring up at the retreating spikes on the Wayne Manor's garden wall. He pats himself down and makes sure the flying explosives in the grass didn't accidentally singe his clothing. Of course he should have expected a couple obstacles when it came to a billionaire's home defensive system, but he did think Bruce may have had a bit too much money on his hands. (Maybe he's just salty, because getting spooked by a laser wall was not in his nightly Bingo card.)

Is he guilty that he had left so abruptly (again)? Most evidently, with how he looked back at least ten times in the first 50 metres of his journey home. But at least he'd left a phone number in the note this time! That surely counts as character development?

The events of the night flash through his mind. The family dinner gave him a strange sort of peace he hadn't felt in the months without his friends. It was a peace that was boisterous, bickering, and built out of love.  The influence of the new occupants on the Manor leaves Percy's memories reeling. Gone are the days of silent, dark hallways and an air of elegant gloom. Even as he was hurried to the dining hall, Percy noticed more colour on the walls; clusters of photographs line places the public would never see, like little pockets of home within home.

Home. Di immortales, he has to stop thinking like that.

Percy blanches thinking about the apartment that is his current home. An innocent discussion about his moving out propositions had quickly turned into Poseidon gifting him his house of choice — mortifying mortgage attached, AKA the main source of Percy's recent headaches. O woe, the toils of adulthood. 

Despite having flown through New Rome University like a sped-up fever dream, getting his Bachelor's in marine biology in three years, he still can't decide on his future. He can't picture himself at an office job, hunched behind a computer while decoding rows of research data. But he also can't picture himself conducting and collecting that research, after thinking back to the painstaking work his professors did. When the thought of asking his father to gift him more money sheepishly crosses his mind, he barks out a laugh. How can he take part in the nepotism system after his childhood was filled with evil eyeing every trust fund kid he stumbled upon (Dick being one of them at some point)? Oh, the irony.

Gods, if he doesn't have the patience needed for a job, how will he handle the boredom of unemployment?

Tutting, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and kicked a pebble. It bounced into a trashcan and the trashcan whimpers. 

Wait. What?

Instantly, Percy's hand is wrapped around the pen in his pocket. He inches towards the noise, one hand extended as if he can tame whatever creature is within the alley's shadows. His gaze sharpens at the quivering pile.

"Please, please don't hurt us," sounds a woman's wracking sobs. Stepping closer, he can make out the body of a frail woman, clasping her hands at him. Two children hide behind her, peeking out momentarily with fear in their eyes. They all have ashen complexions and shallow cheeks. The mother, he assumes, covers her children dutifully despite her spindly arms. "Please, we don't have anything to give you. If anything, spare my children." 

Percy breathes in deeply. Peering deeper into the alleyway, he can discern more huddled figures, either resting under thin blankets or crowding around a tiny match fire. His jaw clenches, and the children let out poorly muffled whimpers. Backing away, Percy's attention darts around the dark neighbourhood. Then, he sees the two golden arches flickering a couple buildings away. Thank you, 24-hour McDonalds, for saving the day once again.

He speeds into the fast food place in no time. After rambling out a lengthy order of whatever he could read on the bright menu, he shoots the cashier a guilty smile. While his order is cooking, Percy sprints out to the convenience he had spotted earlier. Buying a bag full of canned foods and supplies, Percy makes it back just in time to see his order get called out. The overwhelmed worker steps back hastily as he grabs more than four paper bags off the counter, spitting out a quick thank you and rushing out the door. 

He slows to a stop in front of the same alleyway. The mother is quick to herd her children away when she sees him, but stiffened when he places the paper bag in front of her. Quietly, he nudges the food towards them, adding a stack of cans and bandages to the collection.

"It's food, ma'am." 

At the mere mention of food, the two children look up. They begin to reach for the bags, but the mother doesn't share the sentiment. She grabs their hands gently and purses her lips.

"This isn't drugged or anything, is it? No weirdo wacko chemicals in there, tryna turn my kids into metas?" She hunches closer to her babies. "People, children, have been disappearing off the streets. I don't want you stealing my children away to join a gang, or whatnot." 

"I promise ma'am, there's nothing wrong with the food." He crouches down before them, smiling as best he could. "No drugs, no chemicals, just food and some medical supplies."

As he makes his way down the passage, he can hear the mother whispering to her children: "I'll eat first, okay? If nothing happens to me in five minutes, you two have the rest."

He moves on quickly, for the mother bore too much of a resemblance to his own. Just a woman saving her children the best she could in a cruel and dark world. He offers the same goods to the remaining families down the long alley, who react with similar distrust. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Percy stiffens when something catches his leg, only to see the mother clutching the edge of his pants. 

"Thank you. So, so much," she chokes out, blinking back her teary eyes. 

Percy gives her a nod and a wobbly smile through his frown. As soon as he turns the corner, he lets his mask fall. 

What is Batman doing? There are vulnerable people everywhere; people in poverty, people in crisis, people in need. Vulnerable families who are perfect collateral for villains. Endless livelihoods for scientists to bleed through, stuck in the dark nooks and crannies of the city. Places where no one is aware, or worse ignorant, of their presence, so who would miss them in their absence? Batman and his crew can go out and defeat the big bad villains and trafficking schemes all they like, but they would keep coming back because their numbers are endless. Involuntary, but endless. 

The next block is uneventful, thankfully. Until a string of curses floats out from behind a giant garbage bin. Percy wonders if the same tactic would work this time. He aims the pebble at the bin, only for it to skid right past. (Perhaps he forgot about his spectacularly shitty aim.)

"Ow—"

He winces. A hooded head keeks out from the shadows, mumbling with a clenched jaw.

"Who the fuck threw a pebble at me—" She slinks back at the sight of him. "Ah, shit."

She's just a girl, he realises. A little girl half his height, wearing dusty and dark clothing. Her black face mask is tucked under her chin, revealing squishy baby fat cheeks. Slivers of dyed hair sneak past her hood. She's in the middle of wrapping a grazed shin, until he steps towards her. Now she's clutching the bandages like a weapon to throw. The girl stands up and shuffles her feet. Although shaky, he can tell it is a fighting stance, coiled and ready.

Despite her being just a child, Percy still scans her potential weak points. He narrows his eyes and the girl immediately jumps away from him.

"Hey, I don't know who sent you or who you're from, but I'm not afraid to get my hands a little dirty, okay bud?" she threatens. "I won't let you take me alive."

"I'm not from a gang, or a meta trafficking facility, or any villainous organisation." Percy raises his hands in the universal surrender gesture. She looks dubious. "I'm not here to take you anywhere, except maybe your house. Just sit down, kid." 

"No." She backs further into the shadows. "You can't tell me what to do."

Percy nods and kneels to her eye level. "Alright, fine, don't sit down then." He reaches his hand out for the bandages, then hums slightly when she doesn't respond. "I just want to help you wrap up your injuries. Your hands were shaking when you tried." 

The girl's glower deepens, then she gives him the small roll. He bandages her shin, then her bruising knuckles. He inspects them carefully, frowning. The most bruising appeared on her index and middle base knuckles, a sure sign of a fight. Upon further inspection of her face, he notices scratches on her chin and that she's sucking the blood out of a split lip. 

"Don't do that. It makes it worse." 

"Don't tell me what to do," she huffs, crossing her arms. (Although, she did stop instantly.)

"What were you doing out here?" He carefully wraps her hand, watching her reaction as he tightens it. 

"Just... going out for a stroll. Doing some errands, as you do, obviously." She blows a piece of (blue?) hair from her face. 

"Right... Just walking around in the middle of the night?"

"Hey, you're walking out in the middle of the night!" she points out, jabbing his chest.

"Well, the difference between me and you is that I'm a grown adult man, while you're a short little girl."

She clicks her tongue. "You already said 'short', so there's no need for 'little'. It's redundant. Same thing with 'grown' and 'adult'. You're wasting your breath by saying more words."

"Right," he grins. "Thanks, professor."

He places a warm hand on her shoulder. Chanting a nonverbal Atlantean healing spell in his head, a miniscule flash of blue light forms under his palm. "We should get you home. Do you wanna give me the number of your guardian?"

The girl recoils from his touch, glancing around the alley like a cornered stray. Percy's neck tightens. 

"Or is there someone's house that you could be safe in?" he tries.

He hears them before he sees them. Two pairs of feet crunch the pavement under their landing. She looks behind him before releasing another set of curse words she shouldn't know. Percy raises his eyebrow. 

"Is everything alright here?" 

Two heroes, it seems. One in all purple with a hood and a face mask, and the other in red and black with a yellow chest harness connected to his cape. The girl squeaks beside him. At her eye level, he can see how they're intimidating. Their silhouettes cast long shadows into the endless alleyway and both of their capes billow restlessly in the wind. The effects soon end when he stands up and towers a head taller than them.

"Heroes," he greets, because he can't for the life of him remember their names. "Would you mind taking this girl home?" 

"We'd be happy to," says the purple-clad female after staring for a beat longer than necessary. He quickly whispers to them. 

"I'm worried, so could you make sure that her home and its occupants are... suitable?"

She nods tersely, then squats and offers her hand out to the girl. The other hero tilts his head at him.

"Would you like someone to accompany you home as well?" He shakes his head before the red hero (oh right, Red Robin, like the restaurant chain!) can barrage him with more questions.

"No, I'll be alright. Have a nice night." He waves away their looks of concern, already backing out of the passageway. He shakes his finger at the girl playfully. "And stay out of trouble, professor"

He walks away just in time to miss their questioning looks, but still close enough to hear Red Robin's weary sigh. "Someone's not gonna like this..." 

The thought of the heroes fill his head the rest of the way back. He can tell they care immensely, judging by how keen they were to help the girl. But Batman has them focused on the wrong priorities. 

Percy stops at the rows of post boxes at the ground floor of his apartment. The potted plant next to it depressed further in greeting, and he discreetly summons some water to its soil. He remembers chatting to children of Demeter about plants whenever he took refuge from Annabeth's wrath within the strawberry fields at Camp. "You can see the problem in the leaves, but you can find the problem in its roots."

Batman wants to reduce the crime in Gotham? Well, he's looking at it all wrong. He's focused on the leaves splattered with red; what he needs to see are the blackened and dying roots, obscured underneath the fanfare. 

Percy cracks his knuckles, finally figuring out what to do with his free time. If you want something done, it's best to do it yourself, after all.

AUGUST 25, 2021.

"Bad Boy Supreme is in the house!"

"Damn, that was fast!" Percy laughs and kicks the door shut behind him after Leo Valdez saunters in. 

"Well?" he drops his voice conspiratorially low. "Have you got the goods?"

"I stayed up all night working on this as soon as you called me! Caly was so mad, but it was so worth it!" Leo sets his bag on the kitchen counter's barstool. With a splitting grin and a dramatic flourish, he pulls the fabric out. "Ta-da!"

Percy stares at the dark blue pieces of clothing, blinking slowly. Huffing, Leo shoves them in his hands. His curly brown hair does little to hide the red tingeing his ears.

"It'll be more impressive when you wear it, Aqualad. Ooh, is that gonna be your hero name?"

"Pretty sure that's taken already, Repair Boy." He shuffles into his bedroom, after calling out. "Make yourself at home, help yourself to whatever food you can find!"

"Bro, I already checked! There's nothing in your fridge!"

After a moment, he hears the unmistakable crinkling of a chip packet. "Hey, what's your actual superhero name gonna be?" 

"I was thinking maybe Riptide? Keep it clean and straightforward. I'm there to do good, not be flashy. That's my thinking anyways." Percy shrugs to himself.

"Very cool, very noble. That's on brand for you." Percy can practically see him nodding thoughtfully. 

A few minutes later, Percy comes out adjusting the neckline of the suit. The base suit itself is dark navy blue, with black lightweight Kevlar pads across the torso, mimicking Roman armour. Marginally elevated from the rest of the suit are blue swirls slithering down his arms from sharp curves on his shoulder blades. The same elevated wave-like patterns snake down his thighs and calves. More blue stripes run up his torso and split into a trident at the centre of his chest. The middle prong extends to the edge of the high neck collar and down into the black compact utility belt at his waist. His hands remain uncovered and shin high black boots protect his feet. 

Leo buzzes at the sight of him and starts rattling off about his creation. 

"I based the patterns on your limbs off of the Atlantean heroes I saw on TV. You know how they can make more water from the tattoos on their arms? Well, same thing, these can be water stores if you're ever in a drier situation." They both laugh at his dumb pun connecting the words 'dire' and 'drier'. Percy summons water from the tap and splashes himself, watching the liquid soak into the blue fabric seamlessly. "And the utility is completely equipped with stuff I was working on before, and I got some more inspiration from the Bats, y'know, since you're a Gotham hero now. There's the grappling gun, some smaller knives, a smoke bomb or two, space for Riptide, a couple snack pockets and whatever else you might need..." he trails off, placing a hand on his chin. "Oh! And I kinda based the foundation of the suit off Nightwing, so if he sues you for copyright infringement, just send him over to me!"

Percy examines himself, noting how similar the colour scheme is to Nightwing's. "Hope it doesn't get to that, but alright, I'll keep that in mind..." 

"Man, you don't know how long I've waited for this moment to come. You know it was my childhood dream to design a super suit?" He places a melodramatic hand on Percy's shoulder and wipes away a faux tear. "You just made mini Leo's dream come true!"

"Glad to be of service, Edna Mode." 

They grin at each other. "No capes!"

Percy grimaces right after the words leave his mouth. "Uh, about that..."

"Are you kidding me right now?" Leo deadpans. "Are you planning on getting a cowl, like Batman or something? Or even worse, that ugly skin tight condom cowl Red Robin used to have?"

"I don't think he wears it anymore—" 

"Thank the gods for that!" he explodes. Quite literally. A couple of his curls catch on fire and Percy douses it out.

"It's not a cowl. Just a cape with a hood, and some weapon-proof capabilities." He pops into his room to grab it. "This is the Nemean Lion's pelt, a supposed 'gift' from my dad." Is it really a gift if I owned it first? Does that count as regifting? "I got its form changed in Atlantis, 'cause the duster jacket really wasn't a good look on me. And they added a couple extra tricks as well."

He drapes the dark material around his shoulders and props the hood up. White and sea green Atlantean patterns line the edges fading into black. He presses the round glamour charmed brooch resting on his clavicle, letting the magic reform his appearance. 

Leo's eyebrow raises. "Cool, cool, cool... Though, you might wanna look in the mirror, Water boy." 

Percy frowns and rushes into the bathroom. At first glance, he looks good. The extra armour makes him look a little more built than his usual lean swimmer form. The colours of the pelt reflect the effects of the glamour magic; his hair is now completely silvery white, and the sea green of his irises cover the entirety of his eyes. He squints at himself. 

"...Fuck, I look like Danny Phantom!"

Chapter Text

AUGUST 25, 2021.

Simultaneously, Percy shuts the door and hops around trying to kick on his running shoes, far too lazy to reach down to untie and retie the laces. He leaves Leo and his mutterings alone, giving him free reign with his new project in his apartment. Percy realised early on that he couldn't just throw his superhero paraphernalia around his house like little explosive shelf decorations, incase his darling friends decided to resurrect their habit of invading his space unexpectedly — a highly likely scenario, seeing how Leo had already reorganized his pantry to suit his dire height requirements. A crash and a bang sounds from within. Percy eyes the door warily, half-expecting it to fly off its hinges — yet another highly likely scenario. Maybe giving Leo full control was a decision that required a bit more foresight, but Percy trusts him. The two are quite similar in many regards; they're both cheeky rogues, with a stupid sense of humour, and carried the guilt of deceased mothers at an early age. It's guaranteed that he'd make something gorgeous. Percy's only demand was to keep with the blue theme — to which Leo stared at him blankly, a bit like Annabeth after he'd innocently asked a question when the answer was right between his eyes. 

Percy catches himself before he skidded across the cobblestones of the building's entrance. He peels the flyer off the bottom of his shoe when the writing catches his eye. 

'Part-time babysitter needed! For a young teen girl with ADHD. Extensive child care credentials not necessary, first aid knowledge required, (experience dealing with ADHD children may be helpful). Please call XXX-XXX-XXXX if interested.'

He reads through the information over and over again, checking off the requirements in his head. While he doesn't have the patience for a desk job, children are definitely less of a bore. He loved teaching the campers as a seasoned head counselor, and he has plenty of experience dealing with their ADHD and fixing up their wounds. This... sounds like something he could genuinely enjoy. Not to mention, the pay attached sweetens the deal quite heftily. He stuffs the paper into his pocket. 

He can't help but wonder if the kid's ADHD is a sign of a demigod. But he waves away the thought, remembering that a diagnosis is very common these days. Even then, there are demigods without ADHD or dyslexia, such as his friend Frank Zhang, who's cursed with something worse: lactose intolerance. (That never came between him and a whole double cheese pizza though.) 

As he enters the park, Percy taps on the indie rock band that Leo had recommended just because Calypso talked about it before he came to Gotham. He shakes his head amusedly. Good for him, that simp. He winces as memories of his own past infatuations rise up.

Brrrring...!

He glances down at the caller ID. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Dick is going to genuinely pull his hair out. It all started when Spoiler and Red Robin came back to the Batcave, more fidgety than usual. Of course, Tim's always jittery due to anxiety or the copious amounts of caffeine in his bloodstream, and Stephanie's always tinkering with something due her inability to keep her hands to herself. But when they came back constantly glancing at him, or Bruce, or Babs, then sharing their own little looks, Dick couldn't help but let the Bat paranoia corrupt his better judgement. The next domino to fall was when Dick called them out on their behaviour. The two looked at each other with pursed lips until Tim stepped forward. Dick didn't process any of his words after hearing that they saw Percy outside. Outside, in the middle of the night, well away from the Manor. Further from safety and closer to the horrendous possibilities Gotham had on offer. 

Looking back at it, he really shouldn't have let the dread warp his rational thinking. If he took a few deep breaths, maybe he would have realised that the Ivory Apartments weren't that far from Wayne Manor and Percy would have made it home by now. Maybe he would have heard Tim say that they'd kept an eye on his journey from the rooftops. Maybe he would have rushed up to Percy's room first and realised he had a modus operandi, consisting of wide open windows and cryptic notes on the bed. Maybe he wouldn't have sprinted outside and bounded over rooftops, scanning every alley for Percy's possibly beat up body. Maybe he wouldn't have hacked every security camera in the area to see Percy safely enter the building (while keenly noting his apartment number from the postbox). 

Dick musses up his hair after getting up from the worst sleep of his life (that's a gross exaggeration, because nothing can beat his first week at Wayne Manor). He snuck back in from his extra impromptu patrol session well past dawn, incapable of hearing any reprimands or teasing or apologies. He only smiled weakly at Cass who let him through after awaiting his return at the foot of his door, then collapsed into the bed. Upon waking up and recollecting scenes of the previous day, his mood spikes and plummets like a volatile heart rate. So he does what every Bat would do when they aren't feeling the aster: work out until he can't feel his hands or his emotions. 

He takes the long way to avoid seeing Percy's door — AKA the door right across from his own. Therefore, the long way means scaling down from his balcony window (Percy-style, his brain adds unhelpfully), then going through the gardens to the opposite side of the Manor. At least that's his warm up completed. Immediately, he vaults onto the gymnastics rings and lets muscle memory steer the wheel while his mind takes the backseat. 

"Master Richard, I have something of interest for you."

Dick had moved on to the dumbbell stand by the time Alfred finds him. He turns and stares quizzically, forfeiting his usual reassured smile. He never has to fake in front of Alfred. The butler holds up a slip of yellowed paper between two fingers. He drops the note into Dick's palm with another one of his hidden smiles. His jaw clenches at the onslaught of deja vu hitting his senses. Until it flickers into a spark of hope — hope that history really does repeat itself.

The note is written in all capital letters, sharpened and edgy. 

'thanks for dinner, i had fun. gonna hafta go now, but dont worry about me. see u laters'

If Dick had Superman's powers, his laser eyes would have burnt through the phone number scribbled at the bottom. He makes sure to keep his fingers far away from it, as if touching even a nanometer of ink will smudge the whole thing away. He just stares, he doesn't blink, and he probably sits there for ten minutes straight. He hardly notices himself taking out his phone and adding a new contact. With each number that he enters, a new worry comes to him. What if he's busy and doesn't pick up? What would he even say to him? What would he start with? What if there's an awkward silence the whole time? What if he hangs up? What if he declines the call from the get go? What happens if he wrote the number wrong on accident? What if he wrote the number wrong on purpose?

He chastises himself for that last thought. Despite the ten years Percy lived and changed through without him (that's a scary thought, a really scary notion that Dick doesn't want to think about at all), Dick knows he can never be mean. He could be snarky or sarcastic, but Dick knows Percy Jackson, at any age, would never hurt someone for his own enjoyment.

Lost in his thoughts, his hand relaxes enough to rest on his phone screen.

Brrrring...! Brrri—

Percy picks up pleasingly quickly. Batman's teachings engraved in Dick's veins ensures his hands don't shake, but his brain is a baby's rattle toy: insistent and annoyingly loud. What do I even say?—

"You've got a really bad habit, y'know." 

The initial moment of silence does nothing to help his rapid pulse, but the breathy chuckle that follows makes it so much worse (and all the more worth it).

"Yeah well, I warned you didn't I?" Dick has never felt so glad to hear his teasing.

"I didn't think you'd be relapsing so soon though." 

His sharp laughter is a breath of fresh air. 

"What are you doing right now? Sounds like you're outside," Dick questions.

"Oh, I'm on a run right now."

"Wait, should I call back later then?" It hurts him to say it, but Dick is nothing if not an ever polite gentleman.

"Nah, it's alright. I can run and talk at the same time." Dick glances over at the weights he abandoned, suddenly compelled to multitask. "Besides, I wanna talk to you and catch up."

Dick swaps out his dumbbells for lighter ones, feeling much warmer than he usually would.

"Let's video call," he says.

"Huh?" Dick can hear him stumble in surprise. "Oh, uh, sure."

They both turn on their cameras. Dick balances the phone on the dumbbell stand, angling it oh-so conveniently that his biceps are in perfect view. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, ignorant of Percy's lingering stare.

"You're working out too?"

"Yeah, I usually come in here when I'm stressed or upset or something."

"What's got you upset?" Percy brings his phone higher, frowning straight at his eyes.

Dick's body stalls as he blinks slowly at him. He squints hard. "Take a guess, Percy."

At least Percy has the decency to look sheepish, turning away and coughing into his fist. He lowers the phone, revealing the red climbing up his tanned neck. Dick has to admit it's a good look on him. 

"I'm sorry about that... I didn't mean to make you stressed." He tries for a vague smile. "But I got better, didn't I? I left my number!" 

Dick grumbles playfully, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, at least you pick up now." In the couple of days that Percy and Grover travelled from Gotham to Long Island, Dick and Bruce had spammed him with calls. Percy kept the phone, refusing to give it up despite never answering. It was only until the monsters that arrived with every call became too unbearable that he let Grover throw it out. 

The dreaded silence arrives with time, but it isn't stagnant like Dick feared. He takes this time to study Percy, like he's trying to commit him to memory before he runs away again. The sun shines on his tan skin, highlighting his sharp and brooding facial features. A stroke of stark grey stands out against his spiky black hair. It's too familiar for Dick's liking.

"Hey, that's new," he points out inconspicuously. "The grey streak, I mean."

Percy's hand automatically reaches up to toy with the strands. "Oh, I... dyed it with my best friend. We have matching streaks."

Relief fills him up like a gust of wind. He was worried for nothing, as usual — Percy's eyes aren't the same green as Jason's.

"Your best friend, hm? Oh, do you still talk to your best friend from GA? What was his name... Grover, I think?" 

Dick is surprised he can still discern the way Percy's face lights up minutely. The younger man starts rambling on about his two best friends, one of which is still Grover Underwood and the other is a girl he met at an ADHD-friendly summer camp, the one with the matching streak. Dick continues his bicep curls, adding his two cents whenever necessary. Somehow, Percy can carry a perfectly clear conversation while running at a steady and speedy pace. Dick pauses in his workout while watching a singular drop of sweat slide from his hairline down his sharp jaw. He tries to cough his furious blush away, but it only makes Percy look down at the camera in question.

"Ahem— Hey, who's your favourite superhero?" Dick grins. "Is it still Robin?" 

Percy shakes his head and Dick's smile droops. "Nah, I think it's Wonder Woman now, she's cool. Oh, and Aquaman is pretty cool as well." 

Dick can't argue with that. But his eyes spark as another opportunity comes to him. "What about your favourite Bat?"

Percy snorts. "Your family really likes asking this question, huh? Stephanie and Tim tried to ask me about it on two separate occasions yesterday."

"Pretty sure it's every Gothamite's go-to ice breaker. Works like a charm every time," he winks. "Besides, I remember you asking all my friends that whenever they came over."

Percy's skin flushes again, and Dick now realises his new favourite hobby.

"I don't remember that!" Percy squeaks out indignantly. 

"But you did though! I remember you getting so upset over Artemis saying her favourite was Batgirl and not Robin!" Dick only remembers that because of how brightly he blushed while twelve-year-old Percy ranted on about how Robin was better than both Batgirl and Batman. (And how mercilessly the Team taunted him back at the Cave.) Dick smiles fondly and Percy notices.

"How... How are they?" he asks tentatively. "Your friends, I mean. Wally, Artemis, and... Connor, and Megan, right?" 

"I think they'd love to see you again, Percy. They were worried too, you know." Dick studies how his eyes tighten at the corners, making his sea green irises darker than they were. 

"Yeah, so I keep hearing." Dick tries to ignore the jagged edge of his words or how they cut deeply into his skin. Instead, he turns the conversation back to his original wonder. Percy thinks for a bit. 

"Hm, probably Nightwing. He is a Bat, right?"

Dick nods vigorously. Discreetly, his chest puffs out and his arms pump a little faster in his workout. He prods on, "Why?"

Percy shrugs. "They're all pretty cool in their own way, but he's the only one with blue in his outfit." 

Dick hums. It isn't the reason he was hoping for, but he takes it anyway. A win is a win after all.

"Oh, and he's hot as fuck."

Dick's shoulders jolt forward and he nearly punctures his own gut with the weights in his hands. Shoving the dumbbell stand in the motion, the carefully balanced phone teeters off. He catches it with his free hand. Red faced and open mouthed, Dick stares down at an indifferent Percy. 

"Wh-What?" 

Percy shrugs again, but Dick can see the slight pink over his smirking face. (They're blushing a whole lot during this call, he realises belatedly.)

"I said what I said. The man is dreamy." His smile stretches a little wider and his cheeks turn a little darker. To Dick's delight (or horror, he can't tell), Percy continues. "Man, he's just a whole snack. I mean, he looks like he'd treat me right, y'know? I'm grateful to live in the same timeline as him, to be honest. I think I'd flirt with him if I ever saw him." 

It's a real wonder how Dick can still breathe. He knows he's pretty and has a gorgeous physique after years of work. He's seen the appreciative gazes of men and women alike; he's read through the forum pages about the Gotham vigilantes, ones about him in specific; he's seen himself in the mirror, for goodness' sake. All this is enough for him to maintain a calm appearance in the face of a compliment. So why is he so flustered now? Dick Grayson, cool and charismatic charmer extraordinaire, the guy who has confidence flowing like the blood in his system — blushing over a guy giving him a compliment? Unheard of. But it isn't just some guy.  It's Percy, who laughs at himself through the embarrassment. Percy, who wears an endearing smirk on his lips and the tiniest sparkle in his eyes. Percy, who grew up to look like a Greek god depicted in legends. Percy, who was Dick's childhood crush for two years. 

Dick's thoughts falter. What if... Batman's infectious paranoia taught him to consider every possibility, to leave no rock unturned. There is a possibility, staring at him straight in the face. Batman would chase after it.

But he isn't Batman, now is he?

It's the shock of Percy's return, he concludes. It makes complete logical sense. His confused state is merely the byproduct of his excitement over Percy coming back — and staying. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Because some rocks just shouldn't be turned. 

Riptide presses his fingers into the blue swirls on his vigilante suit, childishly marveling at their squishiness. Despite having filled the specialised foam to the brim, the water remains trapped unless he water-bends them out — another indication of Leo's genius. 

He grapples his way across roofs, slowly getting used to the feeling. Difficult as it is, Riptide enjoys the brief weightlessness before the line goes taut. It reminds him of floating in water, letting the wind sweep him around like lazy currents. He lands in an alley and tosses his empty paper bag into the recycling bin. The majority of his first patrol consisted of dropping off food and supplies anonymously to families at the outskirts of the Narrows. He decided to venture further when he had more information, specifically about the gangs and turf wars within it. Now, he sits on a random roof's ledge, keeping his eyes peeled for crime — and his fellow crime fighters. It would be unlucky to run into another Gotham vigilante on his first night. Therefore, knowing his track record and the fact that The Fates watch over his life like a Netflix comedy special, Riptide knows they have to show up sooner or later. He just hopes he'll get the better end of the shortest stick by meeting Nightwing first. 

He grins as he remembered his conversation with Dick earlier in the afternoon. The run had left him a bit hotter and sweatier than usual, but it must have been the effort from talking at the same time. Maybe he shouldn't have gone into so much detail about his favouritism for Nightwing, given by how red the older man was. Dick was a strong flirt when they were younger, so Percy doesn't know how he grew up to be so reactive. Then again, people change. Percy sure did. 

They kept chatting for a couple hours until Leo keyboard smashed a text about his project in the apartment. The secret closet turned out to be gorgeous. It's hidden behind the wall attached bookshelf and opens once Percy presses a hidden panel and said 'Anaklusmos', embedded with both finger print and voice recognition tech. Percy is rarely fazed by mythological logic (or lack thereof), but the answer to how Leo built a whole new gap in his wall without alerting his neighbours escapes him. Again, he learnt not to question anything when the mechanic promptly answered, "Magic." The secret wardrobe, as Percy christened unceremoniously, is simple steel metal decked out in blue LEDs. Leo, ever the sweetheart, added a couple extra mortal weapons to his collection, a few of which are currently strapped to his waist. Leo said he'd come back some day to install a self-cleaning function to the wardrobe and the suit, to which Percy restrained himself from kissing him and opted for a bone-breaking hug instead. 

Riptide props one foot up and hugged his knee to his chest while the other leg dangles over the ledge. He gazes lazily around the cityscape, looking for a flash of blue against the black and grey. He knows Nightwing occasionally patrolled in Gotham from his chat with Dick: 

("What do you mean you've seen Nightwing a couple times?" Percy pressed his face up close to the screen, so Dick got an odd angle view of his narrow and skeptical eyes. "Doesn't he live in Blüdhaven?" 

"Yeah, but he comes up to Gotham a couple times. Probably for fun, I think. But the only times I've seen him are in Blüdhaven." 

"You live there?" 

"Moved there when I was eighteen or nineteen. I'm a cop at the BHPD now." 

Percy's nose scrunched immediately at the mention of the police, and Dick could unfortunately understand the reaction. The BHPD was better known for its corrupt higher-ups than their help around the city. Nightwing, as a lone figure, probably had more arrests than all of Dick's colleagues combined. 

"Why are you here then?" Percy questioned. 

"They've put me on mental health leave because I witnessed two gruesome murders in my last case." Dick rolled his eyes, before realising that wouldn't be the expected reaction for a seemingly 'normal cop' to have. Luckily, Percy didn't seem to notice. "I've just been hanging around Wayne Manor for fun, I suppose. But I'm glad I did, because we got to meet again." 

Percy's face fell expressionless for a painstakingly long second. Then, he smiled back at him.) 

Batman must have taught his proteges the importance in the element of surprise, because they keep sneaking up on him from behind. Again, he hears the vigilante's feather light feet first. He turns his head sharply and the footsteps stopped. 

"I was wondering when one of you guys would show up to throw me a welcome party." 

"Who are you?" The voice is weird and gravelly — a voice modifier. 

"Damn, where's the 'hi, hello, how are you?' Didn't Batman teach you manners?" Riptide swings his legs around and turns. A slow smirk spreads on his face as he recognises the intruder. 

"Nevermind. You're hot, so manners don't matter as much." He gets up to his feet and the other vigilante tenses. "Do you feel lucky to be my exception, Nightwing?" 

Nightwing doesn't appreciate the honour just as much as Riptide thinks he should. His jaw clenches imperceptibly. "Answer my question. Who are you and what are you doing here?" 

"Uh, that's two questions actually." Riptide taps his chin and continues on with his previous musings. "Maybe I'm the lucky one to be honest, to be able to meet you first before the others. Though I did think you'd be a little nicer to a newbie vigilante." 

Nightwing remains unimpressed. Riptide sighs. 

"Ugh, fine. You're so lucky you're cute, y'know?" He wags his finger accusingly and frowns. 

"The name's Tide, Riptide." The frown doesn't last long as he grins at his own reference. "And I'm here for the same reason you are."

"Which is?" Riptide dislikes the interrogative nature of this interaction. The moon above them may as well be an interrogation lamp in his face. 

"Kinda concerning that you don't know your own reasons," Riptide points out but shrugs in sympathy. "But hey, we're all still figuring out our purpose in life. Don't worry dude, me too."

Nightwing pauses and Riptide can tell he's resisting the urge to massage his temples. Instead, he slowly tries to approach him. Riptide walks backwards, keeping the distance between them constant. 

"Look, personally I would give you a chance to prove yourself as a trustworthy vigilante." Riptide can't help but compare Nightwing to an eldest child trying to pacify his siblings with the way he spreads his hands, open and supportive. "But I'm sure Batman wouldn't like to have an unknown meta or magic wielder in his city." 

"Why do you think I have powers?" Riptide blurts out. 

Nightwing raises an eyebrow under his domino mask. "Your eyes glow." 

Riptide wished his red cheeks blend in with the shadows under his hood. 

"Hey now, I can't be selling out all my secrets just yet. Apparently, there's a certain appeal in a man with a mystery. Gotta check if it works," he winks. "But I don't have powers of any sort, so guess again." 

Nightwing obviously doesn't believe him. Riptide watches the way his hand twitch towards his escrima sticks. He backs away before jumping onto the building's fire escape. The suppressed creaks of rusty metal ring out clear in the silent tension. 

"Maybe people were on to something when they said 'never meet your heroes'." Riptide purses his lips and balances on the metal railings. Then he smirks. "So it's a good thing you're just a celebrity crush, Wing." 

The last thing he sees before falling into the alley below is Nightwing's outstretched hand.

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER 3, 2021

The two storey brick house is a breath of fresh air between all the dark and drab of Gotham. Traditional red brick, covered in striving vines, and flowers lounge on the faded wooden steps up to the porch. It almost seems like Apollo made an exception for this patch of land, allowing the weathered house and flourishing greenery to soak up his sunlight while the rest of the city remains cold. 

Percy inserts his key into the white polished door, scanning around the small front garden. He can't see Gato, the cat that tended to make this residence his home, so Percy assumes he must already be inside. Before he can turn the key however, the door opens.

Percy looks down at the older woman smiling at him. Despite being in her mid-thirties, she looks rather youthful and well-rested. Her short golden brown hair is pulled back into a short ponytail revealing whitened locks streaking up from her temple, with a few loose strands framing her face. Her light brown skin crinkles into a pretty little dimple at the corner of her lip. She fiddles with her purse in her lap with one hand, while rolling her wheelchair out of the doorway. 

"Percy, right on time!"

(He isn't on time at all, actually. He's thirty minutes late, because his ADHD saddled mind wouldn't let him move off the couch despite knowing full well that he had to move off the couch, until he was already late but still had to stave off the imminent mental breakdown over possibly disappointing someone with his full respect.)

"Hey, Coraline. Mariana's upstairs, right?"

The woman nods. "Oh, before I forget—" She speedily wheels herself into the kitchen, where she drops a little bag of treats into his hand. The shortbread cookies are carefully stacked on top of each other, each a perfect little circle of goodness. Stiff, sugary, and blue icing is lathered on top. Percy handles the bundle like a newborn lamb.

"Mari and I were making cookies yesterday. We made them blue, because she talked about how it's your favourite colour," she shrugs, as if this little act didn't instantly make Percy's whole week better.

The tears may come back now, because Coraline Trenche must be the greatest boss on Earth. (Percy's sure Bruce is nice to the employees at Wayne Enterprises, but Coraline is too sweet and understanding to be beat.) She was actually his old English teacher during his two years at Gotham Academy — his favourite teacher of all time, through the way she taught him, believed in him, and taught him to believe in himself. She needed someone to babysit her twelve-year-old daughter while she attended physical therapy, and Percy was more than willing after calling in from the flyer. He had known their family of two for a week and is already prepared to lay his life down for either of them. They made him feel so welcome, not only in their house but in Gotham as a whole. Coraline had already coaxed him into eating dinner with them twice, as well as crashing out in the guest bedroom after it got too late once (Percy snuck out soon after they fell asleep, as per usual). 

The Trenche household had pretty much become his second home in Gotham. It's just like Camp Half-blood in his opinion — with a homey and playful atmosphere inside, protecting and preserving the occupants from the dangers that lurked beyond its borders. Every inch of space is heavily decorated, from framed photos on the walls and shelves to cute potted plants in the corners. Rows of books lined the shelves with their own bizarre bookends, like one bedazzled with jewels, or a really bad pottery Santa Claus, or one that was literally a brick. A set of sheathed swords and knives were mounted in an orderly fashion on the far wall — that's Percy's favourite decoration (or at least he hopes it's just decoration). It was disconcerting at first, but it adds nicely to the chaotic theme. 

"I should get going now." Coraline spins her keyring around her finger. She scoops up a book from the patchwork couch and hands it to Percy, who puts it back with its set. The bookend for that one is a painted clay sculpture of two anthropomorphic bears playing in the grass.

Coraline is at the door when she turns around. It may have been the stained glass in the door or the windchimes fixated at the window, but the light catches her eyes a bit more pointedly than usual.

"I know you'll take good care of my Mariana." She runs her thumb across the jagged edge of the keys absentmindedly. "You know how much I'd hate for anything to happen to her." 

It's the few moments like these that makes Percy stall. They happened only a couple times before, mostly on the first day when they were still getting to know each other. But these moments made Percy a bit more apprehensive than he would've liked. Moments when her narrow and foxy eyes sharpen a little further and her close-lipped smile match their edge. When the promises of a threat slice across her tongue like a double-edged sword. Coraline often has a warm and inviting aura about her, like a campfire in the chilly breeze. But just a single stray, imperfect, daredevil ember is enough to light the forest ablaze. Percy's gaze drift momentarily to the weapons on the wall and the photos of Coraline embracing her darling daughter. He knows this lesson well: a mother's love was not something to be tested. 

He nods tersely. When Coraline closes the door, Percy climbs up the attic ladders to Mariana's floor. It was coined "Mariana's floor" since her bedroom and bathroom are there while Coraline's bedroom is downstairs. In the middle of the floor is a rectangular gap lined by off-white banisters overlooking the living room, and the other rooms surround it. Percy knocks thrice on Mariana's door, above the colourful paper name card. A grunt sounds from within and he takes that as approval. 

Mariana's room is just as, if not more, eccentric as the house. He can barely discern the original colour of the walls with how the plethora of band posters, doodled notes, and polaroid photos became its wallpaper. Books and test tubes and beakers cover her absurdly long desk like a mini laboratory. There's a separate corner reserved just for her musical instruments, like her keyboard, saxophone, and electric guitar. Percy steps over the random clothes strewn over the carpet. (He has a feeling this would become the state of his room if he actually spends more time in his own apartment.) The tween girl herself sits on her bed, hunched over her laptop — Percy swears that laptop is half-machine and half-stickers. A furry bundle of calico cat naps beside her. Her fingers whizz over the keys and her dyed hair is pulled back to reveal wireless earbuds with pink star stickers. The only time she pauses is to shove oddly shaped shortbread cookies into her mouth. He doesn't know how long she has been in that position or how long it will be until she moves. That is how it is with ADHD hyperfixations. He's witnessed Annabeth and Leo in the same condition multiple times before, where they would hardly perform basic human functions as if their project gave them all the life they needed. (Percy knows his super suit became a short hyperfixation for Leo with how quickly he finished it overnight.) Percy tends to hyperfixate as well, but not to the extent of some of his friends. It's mostly various fighting styles, but there was also a time when he was too invested in kids' shows, like Lego Ninjago or Bluey, for any sane twenty-year-old to be. 

Percy plops down on the spinning desk chair and twirls a pencil in his fingers. Noticing a black hoodie by his feet, he tosses it at the hamper. He misses. With a heavy sigh, he keeps sitting in the chair and does nothing about the familiar hoodie.

He stares at it a little more. 

Right, she wore it when they first met. 

Not in front of their house introducing herself with her mom. But in an alleyway at midnight with Percy wrapping up her wounds. Percy snorts, remembering their equally bewildered faces at seeing each other again in the most unforeseen circumstances. 

AUGUST 27, 2021.

Percy marveled at the quaint house before him before knocking on the door. It opened almost immediately, revealing a thin woman in a wheelchair. She beamed at him.

"Percy Jackson?" He nodded and she extended her hand after ushering him inside. "Do you remember me? Your old English teacher from GA?"

He blanked out for a second before the name finally rang a bell. But something in his memories didn't quite add up. He remembered her striding around the classroom with pride, kneeling to her students' level to teach them compound and complex sentences effectively. Not in a wheelchair...

"Oh my gods, Ms. Trenche?" He shook her hand, surprised to find her grip was just as firm as his. "What... happened?"

"Just Coraline is fine, dear." She evaded his question with ease so Percy dropped the issue immediately. She led him to the couch, then called up into the opening above them.

"¡Mariana, baja aquí!" 

A concerning thud shook through the house. Percy winced, but Coraline just rolled her eyes. She grabbed a broom from gods knows where and slammed the butt of it into the ceiling. Someone groaned and soon enough, a little shadowy figure emerged from one of the rooms.

"Okay, okay! ¡Ya voy, Mamá!" 

A girl practically jumped down the foldable stairs, then froze at the sight of him. The first thing he noticed was her hair. Her dark brown roots had grown out, threading between waves of mostly cobalt blue and hidden sections of hot pink. He assumed the blue was a redo over the original pink mistake, seeing how she tucked the pink strands underneath the others when she fiddled. She wore a mismatched pajama set with ratty purple socks, looking just as colourful as the rest of the décor. However, her most prominent feature was not her hair, but her eyes. They were blue, strikingly bright and vivid. If he peered a little closer, he could've seen wisps of clouds travelling through. He'd only seen that shade of irises on the Grace siblings, Thalia and Jason. It contrasted nicely with her light brown complexion. But now they were narrowed down in a grimace, staring everywhere but the couch he sat upon. 

His gaze quickly tore away from the girl to study her mother, who looked between them in confusion. The Coraline he knew wasn't a neglectful or an abusive woman, but Percy knew people could change and looks were often deceiving. He didn't want to conspire against his old role model, but the safety of the girl was more important than his guilty conscience. 

"¿Todo bien, mija?" she asked her daughter softly. Her tone made Percy's perceptions falter. He couldn't make himself believe the woman to be capable of violence. Even her home felt safe and inviting. Smells of spices and roast chicken wafted from the kitchen and muffled music played from upstairs. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Coraline Trenche wasn't dangerous at all. 

That was until she looked at him. It didn't even feel like a stare — it felt like an X-ray inspection, like she was looking straight at his blood and bones, his basic building blocks. And figuring out how to topple them one by one. Percy felt wholly invaded and cut open by the scalpel that was her glare.

The girl, Mariana, rubbed her knuckles harshly and gritted her teeth. "It's alright, Mamá."

Coraline's eyes followed her daughter's movements with precision. She glanced back at Percy, then smiled ever-so slightly. "¿Fue él quien te atrapó esa noche?"

Mariana scowled. (Percy thought her eyes looked a tad cloudier than before.) Her mother chuckled before turning to him and reexplaining the rules of the job like she did on the phone. At its core, all the job was making sure Mariana stayed alive and the house stayed intact. However, the whole time she talked, she stared him down like a mother bear in the woods. He half-expected to be staring down the bad end of a rifle, as if he was the bear instead. She left rather quickly, with one last sharp grin thrown in his direction. 

The house descended into silence. The two looked at each other for a split second before looking away. They moved quietly upstairs when Mariana beckoned him.

"Hey, is your leg alright now?"

She nodded. Silence once again. Then abruptly, she turned around.

"Hey, just so you know..." Mariana started. "My mamá isn't, um, abusive or whatever you thought before."

Percy raised an eyebrow.

"I heard you talking about it with the Bats," she clarified. "My mom would never hit me at all, like ever. She's more likely to beat up anyone who hurts me, actually."

He thought back to the malicious glares the older woman gave him and the vague sense of warning tinting her Cheshire-like smiles. That instant, he decided he never wanted to see her act upon her tacit threats. 

"I believe you," he said hastily. Then he paused, thinking of something else. "Wait, hold on. Your first name is Mariana, right? ...And your last name is Trenche? Like the—"

He never thought a silent action could cut him off, but the way Mariana rolled her eyes so violently spoke volumes. She let out an unintelligible grunt. 

"My mom thought she was a real comedian."

Movement finally comes from the girl. She pushes away her laptop, straightens her back, and looks him dead in the eye. She pulls Gato into her lap, stroking his fur like an evil mastermind. (Maybe she should have sat in the spinning chair instead.)

"We need to talk." 

He frowns. The last time he heard that sentence was when his ex-girlfriend dumped him. So he braces himself accordingly, knowing it can't get any worse, especially from the random kid he babysits. 

"I know you're a Wayne."

Oh. Percy is wrong.

Despite thriving under pressure, his brain can't offer any good solution as he panics internally. Quick, act dumb!, he finally decides. 

"Uh, what's a Wayne?" Fuck, not that dumb! 

Mariana rolls her clear blue eyes. "Don't even try to hide it, Percy. I've got the scoop already, so there's no point in playing dumb." 

He groans and reclines back in the chair, all of his fight leaving him. Mariana catches on to his change in demeanour very quickly and leans forward.

"How did you figure it out?" he mumbles through his arm resting over his face.

"Well, it all started when I figured out my babysitter," she cringes at the word, "was on a Buzzfeed Unsolved video."

Another exasperated groan escapes him. He watched that one, huddled around a laptop with his friends when they finally could use devices without fearing for their lives. They all laughed along to the theories and Percy's snide remarks, collectively turning a blind eye whenever the name 'Wayne' was mentioned. Mariana flips her laptop around to showcase that exact same video, with a blurry and censored photo of Percy's face as the thumbnail. 'The Mysterious Abduction of Percy Jackson' is its blaring title. (He ignores the consecutive video: 'The Odd Disappearance of Beryl Grace's Children'. The full red line underneath shows she watched it as well.)

"Perseus "Percy" Jackson, once accused of terrorism and kidnapping, as well as public property damage and arson," she reads out from her screen. "Includes, but not limited to: shooting a canon at a school bus—"

"Accident."

"—Blowing up a music room at Goode High School—"

"Another complete accident."

"—Blowing up a laboratory in another school—"

"A 'happy accident' actually, according to my teacher."

"—Trying to drown his classmates in an aquarium—"

"Accident and complete misinformation?!"

"—Jumping off the Gateway Arch—"

"I think that was an accident? I kinda just slipped."

"—Fighting three old women in a public bus—"

"Not an accident... but deserved."

What the fuck is up with these teenagers monologuing about my childhood? Percy thinks. He sincerely hopes she never gets to meet Thalia and Jason. Mariana does nothing but stare down at the screen for a couple of moments. Then she turns the device around again and looks him straight in the eyes, making a show of pressing the save button. 

She grins, and Percy could finally see the resemblance between her and her mother. 

"I won't tell anybody if you take me to Wayne Manor."

Percy feels guilty over the pay Coraline offers him. It's way above the average babysitter's paycheck, and he knows it's just to compensate for Mariana's disabilities. He refused it at first, wished for her to slash the amount in half, but Coraline pressed it onto him, all the more thrilled to find someone who could truly understand her daughter's struggles. So he takes it upon himself to treat Mariana whenever he can. They often wander around the area to visit cafes and shops, where Percy would buy things for them both. As a Gothamite born and bred, Mariana became his little tour guide, while he became her wallet. Because of this, Percy finds it excruciatingly difficult to say no to her. (She also has the best puppy eyes he's ever seen after his own. He truly admires Coraline's strength.)

Still holding the cat, Mariana jumps up to her feet on the bed, after he reluctantly agrees. He leaves the room while she changes and opens up Dick's contact.

He picks up quickly as usual. "Hey, Perce!" he chirps. "Are you coming over today? Alfred made cookies, just so you know."

Over the past week, Percy found himself visiting Wayne Manor more and more often. At first it was just a drop by once a day that lasted a couple minutes to appease Alfred and to stop Dick from showing up at his apartment unannounced (he isn't going to question the rich people and their antics, when he himself abused his power over the Imperial Guards to do some stalking on his behalf). That was until the minutes became hours, and hours became accidentally getting roped into their weekly game night, and an ill-timed Monopoly round became sleeping over for the night once again. He escaped, obviously, but at least he sent a text to Dick after he left the estate. (More character development, yay!) 

Percy sighs into the call. "Yeah, I'm coming over... But is it alright if I bring someone with me? It's this girl I'm babysitting, she wants to visit."

"Oh, no problem!" It sounds like Dick barely processed what he said, agreeing with no hesitation. Percy almost thought it's because the man would be happy to see him no matter what (how dangerous and stupid of him to think such things), until some dead zombie sound echoes through the phone call. 

"Is that— Was that Tim?"

"... Hey, can I ask you for a huge favour—"

"I'll bring coffee on my way here."

"Thank you, you absolute lifesaver."

Their call ends when Percy hears Mariana's door open. Instead of using the stairs, the girl judges that jumping straight through the ceiling gap was faster. The origami animals hanging from the decorative spindles of the banister flutter as she falls. Nimbly and soundlessly, she lands on the couch and leaps to the door. Percy often thinks she resembles a bird, with how she flits around like a curious baby sparrow. 

"Let's go!" She bounds down the porch's wheelchair ramp, not waiting for Percy to even get up from his seat. "A field trip, yahoo!"

Percy shuts the front door. "How'd you even get all that info anyways?"

"'Anyway' is actually the correct way of saying it, without the S." Percy rolls his eyes and bops the top of her messy ponytail.

"Thanks, professor."

"You're welcome. Anyway, to answer your previous question: you can find anything on the Internet if you just know where to look." 

This may be Percy's newest low. Did he really just get manipulated by a twelve-year-old who gained Internet access too early?

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER 3, 2021.

Percy hails a dented black cab for them. The dents are a common feature among the Gotham cabs. The two get in, only to be immediately held at gunpoint by their scraggly driver. He aims it straight at Percy's forehead, gruffly demanding all of their valuables.

Mariana and Percy glance at each other. It isn't to check on each other's safety. It's just to see if they're equally as tired of every cab driver's unoriginality. This usually happened when they took the taxi or an Uber, so they know the drill by now. Percy merely stares at him, unamused. The man can't have dropped his gun quicker. This one is more cowardly than the rest. Lazily, Percy picks it up and presses the round to the driver's temple as he turns back to the wheel. Next to him, Mariana whips out her colourful switchblade (even her weapons have stickers over it!) and reaches over the driver seat to angle it under his double chin. 

He whimpers, and she cackles. Probably due to her high exposure to violence as a Gotham citizen, Mariana's quite adept in staying calm and fighting back against these small fry criminals. (Percy could even go as far as to say she enjoys it, as morbid as it sounds.)

They make it to their destination in record time, free of charge. They don't actually refuse to pay, it's just that the driver took off before they even had the chance to. Alfred lets them in swiftly, sparing Percy from balancing the two black coffees in one hand to open the door himself.

It's a good thing Mariana is sipping on her mocha (with extra whipped cream and chocolate drizzle), in case her jaw falls off its hinges. 

Sometimes, somehow, the architectural paragon that is Wayne Manor manages to escape his mind. If Annabeth was next to him, she would ramble his ear off about the thick stone pillars embossed in baroque designs that hold up a high arching ceiling like Atlas under an inverted sky. Or the Palladian windows of stained glass bracketed by vintage curtains which, in the absence of any sunlight to stream through them, seem to be darkly ethereal instead. Or the decidedly Victorian-goth aesthetic mash-up in the twin stairs leading up to the second floor. (Okay, maybe Percy isn't sure what she would actually say, but that sounds close enough? And maybe he'll bring his best friend here one day and hear exactly how the Manor compares to no other, as a birthday gift, perhaps. And maybe, just maybe, that will be the first step to stop running from whatever he's convinced is chasing him.) 

Mariana's bulging eyes soak in the structures in a frenzy. It reminds Percy of how he takes note of obstacles and openings the minute he walks into a room, except less awe-stricken and more calculating. He quickly steers her into a tour, muscle memory somehow still intact. If he peeks into the rooms to check their contents before announcing it to her, nobody has to know. Mariana doesn't say anything about it, at least — she doesn't say anything at all. The entire tour is filled with slightly awkward silence or the occasional gasp when she finds out, yes, the rooms can get bigger than the ones prior. 

"Percy!"

The two look up to see Dick jogging down the stairs, a red nondescript lump hauled over his shoulder. Only when he jumps over the last three steps and the lump grunts at the impact does Percy realise it's in fact Timothy Drake. Dick props him up against the wall, making sure he doesn't sleep right there and drool against the decorative vase. Percy wafts the coffee cup under his nose like smelling salts. In a shot, Tim snatches the cup and chugs it down, practically crushing it against his mouth like an empty Coca-Cola can. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, unaware of their present company. Apologetically, Dick elbows Tim's ribs and they both turn to her.

"Hey there, Mariana, right?" Dick shakes Mariana's extended hand, albeit confused at the formal behaviour from a young kid. "Nice to meet you, I'm Dick."

"Huh..." She sucks her lips into her mouth, clearly holding a laugh at bay. "Way to be self-aware, I guess?"

Dick doesn't roll his eyes at the twelve-year-old, which is much more than what can be said for Percy. "No, I mean my name is Dick."

He really should have known better than to mention it in front of a barely old enough teenager. Mariana has to physically pull the corners of her lips down before facing him again. Percy laughs at his amused smile and claps him on the shoulder. Now in much better shape with caffeine in his sleep-deprived and overworked system, Tim introduces himself as well, with another handshake. The two Wayne boys decide to join in on the rest of their little tour, inputting quips mostly about what arguments happened in which rooms. Dick sticks close to Percy, savouring the way his facial expressions shift at his words. It's subtle and covert, but he prides himself in still being able to recognise the changes.

Mariana turns to Percy, furrowing her brows tight. "Am I allowed to be here? I feel like I should be paying rent with every step I take." She speaks in a low tone, but the other boys can still hear the panic slipping into her voice. Dick chuckles at her joke (she isn't joking).

"It's alright. Any friend of Percy is a friend of ours," he reassures her. They round a corner and nearly crash into Cassandra and Stephanie. Mariana's face instantly brighten at the sight of the two girls.

"Oh, who's this?" asks Steph, while Cass greets Percy with a quick hug. 

"This is Mariana, the girl I'm babysitting. She wanted to visit." Percy pats her on the head lightly as she trades handshakes with the girls as well.

Cass' hands move rapidly in ASL. "How?" she adds, noticing the loading icon floating on Percy's face. It doesn't help much, to be honest. 

"Oh, I found out from a Buzzfeed Unsolved video," Mariana signs along with her words, although at a slower pace than Cass. Nonetheless, Cass' dark brown eyes light up. Immediately, they begin conversing in ASL, letting the others look between them like an un-commentated tennis match.

"Did someone just mention fucking Buzzfeed Unsolved?" Jason's scowling face pops out from the oncoming living room doorway. All except Mariana and Percy wince harshly.

"If I had a nickel for every time I met someone from a Buzzfeed Unsolved case, I'd have two nickels. It's not much, but it's really fucking weird that it's happened twice," Mariana mutters under her breath.

"What's wrong with Buzzfeed Unsolved?" Duke asks from his lounging position on the couch. He tosses a purple gummy bear to Steph who catches it in her mouth with ease.

("What the fuck, they keep multiplying," Mariana whispers to herself, thoroughly bewildered. Percy has to strongly agree with the statement.)

"Jason gets pissed about it because they did two episodes on him," Tim informs. Then he leans in towards Duke and whispers not-so-quietly behind his hand. "He just hates how dumb the theories are."

Duke hums thoughtfully, obviously making a mental note to watch them later. He looks at Percy and tilts his head.

"There's a Buzzfeed Unsolved video on you too, Percy?"

"Yeah, for when I was wanted for terrorism," he shrugs vaguely, like it was just his usual Friday night activities. "I don't mind it, it's kinda funny to be honest."

"I just don't like how they dragged the Wayne name into it," Jason cuts in, to which Percy nods solemnly. 

No one says anything for a couple seconds. Until Percy realises this is very, very odd. 

He spins around, eyes widening further with every passing moment that he can't see a flash of blue and pink hair.

"Hey, where's Mariana?" Without a sound, she had disappeared from the room. How did I not hear her go? Percy chastises himself. His enhanced demigod senses ensure that he can hear everything, even the sound of someone's breath across the room. It's quite overstimulating at times and had resulted in too many migraines to count. He can hear the footfalls of highly trained vigilantes (to admit, he has trouble with Orphan and Robin sometimes). But this girl bafflingly evaded his awareness like she could just vanish into the thin air.

Panicked, everyone searches through the living room. Percy even lifts up the couch, nearly toppling Duke off it. She's a tiny thing, by Percy's standards, so she could be hiding anywhere. Dick scans the area with a frown.

"Did she leave?" he asks. Tim stiffens.

"Hold on... Is Damian in the house today?"

Immediately, the family goes on high alert. They file out of the room, straining their ears to hear for any sign of either of the turbulent twelve-year-olds. 

"Let's hope he doesn't find her..." mumbles Duke.

Percy snorts. "Let's hope she doesn't find him."

A chain of high-pitched cursing rings out from the West Wing in rapid fire succession. Jason blankly looks at them. 

"Too late. You jinxed it, you dumbasses."

They use the enduring angry screams like a guiding light, tripping past each other in their hurry. It's much too late when they arrive. 

Mariana and Damian circle each other in the wide hallway, predator against predator. Damian grips his katana, while Mariana has her switchblade in one hand and an ornate decorative knife in the other. Where'd she even get that? And who the fuck gave Damian a sword?! Percy wonders faintly. Mariana sports a bleeding nick on her chin and Damian has a similar wound on his forearm. In a single swoop, Dick lifts his little brother up by the midsection while Percy tugs Mariana back from her shoulders. She stands down immediately and places the knife on the display table. However, she keeps her switchblade out, poised and tense. Conversely, Damian struggles in Dick's grip, swinging his katana wildly.

"Calm down, Little D!"

Percy muffles a snort of amusement, while Mariana just plain bursts out laughing, much to Damian's chagrin. He flushes deep red and only fights harder. Cass pries the katana from his hands and knocks her knuckles on his head, fixing him with a stern look. He ultimately stops trying to bite Dick's beefy arms. This gives the older man enough comfort to let the boy down but he and Cass each still keep a hand on his shoulders.

"Guest," she speaks softly but firmly. "Be nice."

"Why on earth would you bring her in here?" He sneers at the other girl. She returns the favour with a shameless middle finger. "She was clearly trying to steal that knife. A kleptomaniac is what she is." 

"I wasn't trying to steal it, you cocky bastard!" The girl shakes so much under his hand that Percy feels like he's vibrating too. Dick's eyes flicker to the floor, then back to Damian's enraged face.

"You came in here to steal from us! Admit it, thief!" 

Mariana's face falls into a deadpan stare. "Is it because I'm brown?"

Jason and Duke snicker out loud. Damian, on the other hand, does not find it as amusing.

"We're both brown," he scoffs. "Your ethnicity has nothing to do with this."

"Right, nothing to do with race," she drawls out, tilting her head. "But everything to do with the fact that you think every poor person has a penchant for thievery and spreads disease like a rat. You can't fool me, you pompous brat."

Stephanie makes a small, appreciative comment about the rhyme, for which Mariana sends her a beaming grin. Damian opens his mouth to retort when Dick squeezes his shoulder tightly. Once he catches a glance of Dick's stern expression, he wilts imperceptibly. Percy turns Mariana around to face him. He takes her face into his hands and inspects the scratch. It isn't deep and stopped bleeding. All it needs is a band-aid. He takes her away from the chaotic Waynes and into the kitchen. She sits on the high barstool, swinging her feet which are far from the ground. Percy notices her dark blue eyes flicker around the walls to finally settle on the opposite window. (Huh, maybe she also mapped out an escape route, just like him.) She waits silently, fiddling with the rips in her jeans, as Percy takes out the first aid kit after a short scavenge.

"I'm sorry." 

Percy looks up at her incredulously. "For what-"

"I'm not saying sorry for insulting him, by the way. He's a spoiled rich kid that needs to get knocked down a peg." Percy agrees with that wholeheartedly, but remains quiet as she continues. "I'm saying sorry for making a scene and being disruptive. This isn't my house and I should have behaved better. But I swear I didn't try to steal the knife, I was just looking!"

Percy feels a presence by the door. Somehow, Mariana notices as well. Her head snaps up to face the kitchen entrance.

"I promise I didn't try to steal it," she repeats in a louder tone. After a moment, the unknown figure reveals themselves. Percy relaxes at Dick's appearance, despite his pursed lips.

"We know you didn't. And we're the ones who are supposed to be saying sorry. You didn't do anything wrong, Damian just overreacted. He is a little entitled and prejudiced, I'll admit that-"

"A little?" Percy and Mariana comment at the same time with identical raised eyebrows. Dick sighs.

"Okay, a lot." He takes the first aid kit from Percy's hands. "Now, I have a very important question for you, Mariana." 

The girl cringes, awaiting the inevitable reprimanding.

"Seahorse or starfish?"

Dick holds up two band-aid boxes. Her expression lifts with pleasant surprise. Before she could choose, Percy gasps dramatically.

"How could you make her choose?!" His hand flies up to press against his chest. "That's diabolical!"

Percy's comically wide eyes soften at the sight of the other two grinning as his antics. Dick takes a band-aid from her chosen theme, seahorses, and attempts to put it on her when she instinctively leans away. He stops in his tracks. When he offers the band-aid to Percy, their fingers brush as they both fumble with the sticky material. Pressing the band-aid to Mariana's chin, Percy can't help but blab on about the beloved creatures.

"Did you know that seahorse couples greet each other every morning with a unique dance that sometimes involves changing color? They do it as a way to confirm the other partner is still alive, reinforce their bond, and sync up their reproductive cycles."

Mariana coos. "That's cute!" 

Dick leans against the kitchen counter and rests his cheek against his palm, staring up at him. A soft dimple shines through his even softer smile. Percy sticks his tongue out as he concentrates on tending to Mariana. It's cute, and the way he acts gently with the girl is even cuter. Dick's face heats up involuntarily at his thoughts.

Mariana's gaze ping-pongs between the two men before ending with an intense side-eye at the door.

"I heard from Alfred that we have a guest?" Bruce's deep voice rumbles from the doorway. He nods at Mariana, letting his camera-ready smile headline his expression. "Hello there, I'm Bruce Wayne. You're Mariana, I assume?"

Silently, she offers the billionaire a handshake as well, which he readily accepts, albeit just as confusedly as the others. 

"I heard from the others, and I apologise about what happened." 

"You should raise your kid better."

He raised an eyebrow. "Thank you for your input."

"You're welcome."

Alfred walks into the kitchen, pulling Bruce away from his inquisitive stare at the blue-haired girl before him. Dick shakes his head at him.

"I believe Miss Mariana's mother is waiting outside the Manor."

Dick can't believe the fact that Bruce has the gall to look the slightest bit disheartened. In an instant, Mariana is sprinting out into a hallway, fast enough to be mistaken for a speedster. Although a few moments later, she jogs back with a sheepish smile to ask for directions. They journey to the front door together, collecting more family members along the way, including Damian who is carried along like a sack of potatoes by Cass. Soon they're all crowding on the stairs outside the Manor's main entrance. Coraline waits at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed. Her daughter leaps over all ten steps in her rush to get to her. 

Jason narrows his eyes.

"Is that... my English teacher from Gotham Academy?"

Dick gasps in recognition next to him. "Wait, Ms. Trenche? She was my English teacher too!"

Coraline looks up at the mention of her name. She grins when they all but sprint down to greet her. "Well, well, well. Look who we have here! Mister Grayson, lovely to see you again."

She opens her arms out to Jason. "Give your favourite teacher a hug, Jason."

He hesitates at first before swooping down to hug her briefly but tightly. She pats him on the back as he lets go.

"How's my favourite star student been doing?"

"Oh? I thought teachers couldn't have favourites," Bruce comments, after greeting her with a handshake. In the presence of outsiders, it's clear that he's deploying his whole Brucie Wayne charm, but Coraline doesn't shift an inch. She merely looks back to her old students, green eyes sparkling with pride. 

"Jason here is a one-of-a-kind exception. He was such a wonderful student to have, I thoroughly enjoyed reading every one of his essays."

"Is that so?" Bruce claps Jason on the back and pulls him into a stiff side hug. Jason can do nothing but blush under her praise, refusing to act out in front of his favourite teacher, and Bruce makes full use of this apparent weakness. Although Jason does manage to land a discreet jab into Bruce's ribs, but the man clings tight. Tim coughs next to them, slipping a quick "nerd" into it. Coraline raises her eyebrows at him.

"I'll have you know you're in my class this year, Mister Drake. I'd be more than happy to hold you to the same standard as your brother."

Tim blanches at the idea. "It's alright, Ms. Trenche, you don't have to do that..."

"My youngest is also joining Gotham Academy for eighth grade, would you be teaching him?" Bruce asks, blatantly ignoring Jason's triumphant smirk at Tim.

"Oh no, unfortunately I only teach the high school grades for English now. The younger ones have me for art though. My Mari is also entering eighth grade, perhaps they'll be in the same class?"

Mariana grumbles loudly, crossing her arms. "Like I'd want to be in the same class as that menace to society." 

"You say that as if you aren't also a menace to society," Coraline interjects, raising her eyebrow.

"But it's different. I'm a menace in a fun, quirky, aesthetic way. He's just..." She takes a quick glance at the boy's father. "...A bitch."

"Uh huh, really?" Her mother frowns and her hand pats Mariana's jaw. If Bruce Wayne wasn't The Batman, he would've cowered under Coraline's scathing glare. "What happened to your chin, mija?"

"He picked a fight with me," Mariana glowers in Damian's direction, where he's fighting against Cassandra's surprisingly buff arms. Her mother follows her gaze, staring at the boy with an eerily blank façade. Their attentions are drawn back as Coraline clicks her tongue.

"But did you win it?" 

"No, it was a draw..." The girl's shoulders sag slightly. "But I nicked his arm, so we're even."

Her mother's lips tick up. "That's my girl."

The men watch their interaction with slight concern and apprehension. They have conversations like this in their family as well, but that's more due to their nightly activities and wacko backstories than anything else. 

"How did you know we were here?" Percy asks Coraline, remembering that he neglected to tell her of their whereabouts. Luckily, she doesn't seem too pissed over it, so he supposes he can keep his job for now.

"Oh, I put a tracker on her." She waves her phone around, where they can see a dark map with a neon blue dot. "With her consent, of course."

Mariana nods in confirmation. (Bruce has the gall to look impressed, and even a bit jealous. The nerve of this man.)

"She's welcome to come back with Percy anytime," offers Bruce. "She's a wonderful addition to the family— I mean, to the household atmosphere."

Dick and Percy catch each other's gaze and they simultaneously roll their eyes. The two Trenche women smile at him gratefully, Mariana's more relieved than her mother's. Coraline glances at her watch.

"We should get going now... Percy, are you joining us?"

Percy nods and elects to push her wheelchair. After a series of goodbyes, the three of them leave through the tall, gothic, black gates. At the traffic lights, Mariana sidles up to Percy and signals him to lean down. She whispers in his ear.

"I didn't steal the knife..."

Percy frowns at her, confused as to why she's still bringing it up. "Yeah, I kno-"

"I did steal something though." 

She opens her hoodie pocket to reveal three of Alfred's famous chocolate chip cookies inside, all perfectly intact. He doesn't even know how or when she managed to nab them. She shuts the pocket just as fast, eyeing him warily.

"You won't snitch, will you?" 

"... I'll keep this our secret if you give me one."

"Deal."

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER 5, 2021.

"Riptide!"

As soon as one excited voice announces his presence, similar exclaims echo through the warehouse. He can barely finish closing the large double doors before a dozen kids of all ages circle around him. He hands the supplies he brought — a couple more air mattresses and bags of long shelf life foods — to the two older teens that came to greet him. Herding the younger kids, who try to climb his tall frame like a jungle gym, further into their makeshift home, he scans the area. Street kids ranging from the ages six to sixteen mill about the formerly abandoned warehouse. Some are cuddled up under fluffy blankets while others are huddled around workbooks and flashlights where the older kids teach the younger ones. The fifteen-year-old that he gave the food to is stacking them along the shelves and into the new mini fridges Riptide bought days prior. Next to him, another kid stirs a pot of soup on the portable gas stove. Two tweens tackle each other on the training mats on the far side, stopping for a moment to give him playful grins, then go back at it again. 

This is Riptide's latest project. The Haven. A refuge for the street kids of Gotham. A little pocket of solace and a chance at life for the children running from broken homes and the broken system. It's where he teaches these kids how to protect themselves and others — how to not just survive, but thrive in their world. Over a dozen children now live in the warehouse, whereas some of them, usually the older ones, come and go whenever they need. The numbers would only start growing once Riptide gains the trust of more kids around Gotham. 

"Riptide, Riptide!" Two tiny twins, Lara and Lucy, tug his hands. The seven-year-olds attempt to drag him away with their own strength, only succeeding when he follows along willingly. "We're starting a braid train, you have to join!"

Two boys and a girl wait for them in the reading nook. The reading nook is a corner lined with boxes of books and colourful cushions, all scraped together from various garage sales. Dim fairy lights hang on the walls and pages of crayon art and half-finished colouring-in sheets are plastered underneath them. The youngest boy, Hudson, sits at the front of the train with his shaggy blond locks, followed by Lara, Lucy, and lastly Riptide. The other two stand on either side of him and start braiding the longer strands of his silver hair. He focuses on gently untangling Lucy's mousy brown hair from her tight ponytail, when the creak of the doors rings from the front of the warehouse. 

The teenager that peeks through the entrance doesn't garner as much attention as Riptide had (he had become some sort of mini celebrity to The Haven), but a couple kids bounce up to him. He embraces them all briefly when Riptide beckons him over. 

Henry Lagrange reminds him a lot of Timothy. As he comes closer, he can see the red rims and lack of sleep in his eyes under his stringy dark brown fringe. The clothes on his gangly frame bunch up together at some areas, so he keeps fiddling with his waistband or his cuffs. The white of his dress shirt would blend in with his pale neck, if not for the brick red scuff marks over the lapels. 

"Henry!" exclaims the boy braiding Riptide's hair.

"Hey Benji." The boy in question scrunches his face into a bright grin as Henry ruffles his black hair. "'Sup Riptide."

"'Sup Henry." They greet each other with a fist bump. "How was the interview?"

It went well, if the beam on his face is any indication. The interview was for a vocational woodwork apprenticeship, and everyone at The Haven knew he'd ace it. Henry is their resident engineer of sorts, always inventing something or the other. His current project is a mini hydropower plant to help run The Haven's electricity. While he rambles about the interview and how "his acceptance isn't set in stone, but he's allowed to be hopeful" — Riptide's focus zeroes in on the tremble in the teen's hands. He waits until the sixteen-year-old pauses to take a breath.

"Henry, mind if we chat a bit? Privately?"

Henry agrees with furrowed brows, clasping his hands behind his back. Riptide stands up despite the protests of the kids. After reassuring them that he'll come back, he and Henry walk off to their makeshift infirmary. 

"What happened?" Riptide raises an eyebrow. Henry can't help but look anywhere else but his face. They have become accustomed to the sea green glow covering the complete area of his eyes, but there are times when the intensity of his stare has as much power over them as Wonder Woman's Lasso of Truth.

"It's nothing, just got into a little scuffle is all." Somehow, Riptide's raised brow travels higher. Henry pulls at his collar, smiling nervously. "With some people who used to know my mom..."

"You got beat up by your mom's ex-loan sharks?" 

"Not beat up , per say... I came out pretty much scot-free, except for these..." Henry pulls out his hands, allowing Riptide to see the skin peeling off of his knuckles. He scratches his reddening cheek as he looks away. Riptide smiles at the sight of his healthy flush. 

"Could you uh, do the um... healing thing, please?" 

Only the residents of The Haven know of Riptide's powers. He first revealed them when one of the kids couldn't stop crying and he didn't know what else to do, so he used a trick used in Atlantis' nurseries, which was making little shapes with water. It worked instantly, so from then on, Riptide lulls kids to sleep or comforts them after nightmares by telling stories, often sugar-coated versions of his adventures, accompanied by shifting pictures in the air. After realising that these kids are trustworthy ('snitches get stitches and end up in ditches' turned out to be their entire philosophy), Riptide saw no problem in using his other abilities like healing. The younger children are obviously enamoured with his "magic" as they call it. The older ones took some time to come around to it, hurt by the existence of metas, but he now sees how they all secretively pause to watch his water spectacles. 

He nods and sits the younger boy down on a crate. Delicately grabbing his hands, he cleans off the blood before beginning a chant in Atlantean. It's a basic spell, one of the first he'd learnt. The words flow from his lips with the ease of a river over smooth pebbles. Soon enough, the raw redness disappears under a new layer of skin. Henry flexes his boney hands, unable to keep the awe off his face. 

"Also, I'll give these clothes back to you as soon as I can fix up this stupid washing machine," he glares at the machine next to him, standing up to kick it lightly. After a solid second, he reaches down to pat the area he kicked, a solemn look of guilt coating his face.

Riptide shakes his head. "Nah, you keep it."

"Wait, for real? I can keep them?"

"Yeah, go ahead. They're too small for me now anyway."

The boy inspects his clothes with new vigour, like they're luxury branded. It makes Riptide feel a little bad, since he can probably give him something better than his aging hand-me-downs. Henry looks up at him with his shiny brown irises. 

"Thank you."

"Of course, anytime you need me to heal you—"

"No, I mean for everything . Everything you've done for us, and all the money you've spent on us..." Henry watches the quiet bustle of The Haven, though Riptide doubts he can see much through the tears building in his eyes. "Thank you."

Before he rubs harshly at his face, Riptide wraps his arms around the boy's shoulders. Henry only stands as tall as his chest, so he cradles his head while Henry wraps his arms around his abdomen. 

"You deserve it. Don't forget that. A proper chance at life? You all deserve it."

These kids are tough, but at the same time, they are so so fragile. As childish as it seems, they can only be compared to Oobleck — solid and unfazed under force, but melting when given care and time.

They pull away. Henry blinks back the tears, and takes a shuddering breath. "Where's Anjie?" he asks. 

A couple metres away from the training mats, Anjana (or Anjie for short) perks up at the sound of her name. The twelve-year-old leaps up, scattering the assorted papers around her. But she shows no care for them as she runs to hug Henry around his midsection, resting her chin on his stomach to look up at him with her wide grey eyes. 

"Guess what, guess what, guess what?!" She doesn't wait for Henry to guess. "I've figured out a way to raise the efficiency of the turbine!"

Prattling on about words Riptide doesn't understand, the two walk back to Anjie's little station. Next to it is a crate of parts he also can't identify. He shakes his head fondly as he goes back to the reading nook. Unfortunately, the braid train has reached its destination without him. Lucky enough for him though, the children aren't feeling vengeful (they can be very mean sometimes), so they continue to plait his silver locks.

Time stretches on as Riptide continues to sit on his little blue pillow, keeping the children of The Haven entertained and happy and safe .

Until his demigod senses pick up on something out of place.

Footsteps on the second floor. Weightless and quiet footsteps. Yes, the kids learn to keep silent and how to keep their feet light and fast on the ground, but that is a necessity. These light footfalls are professional, a taught skill. Like a vigilante. 

Nightwing isn't Batman. 

He never will be, and he doesn't want to be either. He took up a new name and a new city to prove just that, to get away from his mentor's engulfing shadow. He isn't as paranoid or distrustful, nor does he push away the people who only want to help. He believes their cities could use all the help it can get. 

So by that standard, he's all for letting Riptide in their circle of Gotham vigilantes. But Batman isn't. Are we surprised? Nightwing asks no one is particular as he flips onto buildings, keeping his senses peeled for a flash of silver or the scent of the sea. 

Batman has given him a task for his final week in Gotham: gain any and all information on Riptide. Since Nightwing is the only one to have properly interacted with the elusive new kid on the block, apparently it makes him the best person for the job. He can't say he doesn't want this task. Riptide is an interesting character, wrapped in intrigue that makes him want to peel back his layers — of intrigue. Layers of intrigue, not his clothing. (Maybe he was right about mystery making a man more attractive. Not that Nightwing is attracted to him, of course.) He also can't say that Riptide's constant flirting and compliments don't make him feel nice. (Anyone would feel good about getting a compliment, it isn't anything special .) 

However, Riptide is way too good at evasion. Anytime any of his siblings have gotten a glimpse of him and tried to follow, he shook them off his tail just as quickly. Signal even saw him on his daytime patrols, but he was just as shifty in the light than he was in the dark. It frustrates both Red Robin and Robin, so that's really saying something. (Maybe Batman should just be grateful to Riptide for being the cause of his sons finally agreeing with each other and not at the other's throat.) 

Nightwing likes to think he's gotten a good read on the man. After all, it's he who has seen him the most. Whenever he sees him, Nightwing tends to just watch. In the first few instances, he took the same route as his siblings — follow in an attempt to corner. But every time, Riptide vanished from his sight like dissipating smoke. So he tried a new tactic. To wait and to observe. As soon as he catches a peek of his glimmering cloak, Nightwing stops and watches where he goes. This proved to be much more effective in keeping the new vigilante within vision. He learnt that Riptide's most common areas included any alleyway keeping homeless families and children. He sometimes ventures into The Narrows, but Nightwing hardly goes there since it's Red Hood's turf. (The Red Hood doesn't care for Batman's newest beef and refuses to follow his orders, as usual. If anything, he enjoys getting a rile out of the older vigilante by loudly mentioning the moments he had seen Riptide in The Narrows but then chose to ignore him completely, grinning as Batman presses his keyboard a little harder than usual. Nightwing has a feeling the wilder cards on their team, like Spoiler, Orphan, and Signal, follow their mentor's orders merely due to curiosity about Riptide.)

But Nightwing can't help but think that he's toying with him. There are moments after he stops to just let him be, but Riptide would turn to shoot a cheeky wave or brazen finger guns in his general direction. If he's closer, he can see his winks or slightly flirtatious smirks. At these times, Nightwing understands the vexations of his little brothers. The new vigilante is infuriating (but in a different way). 

Nightwing stops at the sound of something he hasn't heard on the Gotham streets in a long while. Laughter.

Not the horrifying and maniacal laughter of the Rogues, but something sweet and genuine. He follows the sound, hoping to witness a scene that can lighten his current gloomy mood. It leads him to a seemingly abandoned warehouse near the docks. He peers through one of the many holes on the roof.

His breath hitches. The source of the laughter turned out to be none other than the man he is searching for, surrounded by children who fuss over his hair. As the sounds become clearer, he realises Riptide's laugh isn't melodious or deep like he anticipated. It's a series of high-pitched squeaks, like a dolphin call. Nightwing thinks it's almost... refreshing, in a really odd way. But the kids near him don't seem to be bothered by it. They all take one look at his exuberance and their own grins lift. Nightwing can feel his lips curving up alongside them. 

The lights from the strung up wall decorations glow across Riptide's face, giving his silver hair a warm golden tint. Despite having 20/20 vision, his features appear blurry to Nightwing. Constantly, the shadows and dips of his face shift and tangle together. Facial identity protection magic , he concludes. Must be from the cloak.

Nightwing sneaks to the other side of the roof. He carefully pries open an emergency hatch and drops down into what happens to be a vacant second floor. It was probably once the control room overlooking a large factory operation system. The would-be glass is gone and leaves the rusting railings. Now it houses rows of all kinds of mattresses with tattered blankets and plushies littered around the concrete. He stays hidden within the shadows.

While crouching near the back of the room, he stretches his neck as far as possible to scan the floor below. The atmosphere is cozy, almost homey. Subtle joy emanates through the air. It doesn't look a single thing like a deserted warehouse. Nightwing revels on this island of peace where time slows like dripping honey, refusing to sink despite the bloody sea battering around it. 

Then he waits. And waits and waits and waits. 

Until Riptide's lithe form peeks up from the metal ladders that connects the floors. In the shadows, his sea green eyes flare like lights across a dark lake. And Nightwing leans in, a moth to his flame. 

"Couldn't get away, huh?" His voice is teasing, but his face is anything but. As stone cold as the ground he walks upon, he approaches him with rigid poise. 

"Did you... create this?" Nightwing gestures around them. He shifts into a relaxed cross-legged position, hoping this vulnerable change will mean something to Riptide. It does, seeing how he stops tapping his thigh frantically. 

He sits on one of the air mattresses across from him, prompting Nightwing to do the same. he flips on a small star-shaped night light between them. "Did I create the warehouse? Nah, it was already here for a while."

Nightwing lets out an short exhale of amusement. At least that reaction helps Riptide's lips curve up. He leans back. 

"Welcome to The Haven." He runs a hand through his hair (which is covered in braids tied off by rainbow coloured rubber bands). "I'm trying to make it into a safe shelter for the street kids out here in Gotham." 

Nightwing tries not to let his attention linger too long on his (frankly adorable) hair. "How does it operate?"

"Most of them live here. The older kids teach the young ones things they need to know, like school stuff, while I teach them how to defend themselves. I bring them food, and teach them how to cook as well. They trust each other and they're beginning to trust me, so we're making it work pretty well so far." 

"You're not here all the time?" Nightwing questions. 

Riptide looks up to fix him under his piercing gaze. The night light starkly illuminates one side of his face, which still flickers with uncertainty. It isn't clear if that's due to the magic or his emotions. 

"It's nice to have someone give you space and trust you to do the right thing, don't you think?"

Nightwing feels a faint smile creep onto his lips as he nods. They descend into silence soon after.

That silence is quickly broken when a little kid of Asian appearance scrambles up the ladder. He nearly lets go of the rungs after spotting another vigilante sitting serenely on a bed. 

"Benji, what's up?" Riptide asks, concern leaking into his voice. 

The boy glances furtively at Nightwing. "Anjie noticed some weirdo thug-lookin' guys on the security cams hangin' 'round outside."

Nightwing stands up. He places a gloved hand on Riptide's tense shoulder.

"I can deal with them, don't worry." 

The other man shakes his head. Despite the braids littered above his undercut, Riptide looks to be the epitome of seriousness. 

"If it involves my kids, it's my business." 

Riptide rushes to tell Benji that they'll take care of it and he doesn't need to worry himself silly. All it takes are a couple words of reassurance and the stress melts off Benji's stiff body. But the immediate hush that falls over The Haven is noticeable. The boy goes back down the ladder while the vigilantes climb through the patch of shoddy roof Nightwing found earlier. 

Four thugs loiter around the back corner of the warehouse. They're gang affiliated, he can tell by the tattoos adorning all of their forearms — a flock of black birds travelling down to their wrists in a V formation. This is a relatively small scale gang, only a couple years young. They venture mostly in unfaithful loan businesses and pyramid schemes. 

Riptide wastes no time at all. He leaps down from the edge, his cape spreading out wide behind him. The thugs react too slowly, looking up when he's only inches away from them. Nightwing can only think about how he must look like Batman at that angle. With a sickening (but satisfying) crunch, he lands on one of the thugs' faces. One down, three to go , Nightwing thinks as he joins the fight. 

He takes on two thugs while Riptide fights the remaining one. He may be outnumbered, but when did that ever stop him? Bad Guy Número Dos hacks out a cough after Nightwing uppercuts his gut.  

"Where's the Lagrange boy?" he snarls. Nightwing assumes the 'Lagrange boy' is someone in The Haven. 

"Isn't it a bit cheap to be going after the son of your dead client?" Riptide snarks back, joining his fight. Bad Guy Número Quatro lays slumped over his buddy who got KO'ed early in the game. Riptide moves nimbly around his opponents, landing hits with precision. He doesn't even blink as Bad Guy Número Tres pulls out a knife. He merely kicks it out of his hand and snatches it out of the air. 

With the knife in his hand, his fighting style barely changed, but Nightwing's highly trained eyes can see the new confidence rolling off of him in waves.

He attacks more, diving in to cut shallow slashes into Bad Guy Número Tres' arms and legs. The blade acts like an extension of his arm, not just a weapon. The continuous bouts of small pains slows down his opponent. Enough for him to floor him with a powerful kick to the liver. He turns to fight Bad Guy Número Quatro as well, but Nightwing already finished him off with a nice roundhouse kick to his head. 

"You clean up good, Wing," Riptide compliments, dusting off his hands.

"You're not so bad yourself, Tide."

Nightwing uses that opening between their words to study the man before him. He looks fine. Not a single hair swept out of place and no beads of sweat forming at his hairline. His tanned cheeks hold a rosy glow that rival the intensity of his magic covered eyes. His posture is the most relaxed he's seen him tonight, even more than when they were whispering in The Haven. (Scratch that — he looks better than fine.) 

"You asked me once why I decided to do this." Riptide waves his hands to the unconscious bodies. "This is why."

"To beat up no-good thugs?" Nightwing cocks his head.

He's sure Riptide rolls his eyes, despite not seeing his irises. "Har har. Funny." His smirk falls.

"The scum of Gotham love preying on the vulnerable and the desperate. People with no guidance, and no other choice." The silent night carries his deep breath clearly.

"They say the younger generation is the future. So why are we letting them rot on the streets?"

A beat passed before Nightwing moves closer. He squeezes the other vigilante's bicep tight.

"I'll help you with The Haven." They're close enough for Riptide to see the miniscule holes in the whites of his domino mask, and the sincerity in the outline of eyes that lies behind them. "You have my word." 

The first time that night, Riptide smiles at him. Nightwing walks backwards, offering a lazy salute.

"Catch you later?"

"Hope you do."

Nightwing flies back to the Batcave, a video of Riptide's wink looped in his mind.

"Did you gather any information on Riptide?" That's the first thing he hears entering their hollowed hideout. Batman sits hunched over the Batcomputer, sparing him a singular glance.

There are so many things he now knows about the new vigilante, such as: he's probably a magic-user, or has connections to them. He's good at hand-to-hand fighting, but better with a blade. He cares enough about Gotham to build a haven for the abundance of street kids. He's good with children. His hair is long enough to braid. He has a really sharp jawline. 

But Dick chooses to not say any of those things. All that information are things that matter to him — not to The Bat. He knows his words have power over Batman, as his first sidekick, as the one who has been by his side the longest. If anyone's words can change his stubborn opinion, it will be Dick's. 

After a moment of thinking, he opens his mouth.

"Riptide is trustworthy. He is not a threat."

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER 12, 2021.

Percy is greeted into Mariana's room with a phone launched at his face. He catches it just inches from his nose. "What the fuck—" 

"Cocaine! I'm doing cocaine, I swear!" 

Mariana curls herself into a ball on her bed, holding her hands out in front of her. From the look of horror on her face, Percy could believe she's actually doing cocaine, if not for the suspicious lack of suspicious substances. He turns the phone to check. Mariana's unholy scream stops him, but by then it's already too late. 

"'Robin fanfiction'?" he reads aloud from the orange and white search bar (which he recognises mortifyingly quickly). 

Mariana lays straight like a corpse in a casket and stares blankly at the ceiling, dead to the world for anyone who asks. But then she resurrects again, with determination in her pursed lips and furrowed brows. 

"Why should I feel embarrassed over my interests?" she whispers to herself, pressing her cold hands to her flushed cheeks. Then she speaks louder, addressing Percy. "Do you know what fanfiction is, Perce?" 

He's slightly ashamed to say that he knows a lot more than he would like. It was Leo and Piper who first introduced him to the genre. With cheeky grins and a hint of insanity in their eyes, they pulled him under the covers during a sleepover and shoved a phone in his hands. The two demigods taught him the terminology and inside jokes within the community. There were some stories that were crazily well-written, while others were just... weird.  Percy didn't read much of it since he dislikes reading in the first place (and stories with either horrifyingly bad grammar or horrifyingly long words do wonders for his dyslexia), but he knows what's up whenever they giggle with their heads together over a phone. He nods slowly in response. 

"But... Robin? Really?" he questions. He can't hold back his minor frown of judgement. 

"I just think he's neat!" she argues back. "I like his katana! Besides, he's the only one that could be close to me in age, so it's not that weird..." 

Percy holds his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright. I guess Robin is kinda cool..." Even though he yelled ye olde swears at me that one time. 

"Y'know, Robin isn't the only one they write fanfiction about! There's stuff about the other Bats, like Nightwing, and Red Hood, and Red Robin, and Batgirl, and there's a shit ton about Batman too," she rambles on. "But it's kinda odd 'cause no one knows their identities so the authors either make up OC's for the people behind the mask, or they just use any real-life celebrities that they want, like a headcanon or something. Oh and major ew , I read one where Robin was Damian Wayne and it showed him acting all sweet to no one but the MC, which is so incredibly fake because he's the bitchiest bitch around actually. Also, he's like twelve — which is crazy because why are we in the same year, why is the nepo baby actually smart — and so like the author's kinda weird for that not gonna lie. Oh and, speaking of Damian Wayne, we need to go stationery shopping before Máma kills me." 

If Percy didn't also have ADHD, that entire thread of words would have been lost on him. Whenever she gets nervous, Mariana tends to jump across her trains of thought like an impatient driver switching lanes. He mentally shifts through the jumble of information thrown at him, focusing on the most important. 

"There's Nightwing fanfiction?" 

She nods vigorously and Percy hums to himself. Maybe reading isn't all that bad... 

Then comes the not so important issues: "Your school year has already started, what do you mean you haven't bought your stationery yet?" 

"I was supposed to buy them online, but I, uh, got a little sidetracked..." She glances at her phone with a grimacing smile. 

"By Robin fanfiction?" 

She nods solemnly, but her twitching lip makes Percy rethink how apologetic she really is. 

"And what does all this have to do with Damian?" Percy tilts his head. 

He doesn't even have time to blink before her face shifts into a nasty scowl. (She scarily reminds Percy of himself, with how his own expressions are as untamable and unpredictable as his father's domain.) 

"Four classes," she grits out. "Out of the eight classes we have excluding homeroom — which we also share, by the way — he is in four of them, and we're forced to sit next to each other in three since we have assigned seating by role order!" 

She heatedly counts through the alphabet on her fingers. "... S, T , U, V, W ! Where are the people with U and V last names?!" 

Percy shrugs. "I mean, you're both the only ones in a grade above your age, so shouldn't it be expected for the school to put you two together?" 

"No, something fishy's afoot, I'm telling you!" she stands up, pointing her finger at him as if it will prove her point. "I checked last month, the only class I had with him was Art!"

He raises an eyebrow. "And how did you find that out, exactly?" 

Mariana's face stills and she blinks twice. "Y'know what, we should get going." (He really needs to teach her how to do a good poker face.) 

He starts to grab his stuff when he quickly encounters a problem: Percy hasn't gone to a proper school in over five years. What are kids supposed to take to school? At least a pen and a notebook, right? Do they need a device? Percy only ever used his laptop in university. Fuck, do they have to buy a whole new computer? What about a ring binder, or a calculator — does she need a graphics calculator at her age? 

Gods, he needs help . And Mariana notices. 

"You look like you've never stationery shopped in your life," she judges while shuffling through her cluttered closet. She whips around at Percy's silence. "Wait, have you never gone stationery shopping?"

"I did, once!" he protests. "When I was like... ten. Hey, don't gimme that look, I was homeschooled for a long while." 

"Uh, me too?! I've never had to stationery shop for school!" she cries, a sudden look of panic overtaking her face. "I thought you would know what you're doing!" 

They stare at each other in slowly dawning horror. 

"Y'know who could help?" Mariana says suddenly. "Dick, he'd be great help."

Percy nods along, with a long drawn out 'aah' of understanding. "Right, 'cause he can get Tim to help us since he's actually in high school right now." 

Mariana smiles stiffly. (It almost makes him believe that he hadn't understood her as well as he thought.) "Yeah... sure, Perce." (Yeah, he's definitely wrong.) 

He leaves to call Dick while Mariana changes out of her pajamas. Two rings later, he picks up. 

"Hey Percy, what's up?" 

"Hey, Dickie." Percy can imagine Dick's cheek-splitting smile, like when they were younger. It's really the only reason why he sticks to that nickname. "Can I borrow Tim for an hour or two?" 

"Tim's a little... out of sorts at the moment." The wince in his voice is evident. "I can wake him up, but you'll probably have to buy him some coffee on the way. What do you need him for?" 

"Mariana needs to stationery shop — yeah, we know it's a bit late for that — but we're both homeschooled, so we need a high school expert, I guess."

Dick snorts. "Tim can't be considered a high school expert when he's barely in class." 

"Little genius Tim Drake hates school? That's..." he thinks for a second. "Actually not a surprise. If he doesn't even have the energy to fall asleep in his bed, then I doubt that he'd have the energy to handle the obnoxious rich kids in GA." Percy shivers, hellish memories coming to his mind. 

Dick laughs over the line. "Yeah, he says that school is 'a mindless prison where the grades get lower and the students get higher' or something like that." 

"Hear, hear!" Percy holds his hand up like he's raising a toast and Dick laughs again. 

"Just send me the address of the shop and we'll be over." 

"We? Wh—" 

Dick hangs up before Percy can finish his question and he's forced to answer with the embarrassing truth: he just wants to spend as much time as he can with his old best friend. He has to go back to Blüdhaven in a week or so, because even if he zetas back to patrol his city as Nightwing some nights, he does have a civilian job to maintain. But cramming in ten years of lost time within a few weeks proves to be increasingly difficult when most of Percy's time is spent with Mariana. So he'll take every morsel of time offered, like a starved animal scavenging in the Gotham sewers. 

(He doesn't want to think this way, but some traitorous, paranoid, Bat-influenced part of him is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Percy to pack up and leave through an open window instead.) 

He nulls these thoughts by scanning through his walk-in closet. Maybe he spends too much time perusing through his clothes, holding up outfits against his body as he scrutinizes the mirror. But there's no one around but himself to criticise him, so he ignores it. Deciding on chinos and a tight, white tank top under an unbuttoned light blue Cuban collar shirt, he heads out to wake Tim. 

Passing the living room, he sees Damian cross-legged on the couch with a book in his hands and Titus resting in his lap. He pauses to take in the sight of his baby brother being peaceful and finally looking like a child his age. He stops before leaning back to stick his head through the doorway. "Hey Damian, didn't you say you wanted to buy new art supplies?" 

Damian looks up and nods once. He agrees curtly to Dick's invitation of going to the stationery shop (which lacks some very key details), then goes back to reading.

It'll be good for Damian to talk more to kids his age, Dick thinks while knocking on Tim's door. Maybe they’ll become besties, despite their rocky start, and have hangouts that Dick and Percy have to supervise. First impressions are meant to be changed, after all. (Dick is deluding himself, he knows it, but nonetheless it would be good for Damian to have friends who aren’t superpowered and/or generally indestructible.) 

There’s a noise of neither objection or approval from Tim’s room, so Dick pushes on the door and peeks in. A lump of a teenager sits on the bed, ruffling through case notes. When he glances up and merely grunts in greeting, Batman-style, Dick knows it’s time for an intervention. 

He sits on the bed and shuffles the pages into a neat stack, keeping them far out of Tim’s reach. “Two hours,” Dick barters. “Just two hours, and then you can go back to whatever cold case this is.” 

Although Tim grumbles and gripes in protest, he realises very quickly what Dick is doing and collapses back into his pillows with a groan. Tim knows there’s no winning against his older brother. (Dick glances at the framed Flying Graysons poster on the far wall. He knows this too.) 

"Why are you dressed so fancy?” Tim side-eyes the chain jewellery draped across Dick’s collarbone. “You going somewhere?" 

"Yup! And I'm taking you with me."

"What? Why?"

"Percy and Mariana need help for back-to-school shopping." Dick pointedly stares at a lava lamp on the shelf, but still shoots his little brother a look when he huffs out a laugh. 

"Ohhh... So that's why you're dressed like you're going on a date," Tim smirks.

"No, I'm not!" He looks down at his outfit, at his expensive sneakers, pyramid studded belt, and shiny silver rings. "This is a perfectly respectable outfit for some light shopping!" 

"Uh huh..." 

Dick, ever the mature adult, sticks out his tongue to which Tim laughs. After making the boy promise to come down to the garage after getting ready, Dick makes the journey down first. Damian is already there, leaning against the door of Dick’s navy blue Toyota Corolla. He’s on the driver’s side, making Dick raise an eyebrow. 

"Grayson, I am in need of particular assistance." Dick perks up at Damian's words. Is this it, the moment when the youngest of the family finally asks his older brother for help? Damian holds up his hand, noticing Dick's wide, hopeful eyes. "But I will only ask it from you if I am allowed to drive." 

Dick nods vigorously, readily ignoring the implications of Damian at the wheel. "What's up, Little D?"

"Call me that wretched name again and I will cease from ever considering you as my brother." 

"Fine... Wait, you consider me as your brother?"

"Moving on to my issue—"

"Awwww, Dami!"

"Unhand me, Grayson!" 

Dick releases his baby brother from his deathly bear hug, allowing Damian to slide into the driver's seat while Dick takes shotgun. Damian leans back and crosses his arms, inspecting the clean glass as if he can see the dirt on a microscopic level. 

"It has been a week of school and my homeroom teacher is urging me to join clubs." 

It isn’t a question, but Dick knows Damian well. "You don't know what clubs to join?" he deducts. 

"I understand that it would be beneficial for my cover, but I can find nothing of interest." Damian’s hands are now interlocked on his lap. His fingers tighten, turning his knuckles pale. 

"What about Mariana?” he asks, hoping that the girl could either be a point of reference or someone to relate to, thus inciting a budding friendship. “Maybe she hasn't chosen anything either." 

Damian clicks his tongue. "Trenche has joined every single music ensemble and choir offered, secured her future place in the senior orchestras, made it onto the junior premier lists for the track, archery, and swim teams, and has become class captain for our homeroom." 

"All within the span of a week?!" 

Damian nods, his frown souring further by the second. 

“Gosh, she really is just like her mother,” Dick remarks softly.

“What do you mean?” the boy snaps. “I have Coraline Trenche as my art teacher, and she is much more tolerable than her daughter ever will be.” 

Dick hums, pocketing that snippet of information for later. "Back in my day at GA," (gosh, he sounds old ), "Ms. Trenche was known to be the biggest extrovert on Earth. If you knew anybody , she probably knew them too." 

"Oh yeah, a couple guys in my year tried to call her out on lying about it by asking her about fake people," Tim pipes up after sliding into the backseat. "But it backfired pretty soon when she actually knew people named Jeremiah Markova and Valeria Dallas. Called them up too, to prove it." 

Tim tilts his head questioningly at Dick’s seating arrangement. The two reluctant brothers spot each other in the rearview mirror.

"Fuck, Demon is driving?" 

“Why is Drake here?” 

In all honesty, Dick somehow forgot to consider Tim and Damian’s animosity, despite having a front-row seat to their daily shouting matches. He was just too concerned over seeing Percy, and Damian and Mariana being friends, and getting Tim out of the house, as separate issues and didn’t think about how they would work out together . It’s fine. It’s just another bonding experience after all. Before he can coerce them into getting along, Damian sniffs haughtily. 

“I will not be convinced into doing anything with him after what he did.” 

Dick pouts. “Oh c’mon, is this still about the cookies going missing? We still haven’t found the culprit, so no need to point fingers now, Damian.” 

“It’s not about the cookies,” Tim informs, dragging a limp hand down half his face. “Damian thinks I hacked into the Gotham Academy system to change his timetable to have five classes with Mariana Trenche, as retaliation for being accused of stealing the cookies — and I didn’t do either of those things, by the way.” 

“That sounds exactly like what the culprit would say,” Damian glares. (It seems he’s been getting interrogation lessons from Steph.) “Last I checked, I only had one class with Trenche. And how else would you explain the sudden security measures surrounding Gotham Academy’s student timetable information? It reeks of your meddling, Drake.” 

Dick thinks twice about believing Tim’s loud objections, the boy fully capable of lying to Batman himself and having done so before. But it doesn’t really matter who the culprit was, as long as the deed had been done. It’s a blessing in disguise, really. The more time he spends with Mariana, the closer they are to friendship (and the more he gets to see Percy, hopefully). 

Dick manages to convince Damian to come along with them by promising to become his accomplice in sneaking another pet into the Manor, as well as giving up his credit card. (It’s Bruce’s loss twice over, anyway.) 

They park in front of the shop and spot Percy and Mariana waiting at the entrance. 

Percy wears baggy blue jeans with an even baggier grey Nirvana shirt overtop a black and blue striped long sleeve. A matching blue skateboard is gripped loosely at his side, and Dick delights in knowing that he's still the skater boy he was in their youth. While he's all covered up, Mariana is the exact opposite. Regardless of Gotham’s chilly, recent Mr. Freeze attack influenced weather, Mariana is seemingly unaffected in her cropped yellow T-shirt, pink athletic shorts, and flip flops. The outfit is tied together by large, silver, crab claw shaped earrings and a matching necklace. 

Maybe it's the older brother of a family of vigilantes in him, but he immediately hones in on the scars riddling her brown skin. Gothamites, especially those born and bred, are no strangers to scars. But the sheer number of them at her age is more than concerning. (He really doesn’t want to, but he considers doing a background check on Coraline Trenche when he gets back to the ‘cave.) 

Dick’s gaze flicks back to her babysitter. He's wearing his silver earrings again. He wore them once before at that fever dream of a dinner, but Dick was too preoccupied by the fact that he's back, he's back, and he's going to make him stay , to notice how deliriously good he looks in them. 

But Percy’s first action is not to return the favour and appreciate Dick’s (slightly overdressed) figure. Instead, he steps in front of Mariana, tense and wary and protective , as he glares down at Damian. The girl herself jolts in surprise, but goes back to scowling at Damian as well. (Well, there goes Dick’s fruitless wishes of a friendship between them.) 

“Wayne,” she states coldly.

“Trenche,” Damian greets in equal tone.

Mariana looks up questioningly at her babysitter to find him doing the same to Dick. The older man looks away, rubbing his neck. A deliberate blankness washes over Percy’s face as Mariana pipes up.

“Why is he here?” she asks Dick. “Why would he come along when he hates me and Tim?”

“Grayson, you didn’t tell me neither Trenche nor Jackson were going to be here,” Damian hisses. 

Dick, ever the master of ignoring the glaring problems caused by his own habit of withholding information, picks and chooses the part of their questions which is easiest to answer: “Damian doesn’t hate Tim. It’s fine now that the problem with the cookies has been resolved, mostly.”

“The cookies?” Percy and Mariana ask simultaneously, with an innocent lilt in their voices. 

“They were fighting about someone stealing Alfred’s cookies last week. Tensions are still high, I fear.” It takes every ounce of self-control for the criminal and her accomplice to not smirk triumphantly at each other. 

Mariana turns her face away, muttering so quietly that no one but Percy can hear. “¿Están preocupados por las galletas, pero no por el collar de perlas?”

Knowing that she only switches languages whenever she’s upset and doesn’t want him to know it, Percy tears his eyes away from Damian’s bitter glower and leans down to ruffle her blue hair. “It’s okay, he can’t Wayne on our parade.” 

An exasperated eye-roll over a poorly hidden grin replaces Mariana’s initial dirty looks, and even Dick can’t help but chuckle (what can he say, he’s a slut for a good pun). The laugh soon morphs into a cough under the weight of Percy’s amused glance and Damian’s stare, heavy with disdain. Before the kid can accuse him of treachery against the family name, Dick herds them all into the shop and grabs a little shopping cart. 

"You came along," Percy says as Dick slides into his usual place next to him. 

"What, you didn't want me to?" Dick pouts. Percy has to stop his mind from calling him cute. He looks away swiftly, unable to see the genuine hurt weaved in the other man's face. 

“No, I’m glad you’re here, but…” He glances at Mariana and Damian, where they inspect the aisles while ignoring every fibre of the other’s being. “It’s fine, it’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Dick asks, not-so-sneakily taking Percy’s coffee from his hand. Percy warns him off his little side quest, but Dick just raises an eyebrow in challenge. Percy makes no other moves to stop him — he knows he'll regret it soon enough. Maintaining eye contact, he takes a sip. Percy watches on, his eyes momentarily flickering down to where his lips touch the lid. 

The moment is very soon ruined when Dick makes a face and holds the coffee far, far away from himself ( Told ya , Percy thinks.). "Gosh, what's in here?! You're just as bad as Tim!" 

Tim coughs. They look over at the boy to see him inconspicuously pouring his black coffee into his half-full can of Zesti. On the side, Mariana and Damian watch him with equal parts intrigue (to see if his heart would finally stop) and disgust (because that is fucking vile ). 

"I don't think anyone is as bad as Tim," Percy says, and Dick has to agree. He leans over to whisper conspiratorially, fully aware that a hand covering his mouth won't block his half-whispers.

"Apparently he said adding Zesti makes coffee taste better." He makes another face that Percy has to suppress his smile at. "But I think the lack of sleep is getting to his taste buds now, because I don't understand how he could defile such a glorious drink with his bitter bean juice." 

"Hey! This bitter bean juice keeps me functioning, alright?" Percy snatches back his coffee cup and takes a long swig, if only to hide his relentless grin at Dick's theatrics. 

Damian and Mariana advance through their respective shopping lists with ease, thoroughly making sure that their hauls stay separated in the cart. Tim lags behind the rest, giving Mariana the occasional piece of advice that ranged from how to colour code her notebooks to which GA teachers are easiest to prank (Ms. Trenche is at the very bottom of that list). 

Percy keeps quiet during most of their conversations about Gotham Academy, knowing his experiences with the school were wildly original.

(Mariana thinks for a second after Tim asks her for which teachers she has this year. “Uh, I can’t remember most of their names… Mrs. Vaughn is one of them, I think?”

"Oh, Millie?” Percy snaps his fingers in recognition. “I remember her!" 

"What subject did she teach again?" asks Dick, tilting his head.

Percy's face screws up. "Uh... Detention?"

"Nah, she taught math, right?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"She's still the main detention teacher, actually," Tim says. 

"You're on a first name basis with the detention teacher?" the two youngest ask simultaneously. Damian's tone is judgemental as usual, but Mariana's eyes hold a very dangerous glint of awe. They glance at each other, clicking their tongues and turning away, all still in perfect unison.)

The (inaccurately dubbed) high school graduate duo push around the shopping cart, each with one hand on its handle. But the cart has one problem: it is tiny . The handle was made for two normal sized hands with a centimetre of wiggle room. But Dick and Percy's hands are massive, made larger by the hard skin grown over their scars and callouses, so their pinkies press together at every swerve in the cart's path and their forearms knock whenever they stop. 

Tim glances skeptically at them — obviously going to suggest the better option of choosing just one person to handle the cart — when Mariana's withering glare (that she without a doubt learnt from her mother) promptly shuts his mouth. 

"You know, there's someone who's worse than Tim, actually." Dick presses his shoulder into Percy's. They both ignore the pulse of familiarity smouldering under their skin. 

"Who?" replies Percy, in the same hushed voice. He was well acquainted with catering to Dick's melodramatic nature as kids, so he’s more than happy to oblige once again. 

Dick glances around them in slow and painstaking sweeps, like he’s about to divulge a world-altering and universe-shattering secret. Percy bites the inside of his cheek, too committed in his act to let his face fall into his usual easy smile. (He’s doing that often now, he notices in the back of his mind. He mentally thanks his therapist.) 

Dick's warm skin squashed into his wrist pulls him back from the clouds in his head. His sapphire blue eyes hold a glint that Percy recognised in seconds. 

"It's Babs, can you believe it?" 

Percy raises his eyebrows to the sky, matching Dick's expression, and gasps with all the dramatics that the information deserved. "No, really ?"

"Yes, really." Dick nods, lips pressing into a solemn frown. But the glint doesn't disappear. "Tim drinks anything that keeps him awake, but Barbara? Oh gosh, she chugs coffee like it's her life blood. She's the one who introduced Tim to coffee in the first place!" 

“At least she doesn’t mix coffee and soda,” Percy shrugs.

“She drinks black coffee straight up!” 

“ This ,” he holds up his cup, “is black coffee, Dickie. It’s not gonna kill you.” Deep dimples bracket Dick’s beaming smile, and Percy feels the irrational need to press his thumb into the divots of skin. “But you know what might kill someone? Coffee infused Zesti.” 

Tim, who can obviously hear their conversation, scowls in their direction. “I’m telling Babs you said that.” 

“I’m pretty sure Barbara would agree that your taste buds are broken, Timbuktu,” Dick counters while Percy smiles at the nickname. 

“I’ll tell her that you insulted her taste instead.”

Even Percy winces on Dick’s behalf, but a single glance at his comically pale face makes him snort with laughter. Dick looks between the both of them, expression betrayed and scandalised. 

“You wouldn’t.”

His little brother’s narrow blue eyes are a visual portrayal of ‘try me’ . While Dick laments, Percy tries to negotiate his way out of certain doom. 

“I defended Babs’ honour, you can’t tattle on me.” 

Tim scoffs. “You made fun of my drink!”

“Tell me, can you even taste your drink?”

“Not really…” 

“Wonder Woman or Superman?” questions Mariana abruptly, cutting into their parley. She whirls around to hold up two pencil cases, each emblem patterned on the clear plastic. In quick succession, Tim and Dick answer Superman while Percy votes for Wonder Woman. She shoves the Superman pencil case back onto the shelf. 

Damian grouches on the other side of the cart. “Batman is so much better than either of them.” 

Mariana scrunches her nose. “Ew, how could you say such atrocities?”

“Atrocities?! My—”

“Who’s your favourite Bat, Mariana?” asks Tim, pointedly eyeballing Damian and the very sharp pencil clenched in his fist. 

“Didn’t you say it was Robin?” Percy teases, remembering the events of the morning.

She shakes her head vehemently. “No way, I just like his sword. He’s the only Robin with a sword and I respect the gremlin vibe he has going on out of solidarity, but if I had to pick a favourite Robin, it would be the second one. He gave me candy on Halloween, when I was like, eight.” 

Tim and Damian glance at each other as Damian’s blush recedes from his neck (maybe there’s hope for a Damian-Mariana friendship after all). Dick knows that the first thing they’ll do on patrol is tease Jason for his tenure as Robin being accentuated by giving little kids candy. 

“But having Batman as your favourite is actual bullshit,” she spits at Damian. “The only overgrown furry I respect is Catwoman!”

“Of course you would rather respect a thief than a hero!”

“She’s an ex-con! Besides, the Gotham City Sirens are so much cooler than the Bats!” 

“How could you compare criminals with the protectors of the city?!”

“Again, they’re ex-cons! Except for maybe Poison Ivy… but she does it for a good cause!”

“And Nightingale is retired, and Harley Quinn is turning over a new leaf,” Tim chimes in, despite the warning glare Dick sends him. 

“Yeah! And I’m pretty sure Batman has slept with Catwoman, while she was still a criminal! So does that really make him any better?!”

“Batman wouldn’t do such a vulgar thing!”

“The streets don’t lie, pendejo!” 

As their voices get louder and higher, the pain in Percy’s head cuts deeper. Fuck, I hate being a demigod , he thinks for the umpteenth time. Letting go of the cart, he brings both his hands up to massage his temples. He can hear the pipes of the nearby bathroom creaking. Di immortales, is he really losing his grip on his powers through a mere headache? The water feels far from his reach. He makes a mental note to visit New Rome University and coax one of his friends into a powered sparring session, something to get used to the no longer familiar tug in his lower stomach. 

His eyes flutter open for a moment to look past the aisle. From the looks of the store clerks, they are just seconds away from getting kicked out.

"Hey!" 

It’s Dick’s voice, wedging himself between the two twelve-year-olds. Always the peacemaker. He’d do the same thing whenever Percy and Bruce got into their rare arguments back then. (Bruce was never in the house enough for arguments — or conversations as a whole — to be a common occurrence.)

He doesn’t pay attention to what Dick is saying while kneeling in front of Damian, but the sound of his voice is enough to mitigate the stinging behind his eyes. He gains enough mental clarity to place a hand on Mariana’s shoulder and tug her back from the brothers. Instantly, she relaxes under his hand and takes a deep breath. He can feel the migraine retreating, and the plumbing’s tantrum ceases. 

“Oookay, let’s go to check out, yeah?” Tim titters nervously, peeking at the staff behind the counter. “Before we get kicked out of the third store this month.”

“It’s only the tenth of September,” says Percy. 

“Yeah…”

They load the stationery supplies onto the conveyor belt, still careful to separate the kids’ items. Dick takes out his credit card (in spite of Percy racing to the counter, he somehow manages to slip in first) with Damian at front and Mariana behind Percy and Tim, the kids themselves are separated as well. On Mariana’s insisting, since plastic bags are bad for the environment, they pack everything into two 50-cent reusable bags, when Tim turns to Mariana.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says. “Who’s your favourite Bat?”

“I think Red Hood is pretty cool,” she says after a while, placing her hand on her chin. “But what about that new one, Riptide?” 

Percy’s head snaps up. “Riptide is not a Bat.”

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER 14, 2021.

Riptide is being watched. 

He can feel it in the way the hair at the nape of his neck stands on end, and the tight knot in his gut. Even between the screaming and sirens that make up the Gotham night soundscape, he can make out a light scuffle of feet trailing behind him. It’s been happening for the past few days, both at night and during the afternoon. It might be one of the Bats, chasing after him again. But their attention on him has waned significantly, so it seems unlikely. (Especially after what Signal accidentally told him about their sights shifting to other, equally annoying, fish in the sea.) 

The pitter-pattering continues. Twisting in the air after firing his grappling line, he tries to spot anything out of the ordinary on the concrete roofs. The only thing out of the ordinary seems to be his own miscalculations as his back splats into a billboard. 

“Nice landing, Tide,” a welcomed voice snarks. Riptide sighs as Nightwing reveals himself from behind the billboard’s support. The sound of feet has stopped. He sighs again, smiling slightly. At least his mystery stalker is someone he trusts, kind of. (Can you really trust a person who actively works with the man that wants you gone?) 

He wriggles around, still hanging on to his grapple gun, only to come face to face with Bruce Wayne. His million-dollar media-curated grin sparkles brighter than whatever flashy WayneTech product the ad is displaying. A low grumble escapes him and his fist blows a hole through Brucie’s front teeth. 

“Got something against billionaires?” Nightwing grins, appreciating Riptide’s work like a Monet masterpiece. Riptide dusts his hands off after landing on the roof. 

“Nah, just a constant urge to stick it to the man, I guess,” he says, matching the other’s expression. 

“I hear ya.”

Riptide sits down on the edge of the roof and beckons Nightwing to join him. He does, doing a one-handed cartwheel on the way. Riptide punches his arm, muttering “show-off” under his breath, and Nightwing laughs. He’s kicking his feet as he leans back on his hands, childish and nonchalant. Nightwing is a lot like him, Riptide has realised: he really can’t sit still. 

“So, how’s your day been?” Riptide asks. “Any interesting cases or, uh, new pesky vigilantes giving you trouble?” It might’ve been a ploy to get some information out of him, but he really did enjoy the idle chatter that occurred between them. 

Nightwing gives him a sidelong look. “So Signal told you something.”

“What the fuck?!” All but leaping away, Riptide almost dives headfirst off the roof. Nightwing catches his cloak so he tumbles back onto the stone. “Okay, I get the whole ‘mentored by the world’s greatest detective’ thing, but are you a fucking mind reader or something?!”

“Or something,” he shrugs. After seeing Riptide’s still horrified expression, he spreads his hands at his chest in his usual placating gestures. But his smirk is playful. “Apart from me, Signal is the only Bat you’ve had real contact with, so he’s the only one who could give you information. And to me, your words sounded like you were digging for more.” 

Riptide falls onto his back with a groan and mutters something akin to “damn you Bats and your detective skills.” He shifts his eyes to land on Nightwing’s smug face. Nightwing nudges him with his knee, prodding for a recount of his day. 

“Signal and I were out in the afternoon, at Ivy and Harley’s Bitchin’ Hour Book Club. Didn’t really do much reading, but I’m there more for the bitchin’ and less for the book club, to be honest.”

Nightwing’s eyebrows furrow under his domino mask. “Batman told Signal very clearly not to fraternise with the Rogues…” 

“Eh, what Batman doesn’t know won’t kill him,” Riptide shrugs, sitting up again.

“It might, actually,” he snorts. “Every piece of information he doesn’t have takes a year off his life.”

Then Riptide’s lips quirk up, something so cryptic and omniscient that it’s reminiscent of Alfred. “Then he really should be dead by now.” His voice is low, almost taunting, if not for the hidden weight behind those words. Despite the warm layers of armour and cloth in his suit, a trail of goosebumps hurtle down Nightwing’s forearms.

“We might try to get Red Hood, apparently he’s a secret lit nerd. Maybe I’ll see him in the Narrows, or Park Row. That’s kinda his “territory” right?” Riptide air quotes the word ‘territory’ like he can’t quite believe that one guy managed to shoo them away from a whole section of land.

“Yeah…” Nightwing fixes the other man under an inquisitive stare. “He hasn’t intimidated you out yet? He lets you in there?” 

“Well yeah?” he tilts his head. “I’m not a Bat, for one.”

“You could be.” The proposition slips out of his mouth like a loose piece of candy. His breath halts in the middle of his chest. He’s glad that he cut his comms, because that blackmail would have been enough for Oracle to chant for blood in exchange. He wishes for the words to be eaten up by the cacophony of Gotham.

But Riptide raises an eyebrow, having heard it. “What, you want me indoctrinated into the Bat-family?” He props a leg up and leans his cheek against his knee. “Through what, Bat-marriage?” 

The accidental seriousness backing Nightwing’s voice is washed away with a laugh and a joke, and he has never felt more grateful for a man so much like himself.

“Uh huh, sure,” he plays along. “Who’s the officiant?” 

“Batman, obviously.”

“And Robin’s the flower girl?”

“Oh, I like how you think!” 

“So who’s wearing the tux and who’s wearing the dress?” 

“Way to be heteronormative, Wing,” he rolls his eyes, probably. Nightwing still can’t tell. “We’re both wearing the dress, obviously.”

“Only if the dresses are blue,” he winks. “You’d look good in blue.”

“Now I love the way you think.” If either of them notice their red cheeks braving against the wind, neither dare mention it. Riptide strokes his imaginary beard. “Now… how do we get Red Hood to the altar?”

Now it’s Nightwing’s turn to almost fall off the building. “What?!” His jaw drops. He scrambles back up to stare at Riptide, one hand pressed on his chest and the other against his forehead like a fainting damsel. “Not me?!” 

“What,” he smirks, “he seems like a nice guy.” (Riptide thinks of the giant crates he found outside of The Haven, filled with food, books, and other essentials, and the note signed off with a cursive RH at the top.)

“And to think I was gonna help you and not leave you to the wolves,” he pouts.

Riptide tilts his head quizzically. “Help me with what?”

The wind stills just long enough for Nightwing’s sharp inhale to hang in the air. It lingers between them. A poisonous bubble waiting to be popped.

"Batman wants to meet you." 

Opportunities are rare, to see the man who treats shadows like a second home. There are blurry candids of all the Gotham heroes on the Internet, always deleted after a few hours, but people have experiences with the colourful ones. Stories, anecdotes spread by word of mouth. But the man of the hour disappears from both lens and sight like the night he claims to be. Despite the casual jokes from Gothamites, the name Batman instinctively sends hearts into overdrive. To have him seek you out is enough to warrant cardiac arrest. 

"Wow, I'm already meeting the Bat-parents? Take me out on a Bat-date first!" 

But again, with a laugh and a joke, the bubble is burst and the tension washed away. Ease tickles Nightwing’s skin, like ripples under a lilypad. His guts, making a Gordian knot of itself, unravel. 

His smile lights up like a sunrise. “We were just discussing our Bat-wedding.”

“ A Bat-wedding. Not ours , just yet.” 

Nightwing ignores the warmth of his cheeks, just like he ignores the word ‘yet’. He sits criss cross applesauce and rocks side to side, with his hands on his knees. "Batman's been getting kinda testy lately, especially since there's another new unwarranted vigilante out here," he says, giving Riptide the information he was asking for earlier.

"Damn, who's coming to steal my thunder?" Again, he smiles cryptically, like it’s an inside joke with himself. 

"We've had a couple sightings of a masked woman snooping around, but we now know she's with Red Hood, so it should be alright."

"Oh? How'd you figure that out?"

"Wasn't much to figure out when he came barging into the Batcave to tell us to get off her trail unless we wanted to get beat into the ground," he shrugs. 

"He threatened to beat Batman into the ground?” Riptide whistles. The Gordian knot reappears, now in Nightwing’s chest. “Damn, the guy's ballsy, I have to respect it." 

Nightwing grimaces. "I have a feeling he wasn't talking about himself doing the beating..." 

Riptide just hums in response. After a while, he speaks. "Should you be telling me all this?" Batman doesn’t scare him, but he wouldn’t want his possible orders for Nightwing to comprise their weird, borderline flirtatious friendship-alliance-thing. 

"Probably not. But you wouldn't tell, right?" he grins as he leans forward slightly.

Riptide smiles back, cheeky and a little lopsided. "How sure are you about that?" 

"Hm.” He squints, but smirks cockily. “Then I guess I'll just have to keep you quiet."

Swaying towards him, Riptide tilts his chin up in challenge. His hand between them, balancing his weight, shies a few centimetres from Nightwing’s thigh. "And how are you going to do that?"

Oh , Riptide thinks distractedly. Not borderline. It’s a very flirtatious friendship-alliance-thing . Nightwing has never felt more grateful for the mask covering his eyes, which flicker down to Riptide’s lips. Lips which are a bit chapped from the cold air. Lips which turn out to be peachy pink when Riptide absentmindedly licks them. Lips that are, belatedly realised, too close to his own.

"Hey, is that Catwoman?" 

Riptide follows Nightwing’s gaze to see a dark figure a couple roofs over. Before he can even discern the telltale cat ears on her head, he leaps towards the next building. Nightwing is hot on his tail. 

“Hey, Cat!” Nightwing calls out. 

She’s talking to someone significantly shorter. They glance over as they land. Riptide tenses up next to him. The person — no, the child — next to her has their hood and mask pulled down, revealing a clear view of their head. If the pink stripes in her hair aren’t enough of a dead giveaway, there is no mistaking the vivid cyan of her unblinking stare. 

Mariana immediately pulls up her hood and the lower face mask, but it’s no use. Riptide is clenching and unclenching his fist, something Nightwing has seen Superboy do when he still struggled with his anger. He places a featherlight touch on Riptide’s forearm. He doesn’t loosen up, but his hand stays fisted. 

“Nightwing! Didn’t think I’d be seeing you tonight,” Catwoman greets amicably. Her gaze slides over to the man next to him. “Oh, who’s this?” 

He narrows his eyes at her. “Ladies first,” he says, gesturing at the little girl.

Catwoman rolls her eyes and pats Mariana on the head. Riptide starts forward, but Nightwing’s arm blocks him. “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “She won’t be harmed.”

“This is my messenger,” Catwoman says. “She handles my messages, as messengers do.”

“This is Riptide,” Nightwing states bluntly. “Anyway.”

He nods his head to the neighbouring building. “Mind if we chat a little, Cat? Without your little messenger?” 

Catwoman throws a quick glance at Mariana and Riptide. The man has his arms crossed, fingers digging tightly into his biceps. Mariana’s disapproving glare burns holes into the side of her head, but she merely bops her cloth-covered nose and nods at Nightwing. They grapple quickly to the slightly elevated roof, where they can still see the two they left behind. Mariana attempts to leave, or go after them, but something Riptide says stops her. They watch for a moment while he crouches in front of her. 

“What are you doing with Mariana?” Nightwing blurts out.

Catwoman raises an eyebrow. “So she really did go into Wayne Manor, huh?”

“You knew?” His head whips over to stare at her incredulously. “She told you?”

“And she took back a pearl necklace I had accidentally left quite a while ago,” she says, grinning proudly. Nightwing can’t help but think, Damian was right, kind of.

“I was lamenting over leaving it, but I didn’t want to go the extra mile just to get it back, y’know? But then she came up to me, a week or so ago, with the exact same necklace in her hands. Apparently she convinced her, ah, babysitter to let her visit.” She says the word like the idea of a babysitter for Mariana is something she can’t wrap her head around. 

“She thought,” she hesitates. “She thought it would make me let her become my protege, instead of just a messenger. She wanted to prove herself…”

“But why is she a messenger in the first place?” Nightwing questions. “Didn’t take the Rogues to be so old-fashioned as to not use their phones to communicate. C’mon, we live in the twenty-first century.”

“Papers leave less of a paper trail, ironically enough.”

She sends him a sneaky look, expecting a reaction for her top-notch joke. But Nightwing’s face remains stony.

“She’s a kid, Selina.” 

“So is Damian,” she points out.

“Robin is a special case—”

“And so were you and Jason and Tim, when you all started out as sidekicks—”

“Partners,” he corrects out of habit.

“Right, partners, which is worse . Mari’s just a messenger, and the Rogues know better than to shoot the messenger.” She purses her lips, her face as grim as Batman’s favourite gargoyle statue. Catwoman peers over the roof’s edge, at the girl turning her face away from Riptide. Something in her eyes soften behind her tinted goggles. “And as long as she trains under me , she’ll stay a messenger.”

It clicks in his brain far later than he likes to admit. “You train her, of course you do. That’s why she moves around so silently, like a little kitty cat. The kid can probably give us Bats a run for our money — don’t tell B I said that, please.”

Concerningly, she makes no promises. She is far more interested in gazing up at the cloudy sky, the pride crystal clear in her eyes. “Yeah, she’s my little kitty cat… Catgirl, that’s what she wants her name to be. But I can’t let her do that.”

She glowers down at her hands, glaring with a heat that could scorch away the layers of grime that have built up from years prior. Years of bad circumstances and worse decisions. 

“That little girl needs a better role model than me. Someone with better morals. I know it, and her mother knows it too.”

“Coraline knows?” God, he’s about to get a serious case of whiplash with all this information thrown at him from every angle. However, Catwoman takes no notice of Nightwing’s dilemma and turns her attention to the small figure flitting away from the rooftops. 

“Oh, there goes my kid. Better run before she beats up a thug too badly, catch you later, ‘Wing!” 

“Selina? Selina, what do you mean — Catwoman!”

Nightwing is left floundering after her as she hurdles across buildings with ease, catching up to her messenger. He flips back down to Riptide’s roof. Riptide doesn’t say anything about his dramatics, only silently staring in the direction that the two women left in. 

"Did I technically just meet your Bat-mom?" 

Nightwing snorts. "Nah, they broke up ages ago." 

As soon as Percy punches in the pincode of his apartment, he tugs off the Camp Half-blood hoodie — the eyesore orange distracted people from his super suit pants — and throws himself on his inflatable couch. The mix of cloth and plastic squeaks irritatedly but soon settles down under his weight. The NRU duffle bag containing the Nemean lion pelt and his utility belt are dumped unceremoniously by his feet. Earlier in the week, he had dumped the duffle bag in a bush near his apartment and manipulated the Mist to make it look like a random rock, so he can sneak in and out in his gear without suspicion. 

His forearm slumps across his face. His headache has long since subsided, thanks to the cold wind atop tall buildings (and Nightwing’s laughter). But he can feel slowly creeping back the longer he’s given time to think.

(“Kid, wait!”

Mariana stops immediately, causing Riptide’s outreached hand to fall short. She turns briskly and all he can see is her scathing glare. 

“I’m not a kid. Don’t call me that.”

Despite her best efforts to hoarsen her voice and toss away her natural regal tone, the prepubescent indignation shines through anyway, as clear as her electric blue eyes.

Huh, he thinks as he kneels down in front of her, slow and open like he does with his kids at The Haven. Aren’t her eyes more greyish and softer than that?

But as time stretches on, Mariana’s irises hold miniscule reflections of his own glowy sea green, or maybe it’s a trick of the light, as he figures out the right words to say. His initial anger diminished when Catwoman left with Nightwing and was left with just a child in front of him. The girl is getting more impatient and restless by the second, as her tapping foot speeds up. He opens his mouth to say anything, because he knows how much of a pain it is to play the waiting game, but she beats him to it.

“Thank you,” she mumbles. 

Riptide cocks his head, a silent question.

“I’ve got friends in the Alley, and the Narrows. There’s word spreading about what you’re doing, helping kids on the streets and such. Thank you for doing that.”

She’s given up on hiding her voice, but the sincerity startles him. Whenever she talks, it’s usually airy and higher-pitched, a pretty good imitation of a Bristol accent, as if the way she says “champagne” will mask the tanness of her skin or the dirt on her jeans. This time, with genuine gratitude infused in her words, her voice is deep and distinct and resolute. It honestly reminds him of his step-mom with how her booming voice still manages to sound like a dulcet lullaby. Except without the unmistakable Park Row lilt peeking through.

He doesn’t say anything. He only smiles lightly.

Movement from the taller roof catches his eye. Between the overall cluttered noisescapes of Gotham city, they're too far away for him to overhear anything, but Nightwing's face looks perplexed from here. But Riptide doubts he's managed to get a good read on the man's facial habits after just a week.

“Does your mother know?” he asks.

Mariana’s foot stops tapping. Her torso constricts further into herself and her gloved hands tighten on her black sleeves. A slight twitch of her nose shifts the mask.

“Yes,” she answers, before turning just as abruptly as she did before and bolting to the fire escape.)

He expected himself to get angrier. To grab Catwoman and ask her if she liked putting an innocent child in harm’s way like a malevolent god. To shake the little kid by the shoulders and scream “Walk away, walk away right now, do you know how dangerous this is?” like he does to the starry-eyed pre-first-quest Percy in his dreams. 

Nightwing reassured him that she is okay — just okay, not safe — in Catwoman’s hands. Hands that have not spilled blood in years, hands that have passed down her skills and abilities of self-preservation. Catwoman is an ex-con, her work is not so death-defying or desperate as it used to be. 

But how can he fully trust someone who has The Batman speed dialled in his ear and breathing down his neck? 

But Coraline Trenche knows. Mariana admitted it, and despite her apprehensive reaction, Percy knew she didn’t lie. Coraline, who makes him blue shortbread cookies on a whim and opens her door to every stray, no matter kid or cat or full-grown Percy. Coraline, who taught her daughter how to use a switchblade and which weak points to attack first ( “Eyes, knees, throat, and groin,” Mariana recites to him like a twisted lullaby ). Coraline, who does not pretend like her sharp smiles aren’t threats. 

She is in trusted hands. 

He stands up and grabs the duffel bag. He feels around the bottom of the shelf and presses the panel with his index finger. It clicks and Percy states the Greek name of his sword. A series of mechanical clicks and whirrs sounds from behind the bookshelf, like Festus purring after a hearty meal of motor oil. After a particularly resonating clack , the bookshelf splits in two and slides apart from each other. One by one, Percy takes the items out of the bag and places them in. The cloak is suspended at the very back; blades perch low on the right side; utility belt hanging on the left. 

The first time the secret wardrobe opened, wisps of dry ice had tumbled out, because not only is Leo a nerd, he’s a dramatic nerd. Tendrils of icy chill wrapped around their ankles and seeped into their socks. This time, there’s no freezer-esque entrance, but a cold wind tickles his neck.

Percy whips around.

The window is open. He never leaves the window open.

Instantly, there is a steel dagger in his dominant hand. He’s reaching for Riptide when there’s a flash in a corner of the room. 

“Gotcha.”

His hand twitches. Instinct is telling him to pop the cap off Riptide. Flight or fight is telling him to jump out the window. His gut is silent. His gut only speaks when he’s in danger. 

Taking slow, careful, silent steps, he flicks on the light switch. It takes him a moment to blink the fuzzy spots out of his eyes. You could have had an arrow shot through your head by then , his brain chides oh so helpfully. Or a sword through your neck.

But there is no notched arrow or gleaming sword waiting for his demise behind his inflatable armchair. There is only a phone covered in sparkly stickers. 

“Mariana, what the actual ever-loving fuck are you doing in my living room?”

She looks around her feet. “Technically, I’m not in your living room. I’m in the hallway attached to your living room.”

He feels the headache coming back. Is this what his friends feel like whenever they talk to him? Oh gods, he needs to apologise.

As years of training taught him, disregarding that she’s a child, he scans her body for threats. Natural slouched posture, raised chin. Comfortable. Confident. Light blue eyes, not the piercing blue he saw on the roof, no flashes of gold. Not an eidolon. Gaze flickering every so often to his blade, tight jaw. He slackens his grip and her face relaxes marginally. The most dangerous thing she has is that phone and the gleam in her eyes. 

“Answer my question, Mari. Why are you in my house?”

“Apartment, not house,” she mutters before shutting up at his slow blinks of disbelief. 

“Mariana.”

She grins brightly. “I’m here to collect blackmail, of course.”

They both look at his wide open secret wardrobe. She doesn’t even try to hide the fact that she’s snapping photos at a hundred miles per minute. She takes a photo of him as well, and he can only imagine how shitty he looks with his mussed up hair and slack jaw.

She scrunches her nose at her screen. “Fuck you for being so horrendously photogenic.” 

Okay, maybe not. Closing his eyes more a moment, he groggily drags a hand down his face. When he decides to face his problems head on like the rational adult he isn't, Mariana is already poking her nose into the secret wardrobe. A cold draft sweeps the room again and he zones in on the open window again. Concern prods at his brain. 

" Mariana ," he starts, tone rushed and slightly agitated. "Mariana, how did you— I live on the twentieth floor!"

"Hm?" she responds distractedly. Dagger in hand, she waves vaguely. "Oh, y'know."

"No, actually I don't—" Another train of thought stops him. "Wait, were you the person stalking me? Not Nightwing?"

"Oh, yeah." She barely spares him a glance as she continues taking photos of his weapons arsenal. "Finally, you noticed."

His left eye twitches, but he can't stop himself from being impressed in the back of his mind. Percy takes a deep breath and steps towards her, keeping his eyes deliberately away from her phone. 

“Mariana, why don’t we talk about this, hm?”

“These photos are being uploaded to my laptop as we speak. Grabbing my phone will do nothing, Perce.”

“You don’t even have my Wi-fi!” 

“Mobile data exists, dude.” Her head recoils in mild disgust. “Were you living under a rock or something?”

“Under the sea, actually,” he snaps.

Mariana raises up her hands in the universal gesture of peace. “Okay Sebastian, no need to get all crabby on me.”

They stare at each other.

It only takes a moment until Percy’s face crumples into a grin. Soon enough, he’s laughing in a way that shakes his shoulders and hurts his cheeks. 

“Alright, that was a good one,” he admits. Taking a seat on the arm of the couch, he gestures to the armchair. “Sit down, and let’s actually talk.”

Hesitantly, with a proud but confused smile on her face, she sits in the chair. For what it’s worth, the inflated plastic barely dips under her weight. “Why is all of your furniture inflatable?”

“You’re the one who broke into my apartment,” he accuses, feeling a lot like the woman in the salad cat meme. “I don’t think you get an opinion about it.” 

She shrugs. “Fair enough. To each their own, I guess.”

“Now why do you need blackmail on me?” He squints. “Again?”

Mariana smiles so innocently that there might as well be a halo above her head. “Train me and let me become your protege, and I won’t release your identity to the press.” Her lips stretch a little wider, with a somewhat manic tinge. “I’m sure Gotham Gazette will eat up Bruce Wayne’s long-lost foster kid coming back as a magical vigilante. And my máma has Lois Lane on speed dial, so don’t even try anything, buddy.” 

Huh. Maybe a sword to the neck will be better than getting manipulated by the same twelve-year-old again. 

(He remembers Clark Kent and Lois Lane, if only a little bit from Christmas get-togethers or important parties. Dick was especially fond of Uncle Clark, but Aunt Lois had always been Percy's favourite — she knew all the good snacks at galas and let him hold their newborn baby. The sudden memories make him consider reaching out to them in order to thwart the plans of the gremlin in front of him. But the thoughts are dashed as soon as they happen — no need to be indebted to Bruce more than he already is. Opening his arms in welcome was more than Percy could hope for.)

But something in her spiel sticks out. “What do you mean ‘magical vigilante’?”

“Máma isn’t the only one with connections.”

Shit, one of the kids blabbed. “Who was it?”

“Nuh uh, I’m not telling you shit. I’m better than that!” She crosses her arms.

He sighs. “It was Benji, wasn’t it?” 

Her eyes blow wide. “Um, nope.”

“You desperately need a better poker face.”

“Y’know, I can get a better poker face, if you train me ,” she smirks. “See, win-win situation.”

“We have different definitions of ‘win-win’ Mariana,” he sighs again for the nth time that night. “‘Cause this is looking like a lose-win to me.”

But regardless of his words, he’s considering it. By agreeing to train her, he could shield her from being a messenger for Catwoman. He doesn’t know what Catwoman really does or what her relationship with the Bats is, but he knows that those in Gotham’s Rogue gallery are psychotic and dangerous and definitely no one children should work with. 

Mariana stares up at him with pouting lips, wide eyes, and hands interlocked under her chin, looking like the cutest baby sea otter or a social media viral kitten. 

Percy wants to laugh. (But laughing means acknowledging the hypocrisy of keeping her away from a woman who has years-old blood on her hands, when his own have not been clean for mere months, monster ichor or not.) 

Plus, there’s no harm in teaching a kid to protect herself in a sadistic city.

“Okay,” he drawls out slowly. She perks up, and he can already see his mistake rolling into motion. “I’ll train you, but no promises whatsoever on the sidekick thing.”

Mariana grins, and Percy is the mouse fallen for the Cheshire cat’s cheese trap. 

(Less than an hour later, when Percy is resolutely helping her sneak back into her house, Mariana stops and waves her phone. 

"I do have your Wi-fi, actually," she grins.

Percy isn't even surprised.)

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER 20, 2021.

“So, when will you teach me your cool water magic?” 

Mariana says this so casually, that Percy takes a few seconds to realise what she’s really asking for. She is sitting on a closed chest and swinging her feet. A true picture of innocence, if not for the chest being full of weapons while they’re in the Trenche’s basement gym. 

“Woah woah woah, nope.” He holds his hand up. “I can’t teach you that.”

The pressure of questions waiting to burst from her mouth is evident enough for Percy to collapse onto a nearby bench to ready himself for the onslaught. 

“But why?” she all but pouts. “Benji said you called it ‘magic’, so surely I can learn it too? ‘Cause you’re like those JL members, like uhhh, Zatanna and Doctor Fate! They had to learn from somewhere or someone, right? We can discover if I’m some sort of special human, or something!”

Percy raises his eyebrow under the cloth soaking up his sweat. He hadn’t trained in a hot minute, and dealing with a very sneaky and hyperactive child is tough work. Surprisingly enough, her already being pretty well-versed in hand-to-hand combat of all kinds as a twelve-year-old doesn’t make matters much easier. It just means he’s very quickly running out of mortal friendly things to teach her. From the looks of it, she could beat many of the campers he taught without even breaking a sweat. 

“Trust me, Mariana, pray that you don’t have powers like me.” He himself sends a prayer for her to Hestia at that moment, because the gods know The Fates would never listen. Especially to Percy, their favourite puppet, a beloved soldier, of all people. But his words do little to deter the determined sparkle in Mariana's soft blue eyes. 

"But whyyy," she repeats, with all the high-pitched tone of a curious toddler asking the same question for the hundredth time. 

Percy takes a deep inhale. He shifts in his seat, planting his feet flat on the ground and clasping his hands together tightly. His mouth morphs into a sort-of grimace while he flounders for an explanation like a fish. Explaining godly things to newly found demigods or legacies is easy, since it's all cut and dry. But explaining it to a mortal? He's reminded of the time he blurted out everything he knew of the godly world to one very unlucky Rachel Elizabeth Dare, who then went on to become the Oracle of Delphi, cursed to spout deathly poems of prophecy for the rest of her life. He'll be damned if he condemns Mariana to the same unfortunate fate. 

"Don't worry about it." He waves her questions away, knowing full well that it won't stop her.

"But where'd you get it from?" she presses on. Each interrogative stare feels like poking a fresh bruise. 

“It comes from your parents,” he says, hoping the answer is vaguely informative enough for her to let it go. But he's known this girl for almost a month now, and has seen the extent of her personal research, never stopping until she's uncovered secrets from the cellular level. He knows that to her, ambiguous or uncertain is nothing but a challenge to overcome. 

But instead of asking for more, she keeps a contemplative silence. As she stares up at nothing, Percy can see her blue eyes burn and brighten. Oh no , he thinks. That really doesn't look good.

In a flash of quick thinking, he bounds up to his feet and claps his hands. "Y'know what, I'm getting the munchies. Let's go get some ice cream, yeah?"

Mariana, ever the little genius, knows this is a mere distraction, shown through the venomous stink-eye she gives him. But she's also never been one to say no to free anything, so she lets herself be hurried back up the stairs to her house's kitchen. He really shouldn't have been as surprised as he was when Coraline revealed the trap door that led down to an underground gym-slash-bunker. Seeing as they live in Gotham, a little preparation can't hurt. (And if that preparation includes a few more varied weapons than he'd anticipated, he isn't one to judge. Native Gothamites always end up being a little weird, after all. He should know.)

Still in their workout clothes, they leave the house by skateboard in search of the nearest ice cream store. They end up next to Robinson Park, ducking into the small shop. It's a bit too close to Poison Ivy's haunt, but Percy supposes they will just have to leave quickly. While they browse the glass-covered options, Percy keeps an eye out for odd movements in the weeds or trees branching over the park's black gates. Even a decade of living away from the city can't suppress his built-in Gotham-specific survival habits. Mariana, as always, looks undisturbed. She rattles off her order to the tired teen behind the counter, bouncing on her toes, which Percy recognises to be her usual ADHD stim. The streets might as well provide her the comfort of her own home. 

Luckily for Percy's agitation, they receive their ice creams within five minutes. Mariana makes a face at Percy's cookies & cream and berry blast sorbet combo as they walk out. He responds accordingly by stealing a spoonful from her two scoops of strawberry cheesecake. Continuing with their game of Capture the Ice Cream, they pass by the park, with Percy evenly rolling along on his skateboard next to Mariana as she skips ahead. 

"Oh, that's your own fault!" he argues childishly as Mariana pretends to gag after eating both of his flavours in the same bite. "You're the who decided to steal my ice—"

Somewhere in the far reaches of his hearing, a twig snaps. Percy falters and looks back at the trees. The fencing around this side of the park is laughably low. Anyone, plant-powered villain or not, could jump over to land right behind them. The trees visibly rustle. In the back of his mind, Percy notes the lack of wind. 

"Mariana, get behind me," he instructs. But Mariana doesn't follow, instead peering into the undergrowth. Her posture is relaxed, but she has her switchblade in hand along with a gun — Where did she get that?! Percy thinks in alarm. 

"Mariana..." he warns again. She's right in front of him, so there's no difficulty in keeping both her and the potential threat within his attention. But it also inadvertently makes her his human shield, and he'll be damned to have another kid die on his watch. 

She's reaching for her pockets, perhaps for another weapon hidden inside. "It's fine," she promises. "This is Ivy's turf, she won't hurt us."

"And how're you so sure, hm?" he raises an eyebrow. "Pretty sure "not hurting people" isn't in a Rogue's vocabulary."

"Have you committed any atrocities against nature as of late?" she snaps back, a defensive bite sharpening her tone. "Because I sure haven't. As long as you aren't secretly moonlighting as a heartless, capitalistic bastard, then I think you'll be all good. Besides, aren't you literally in a book club with her, the fuck?"

Percy's lips part. Before he can ask about her sudden foul mood, the trees move again. Riptide is already in his hand. Reaching for it is as quick and subconscious as blinking. A boxy silhouette slinks out from the shadows. The further her steps towards the fence and into the light, the more he can see of the freakishly tall man. Wrapped in a brown trench coat and a large fedora hat, he reeks of suspicious activity. 

"Perseus Jackson," he sneers. Percy instinctively rolls his eyes. Great, another monster.  

But... that doesn't sound right. He's smackdab in the heart of Gotham, a city forbidden from spawning monsters within its borders. There should be no monsters here, apart from the ones made from human downfall. Unless...

Muttering in some very colourful language, he flicks off the cap of his pen-sword, and Riptide springs into his hands. He would try to scan around for the person who apparently summoned the monster, but splitting his attention between the monster, Mariana, and someone who may or may not exist is difficult. Not for the last time, he curses his ADHD. 

And because The Fates hate him (no surprise there), Mariana gapes at the weapon in his hand and says, "Where the hell did you get a sword?!" 

"Where did you get a gun?" he deflects.

"A gun is much easier to hide than a whole sword!" 

The monster in man's clothing disregards their quarrel and blinks at him slowly like a cat. But cats usually do that to signify trust, and this guy doesn't look like he'd catch Percy in a trust fall. Something about his eyes, one blue and one brown, itches a memory in the corner of Percy's brain. 

"Alright, let's get this over with." Percy rolls back his shoulder. "Most monsters high-tail it outta here if they realise it's me. What makes you so special?" Subtext: who let you in here, and why?

The monster-man scoffs. "I didn't come here for you, Perseus Jackson. I wasn't aware you were here at all. I was following a much sweeter, stronger scent." A sleazy smile crosses his face as he stares at Mariana. Noticing the major creeper vibes he gives off, she points her gun straight at him. "But I suppose getting my revenge is just as sweet. You bestest me once, and I will make sure you never do it again, Perseus Jackson."

Percy's mind draws a blank. "Uh, sorry not sorry, but who are you?" 

Apparently the wrong thing to say because the man sputters and his face grows puffy and scarlet. 

Retreating back next to him, Mariana whispers, "Dude, your name is Perseus? That's sick. Also, heads-up, the guy has a scorpion tail."

Indeed, with a tilt of his head, Percy can see a red, spiky tail strategically hidden behind his rigid frame.

"Oh, you're the manticore that kidnapped my best friend! That really pissed me off, y'know." He grins. "If you wanna get killed again, be my guest."

Mariana stops nervously tugging her crab bracelet for a second. "Wait, manticore? Like the Mythomagic card with three thousand attack points?"

"And plus-five for saving throws?" Percy adds before a horrific wave of deja vu hits him.

The manticore sheds his hat, revealing a full lion mane, and dropping down into all fours. (A mortal walking from a couple metres at his right stops to survey the scene, then turns back around with a scowl. It's unclear if that's a cause of The Mist or Gothamite survival instincts.) 

"Guess you got your wish, Mariana," Percy mutters. "You've got powers, like me. I'm sorry."

And he means it. He means it so much, because here is a little girl with the potential to live and succeed in the mortal world, but she's stuck facing potential death instead. 

The manticore pounces. 

Simultaneously, Percy shoves Mariana behind him and gives her his ice cream cone. He slashes at the monster, advancing further into his space, but the manticore ducks and evades each time. Percy grits his teeth. Last time he fought Dr. Thorn, it took the goddess Artemis and her Hunters getting involved to defeat him. But he was also fourteen when that happened, so maybe he should cut his younger self some slack. 

As much as he isn't getting any proper hits in, neither is the manticore. The poisonous spikes whizz past him and embed themselves behind him. He shifts his angle, leaving Mariana vulnerable behind him, but at least now he's landing deep slashes into the manticore's lion body. Golden ichor gurgles from the cuts. Dr. Thorn growls in pain and lunges, but the attack is slow. Percy smirks. 

"Ack!" A strangled scream sounds behind him.

His head whips around to see Mariana inspecting a bleeding slash on her forearm, her ice cream cup dropped at her feet. A spike protrudes from the garbage bin next to her. "Mariana!"

Percy hears the sneak attack, but slashing his shoulders doesn’t stop the monster from managing a swipe to his abdomen. Pain in his side knocks Percy to his knees. Clutching the wound, Percy gets up to one knee and stabs straight into his front paw. The monster roars. 

"Hey, ugly!" 

Dr. Thorn looks up, just to meet an ice cream cone to the eye. A startled laugh escapes Percy. White and magenta cream drip into his yellow fur. It comically sticks to his human face for a few seconds before falling to the ground. Mariana aims her handgun like a professional and shoots. 

The shots would have been perfect, if not for the non-godly metal fazing right through his forehead. Mariana makes a face of pure disgust as the bullets hit a brick wall instead. Pocketing the gun, she jostles her bracelet while reaching for her knife. 

Percy shakes his head. "Won't work—"

His words die as they both stare at the gladius in her hand. The double-edge design is split by two metals, clearly Celestial Bronze and Imperial Gold. The guard and pommel are silver, the same silver as the bracelet that was once circling her wrist. 

"However, that will work very well," he grins through a wince. He waves his free hand at the monster. "Hey, Dr. Thorn, right? You’re acting more like a thorn in my ass!"

Effectively distracted, Dr. Thorn leaps at him. But before he can reach him, a piercing shriek rips from his vocal cords. He staggers to the side. Standing behind him, Mariana catches the severed scorpion tail. She stabs it with her sword and lifts it up like a really dangerous shish kebab. She focuses on the wailing manticore with a steely glint in her eye — the same look she gets when she's figuring out how much chemical she needs for her experiment to blow up. Percy smirks and kicks Dr. Thorn in her direction. 

"It's 'thorn in my side' actually," she corrects matter-of-factly while stuffing the scorpion stinger into his mouth. Poison fills his face, but before he can choke on his own medicine, Percy stabs him through the back of his lion head. The monster bursts into golden dust and scatters on the pavement. 

"Ugh, ew." She shakes the monster remains out of her blue hair. 

"So," Percy manages to hiss out through the pain.

"So," she parrots back, a cheek-splitting smile on her face. "What the fuck was that?!"

"That," he gestures at the monster dust, "was a monster. It means you're probably a demigod, and we definitely have a problem."

Getting to the Financial District shouldn't take this long, but it's remarkably difficult to skateboard through traffic and ignore an open wound and princess-carry a twelve-year-old who doesn't know how to deactivate her new weapon. To her credit, Mariana doesn't ask as many questions as he thought she would. She doesn't ask any at all, actually. Maybe she recognises something urgent in how he keeps scanning their surroundings and decides to dial down the curiosity for once. Percy isn't looking a Trojan horse in the mouth. 

When the shining windows of the Sato Industries building comes to view, he swerves into the adjacent street. They hurtle down the car park ramp and Mariana's gladius nearly decapitates him as they go over a speed bump. Finally reaching the almost empty lowest level, he lowers Mariana and kicks up his skateboard. He pushes through a thick door claiming 'STAFF ONLY'.

"That sign can't stop me because I can't read," Mariana mumbles. Percy snorts despite the accuracy. 

The door opens into a gritty hallway that seems out of place in a state-of-the-art building. He counts seven bricks on his right side — seven letters in 'demigod' — and asks for Mariana's sword. She hesitantly gives it to him and he waves it across the wall like a metal detector. Sure enough, a single brick at his hip level reacts to the godly metal and glows. There's already enough blood on his fingers so he spreads a thumb over the brick. The brick continues glowing. Mariana makes a surprised noise as the blood disappears off of its surface. A control panel juts out of the wall. Percy opens a hatch underneath it and takes out a demigod emergency kit. He hands a square of ambrosia to Mariana.

"Dude, I've had edibles before, but I don't think this is the time?" 

"It's not — what do you mean you've had edibles before? You’re twelve ." 

"Don't worry, it's been taken care of," she waves him off. Knowing Coraline Trenche, he doesn’t want to know what ‘taken care of’ means. "What is it then?" 

"Ambrosia." He peels off his bloody tank top and wears a fresh Camp Half-blood shirt. "It'll heal you."

He pauses. "Hold on." He takes her sword and pricks her hand. A bead of blood collects at the surface. 

“Hey!” She licks off the blood. “What was that for?!”

“Just double-checking that you won't die if you eat the ambrosia,” he says. “Don’t want you combusting on me if you end up being a real feisty mortal instead of a demigod.”

She squints. “An ambrosia card in Mythomagic gives you fifty health points. Are you telling me… Mythomagic is real or something?”

He hums. “Or something.”

The tank top gets shoved into his basketball shorts. He nudges her hand to eat. While he pulls up the holographic globe on the control panel, Mariana watches as her wounds disappear. She's still oddly quiet for a newly discovered demigod, so Percy feels the need to make conversation.

“What does it taste like?” he asks. 

“Oh, sorry. Here, have some.” She glances down at the blood seeping through his shirt. “Actually, I think you need some.”

Percy can't stop her from pressing the half-eaten square into his hands. He pops it into his mouth, salty flavours of the palace chef’s seaweed stew bursting to life. (The day ambrosia stopped tasting like his mother's blue cookies, Percy refused to eat for an entire week before Triton had to forcibly extract him from his room. No recipe, not even the cookies he makes himself, can hold a candle to Sally's.) He feels his skin stitching itself back up, but not fully. However, it's just enough pain relief for Percy to pretend like he has sore muscles instead of a gash in his side. He shrugs on his NRU varsity jacket to hide the stains. 

He glances at Mariana fiddling with her sword. There's a silver crab stuck to the guard, enlarged from her bracelet. 

"Is that new?" He nods to the sword. 

"I got the bracelet ages ago from one of my mom's friends... But this is the first time it's done this."

"One of your mom's friends, huh...?" He says distractedly, spinning the holographic globe between two destinations. Red dots pepper the body of North America, marking every portal location.

Mariana makes a noise of confusion. “What's this…” She traces a shallow, circular indent in the crab's body, then presses it.

She squeaks as the sword elongates in her hands. The tip splits into three, still separated through the middle from bronze to gold. The crab is now situated at the trident's neck. She presses it again and it becomes a spear, then a dagger, then a recurve bow, then back to a bracelet. 

With each transformation, her eyes sparkle brighter and brighter. 

Percy forces his brow to smooth out. The life all demigods share tends to deflate enthusiasm and happiness like a punctured balloon, once threats on their life become commonplace. He would rather leave her in the dark, pretend like this never happened and help her lead a normal life. 

But... He brushes golden dust off his shorts. "A sweeter and stronger scent," the manticore had said. Gotham definitely isn't safe for her, now that she knows what she is. 

And there is one person who he knows will have an answer to why. He presses the little red dot on San Francisco. 

A blazing trail of white shoots off from the panel and traces the shape of a door onto the wall. Mariana jerks back as what was previously solid brick glimmers and folds in on itself to reveal the inside of a telephone booth. 

“Portals for demigod use,” he answers before she can ask. “C’mon, I already added a plus one to the trip.”

Going through the portals feels just like stepping through a door. He pulls her in and they tumble out of the booth. The portal closes without a trace behind them. 

“Where are we…?” she breathes out, squinting at the clear blue sky in awe. “This definitely isn't Gotham.”

“Welcome to San Fran.”

“San Francisco?!” she gapes as they enter a street. “This is — holy fuck, this is crazy!”

“What, never been to the West Coast?” 

“I've never been outside of Gotham !” 

Percy falters. “At all?”

“Mamá doesn't let me.” She checks her phone hastily like she expects Coraline to start calling like a devil summoned. Percy folders that information for later. 

“Speaking of your mom,” (Mariana laughs at the accidental joke, like the immature teenager she is. At least she has an excuse for laughing, unlike Percy who is indeed immature, but very much not a teenager.) “What time does she come back?”

“Eight-thirty.”

Okay, great, he thinks. Plenty of time to bring her to both Camps, then sit down to talk to Coraline about this.

It takes the better part of ten minutes to get to Caldecott Tunnel, mostly due to a flock of Stymphalian birds dive-bombing for Mariana. She giggles as she skewers two birds with her spear. Percy slashes through four necks in one fell swoop. The last bird explodes into dust as an arrow pierces its skull. They turn to find two teens in Roman armour, gawking at him.

He nods at the archer. “Thanks for the assist.” The girl blushes brightly under her too-big helmet.

“You’re Percy Jackson!” the boy next to her exclaims. He turns and bolts into the tunnel, gesturing for them to follow. 

Mariana’s feet stagger as they approach the other side of the tunnel and back into the sunlight. Her eyes blow as wide as shields and her mouth follows suit. At their feet lies a vast, bowl-shaped valley several miles across. The valley floor is uneven, dotted with smaller hills, golden plains, and patches of forest. A small, clear river meanders from a lake at the center, winding around the edges in the shape of a G. Percy stops for a moment to let her take it all in — and to breathe in the fresh air of home, of safety.

“Welcome to Camp Jupiter,” he tells her. He assumes she hears him, but he wouldn’t blame her if she’s too entranced by the view to pay attention. Between the growing city of white marble buildings with red-tiled roofs and the impressive temples of Temple Hill, beautiful is the only word worthy of describing New Rome. 

The boy runs across a stone bridge over the Little Tiber, hollering, “Percy Jackson is here!”

Up on the watchtowers, horns blow. Not the deep and long sounds that signal danger, but something more like celebratory trumpet toots. The sentries cheer as they approach the river. Percy sheepishly waves back. 

Mariana raises her eyebrows at him, but doesn’t say anything in favour of dropping to her knees at the river bank. She cups her hands with water.

“It’s so clear!” she laughs, delighted. Percy’s heart clenches. How shit is his city for a little girl to look at clean water like it’s a miracle? Mentally, he circles and strongly underlines his next project: cleaning Gotham Bay. And maybe punching the assholes who put toxins into the water supply. 

“Percy!” 

He’s running across the bridge, tugging Mariana along with him, before he even gets to recognise their faces. But he’ll be damned if he ever forgets the voices of his closest friends. 

Hazel Levesque and Frank Zhang barely stumble back as Percy barrels into them for a bone-crushing hug. They only return the favour just as tightly. Hazel’s scabbard pokes into his wounded side. But Percy swallows back a grimace in order to press a brotherly kiss to her forehead. Frank bends down automatically to receive his forehead kiss too. 

“Neeks!” Percy wraps the pale boy next to them in another hug, nearly lifting him off the ground. 

“Told you not to call me that,” Nico di Angelo grumbles, but pats him on the back anyway. 

“What are you here for?” asks Hazel. He gets sidetracked a bit by the new strands of purple and gold woven into her cinnamon brown box braids. His friends’ giggles reel him back in. 

He gestures to Mariana, who loiters behind him, still gaping at her surroundings. “Special demigod delivery. And I need to talk to Annabeth.” 

The girl offers a handshake to all three of them, diligently introducing herself as her mother taught her. 

Frank raises his eyebrow. “Is she Roman? Did you explain everything to her?”

Percy shrugs. “We were a little preoccupied.”

Hazel shakes her head good-naturedly and tugs him into the gates of Camp Jupiter. 

Mariana hovers between Percy and Nico, glancing at the eighteen-year-old with interest. Probably because he looks the coolest, with his pitch black Stygian iron sword and the aviator jacket he finally grew into and his small ponytail at the base of his neck. In Percy’s opinion, Hazel and Frank are super cool too, but to Mariana they obviously look like they run this whole shebang. If there’s something Percy and Mariana have in common, it’s they’re general dislike of authority figures. And she’s with Percy almost daily for the past month. She’s seen him snort chocolate milk from his nose by laughing too hard — he’s definitely lost some cool points. 

Frank nudges his shoulder. The man raises an eyebrow, looking down at where Percy hides the wound. His nose twitches as he says, “Smells fresh.”

Percy scowls. Demigods usually have one or two enhanced senses. Percy himself has heightened hearing, while Piper and Annabeth have enhanced sight. Hazel and Nico, children of Pluto and Hades respectively, have amplified touch senses from their control over the underground. Frank is the only one they know who has enhanced sight, smell, and hearing. Annabeth thinks it’s because of his ability to shapeshift into animals translating to his human senses. Everyone else thinks it’s compensation for being lactose intolerant.

“Don’t worry about it,” he whispers back. “Ate some ambrosia, we’re all good.” 

The man merely tsks and runs a hand through his spiky black hair. 

Percy motions for the three of them to stay silent as Mariana soaks everything in. She stares at anything and everything. She stares at Hazel and Frank’s purple praetor cloaks floating in the light wind; at their medals of valour decorating their chest plates; at the sky which holds no cloud in sight; at the hoards of Roman demigods and legacies milling around. Then she turns to look at Percy himself, scrutinising his face.

“So,” she starts, tugging at her crab claw necklace this time. Faintly, he wonders if that’s a hidden weapon as well. “Someone wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“Have you had any wolves visit you?” Hazel asks. Right before they enter the principia, Frank stops a short boy, hands him a piece of paper that looks like a teacher’s note, and sends him off in the direction of New Rome. 

“Uh, no? No wolves at all. Is that bad?”

“No, it’s not bad, don’t worry.”

“What do wolves have to do with this?” she frowns. “You’re being a little confusing…”

She stops in the doorway to gawk at the intricate mosaic of Romulus, Remus, and the wolf goddess Lupa on the ceiling. “Woah.”

She walks in carefully, trying not to scuff her sneakers on the polished marble floor. Frank and Hazel sit at the wooden table in their twin praetor chairs, while Nico leans against it. They’re obviously going to do their whole spiel to introduce the world of demigods, using flowery words to cushion the blow that the kid’s life is going to change. Percy cuts in before Nico opens his mouth. 

“The gods are real,” he deadpans. Frank facepalms. Nico pinches the bridge of his nose. But Percy knows Mariana’s appreciation for cutting to the chase, that she would rather be treated like an adult who can handle the facts. 

Mariana nods along like this makes perfect sense. She looks up at the painted ceiling, then the purple flags adorning the walls with the letters SPQR in gold. “Like the Roman gods? Like Jupiter, Neptune, Pluto?” 

“Yeah, that’s right. And their Greek counterparts too.”

“Like, uh, Zeus and Hera?” It takes her a little longer to remember those names. Percy wonders if mortal education stopped teaching Classics while he was learning to differentiate squid species.

“Okay, so you’re telling me the gods exist… And you called us demigods, like Hercules? So we’re half mortal and half Greco-Roman god?” Impressed, the older demigods trade glances. 

“She’s much quicker on the uptake than you were, Seaweed Brain.”

Percy’s head shoots up. Three faces peek into the room, all of them sporting wide smiles at his presence. 

“Hey, guys—”

“Percy!”

Said demigod releases a small grunt as a taller body collides into him. His upper arms are physically restrained by the embrace so all he can do is feebly squeeze the man’s sides.

“Jason! Dude, it’s good to see you too,” he laughs. Jason Grace rears his head back to give him his golden retriever grin. 

“Had to see what all the commotion was about,” says Piper McLean next to him. She wraps her arms around his midsection while Jason refuses to let go of his shoulders. He presses a chaste kiss into her choppy brown hair and another into Jason’s temple. 

Jason rubs his nose like he’s sick then glares down at Percy. Percy mentally sighs and whispers, “It’s fine, don’t worry,” which he knows he can hear with his enhanced hearing along with his bloodhound nose, like the wolves he was raised by. 

They finally let him go and Percy immediately bounds over to his best friend. Percy is one of the few people with spontaneous Annabeth Chase hugging privileges, effective through the hand-made coupon she gave him when they were fourteen. She isn’t the fondest of physical touch, so it’s an honor he wields as frequently as possible. Maybe he’s just a hugger. 

Once Annabeth deems they’ve been hugging way too long, she playfully pushes his face away with a laugh. She fixes her attention on the new demigod instead.

"Who's this?" She glances down at Mariana's outstretched hand, then shakes it firmly with a tiny chuckle.

“This is Mariana. She’s a demigod. We’re tryna figure out who the fath— uh, godly parent is.” He’s careful not to say father in particular, because they all know how weird demigod parentage and conception can get. His mood grows sombre as he remembers what led to this discovery in the first place. Annabeth and Piper cock their heads, noticing a change in his microexpressions. “There’s something wrong with Gotham.”

Frank snorts. “What isn’t wrong with Gotham?”

Mariana frowns up at the much taller, much more muscular man as if she can take him on. 

“I don’t know, I like the vibes of Gotham,” Nico shrugs, eliciting a smile from the proud Gothamite. “Could do with less clowns and craziness overall, but vibes nonetheless.” 

“No, I mean—” Percy shakes his head, not denying that Gotham is generally fucked up. “There was a monster, a manticore, right in Central Gotham. I think someone summoned it, but I’m not sure.” 

The rest of the older demigods pass looks between each other. 

“Percy…” Piper starts. “You know this is what Reyna’s quest in Gotham is about, right? The monsters popping up there?” 

His head jerks back. “Reyna’s on a quest in Gotham?”

“What— Bro, did you even read your messages?” Jason sputters. Percy opens up his messaging app, scrolling through the billions of texts that he may or may not have read. He finally finds the message from Piper on the ‘cosmic mistakes’ group chat, consisting of The Seven and friends. Oh, it was sent a couple months ago. Piper peeks over.

“Do you just mark the chats as read without even scrolling through?” she squawks. “That’s just cruel, Perce!”

“Yeah, man. That’s a dick move,” Mariana chimes in. Percy makes a face at her. 

“Okay okay, moral of the story: actually read your messages,” Hazel placates. She points at Mariana. “Now, back to the issue at hand?”

Everyone’s attention turns to her at once. Mariana blinks up at them and opens her mouth. 

“So to recap, the Greco-Roman gods exist, we are their demigod children. I’m going to assume that there are lots of monsters everywhere trying to kill us and that’s why we’re here at this safe haven place? And given your conversation, Gotham is usually free from these monsters until recently, so that’s why monsters haven’t been attacking me? ‘Cause there have been a shit ton of monsters out for my blood in the past thirty-ish minutes, and I’m sure I haven’t pissed any gods off that badly in that span of time…” she trails off. “Am I right?” 

The small crowd settles into an astonished silence. Annabeth nods her head, lips curving up slightly. 

“Good job, kid!” Piper beams, giving her a high-five. 

“Don’t call her a kid,” says Percy. He’s expecting Mariana to say something similar, but she’s too busy staring at Piper while blushing furiously and hiding the pink strands behind her blue hair. 

“So I’m thinking, Athena?” Nico pipes up. 

“That’s what I was thinking too,” Percy says. “She’s a year ahead in her school studies as well, and she’s got detective skills for days. She figured out I was a Wayne ward pretty quickly,” he clarifies at their confused looks. “And that I’m—”

He’s cut off by Annabeth clicking her tongue. “Nah, all Athena kids have grey eyes. She’s got blue.”

Something pings in Percy’s head. “Right, her eyes! The colour is a lot like Jason and Thalia’s. I wouldn’t put it past Zeus to break the oath for the fourth time.”

Mariana sneers. “You think my godly parent is Jupiter ?” She glares at him with her dark greyish blue eyes — wait, what? 

“You all saw her eyes just change colour, right?” Piper points out. 

The girl shrugs. “Yeah, they do that. It changes according to my emotions. Guess I know why now.” She scrunches her nose at Percy. “Did you not notice?”

“No, because I’m usually making sure that you’re not picking fights with strangers and/or blowing up your room.”

“I never blew up my room—”

“Yes you did! There’s still charring on your table—”

“Silence!” The sound of Hazel slamming her hand down on the table echoes through the room. She smiles sweetly and Percy swears the temperature drops. She holds her hand out to her boyfriend. Frank places some parchment and a pen in her palm. Maybe couples become telepathic after dating for over four years , Percy wonders idly. “Let’s write down every clue we have for her parentage, then compare notes. Alright?”

They all nod stiffly, apart from Nico who mock salutes, “Ay ay, Praetor Levesque.”

They collectively turn back to Percy. Even Mariana, though this investigation is about her. Percy then turns to Annabeth. She sighs.

“Alright, first off: is she Roman or Greek? If she’s got dyslexia, we can figure out if she can read Ancient Greek or Latin.”

“I don’t have dyslexia. But I am fluent in Latin! My mom taught me so I’d have an edge at Gotham Academy. Since it’s a prep school, it’s compulsory to learn.”

“ Do you have ADHD? ” Annabeth asks in Greek. Mariana nods then squints.

“That wasn’t English.” 

“Nope!” Hazel scribbles down graecus on her paper. Annabeth grabs a chair from out of nowhere and sits with her legs crossed. “Are there any other clues?” she asks Percy. He tilts his head.

“Hermes? She’s cunning and she’s got pretty sticky fingers.”

Mariana looks at her hands. “My fingers aren’t sticky — Oh you meant the phrase.” 

Percy suddenly remembers her old mentor, Catwoman. There’s a high chance that she got her propensity for thievery from her instead of a godly parent. He racks his brain for another hint. “What about your mother’s friend, Mariana? The one that gave you the sword — oh shit, the sword! Show them the sword.” 

Mariana grabs her bracelet and presses the tiny button. In a blink, the dual-metal gladius is in her hand. 

Jason whistles. “I’ve seen Leo make bronze-gold hybrid weapons like that. You sure your mother’s friend wasn’t a really short Latino dude?” 

She shakes her head. “She was tall and she had black hair, but that’s all I remember. She visited a lot when I was younger, like really young. But there’s never been a button there before the manticore.” 

Percy tells her to show them the other forms. She does, and with each transformation, his friends’ eyebrows travel higher and higher. Frank catches Percy’s eye. Does your sword do— he begins to mouth.

No, shut up , Percy mouths back. 

Nico hums thoughtfully, twisting his skull ring. “That woman is probably Mariana’s godly parent then, if she gave her a weapon with both Greek and Roman metals. It looks commissioned, yeah, like something Leo would make.”

The praetor narrows his eyes at the weapon back in sword form. “But it’s a gladius . Why would a Greek goddess give her child a Roman weapon?” 

“What are your interests, Mariana?” asks Piper. Mariana’s cheeks are still apple red as the older girl crouches in front of her. Great , he mentally sighs, I’m gonna have to teach the middle schooler that getting crushes on college age students isn’t the best idea . He knows that fact very well. 

“Uh, I like chemistry and biology and uh, music. I can play, like, four musical instruments, and I’m in my school’s swim, archery, and track teams…” 

“ Sounds like Apollo to me,” Nico muses. “But I don’t know if my boyfriend’s dad has ever been into cross-dressing.” 

They come to a standstill again, mulling over this puzzle. “What goddess has a crab symbol?” Percy hears Annabeth mutter to herself. 

Before he gets to think about it, another thought comes to mind. “Oh! Right — I have a feeling Coraline, her mom, knows about demigod life.”

Nico throws his hands up, releasing a violent sigh. “Then why aren’t you asking her?!”

“She’s not at home right now! I’d rather not call her if she’s busy.” He rubs the back of his neck, feeling suddenly warm. “And she’s kinda, a little bit… intimidating…”

If he collectively stacks the height of everyone’s eyebrows, he could make a ladder to Olympus. Frank and Jason cough back laughs while Annabeth scrutinises Mariana’s face as if her mother’s alleged intimidation is hereditary. 

“Seriously? Two time Saviour of Olympus is scared of a mortal woman?” Piper taunts. 

“You haven’t met her!” 

Frank clears his throat loudly and Hazel snaps twice to get their attention back to the problem. “Why do you think she knows, Perce?”

“Mariana’s never been outside of Gotham, which isn’t the most well-known demigod safe place, because Coraline doesn’t let her,” he quotes. Mariana checks her phone again. His eyes flicker towards the movement. 

“What if it was her mother’s ‘friend’ who told her to stay in Gotham?” Hazel suggests. “Maybe she didn’t know completely?”

“Nah, you don’t know Coraline Trenche. She takes ‘my way or the highway’ to another level,” Percy shudders. “As in you either listen to her, or you get dropped in traffic. She was like that when she was my English teacher back in GA, too.” 

Piper exhales deeply and sits on the floor, leaning against Annabeth’s leg. Jason slumps against the table next to Nico. Mariana shifts her weight between her feet, running her thumb across the silver chain of her necklace. Percy feels the need to ruffle her blue-pink hair and comfort her through her hidden agitation. But before he gets to, Mariana meekly raises her hand like she’s the quiet kid in the classroom. 

“Is this a bad time to say that my mom has… powers?”

If he could make an eyebrow ladder to Olympus before, now he could make one that touches fucking outer space . Maybe he can reach the space headquarters that the Justice League apparently has. 

“Better late than never,” Annabeth snorts.

Nico leans over to Frank to subtly ask if he’s “rethinking about wanting children.” Percy’s definitely rethinking about taking this job. He rubs his temples but still grins tiredly. 

“Mind telling us why you didn’t say so before, Mari?” 

“I’m not just gonna announce that my mom’s a meta! What sort of Gothamite are you?!”

“I haven’t been a Gothamite in a very long time!”

“Clearly! You don’t even carry around a gas mask!”

“It’s only been a decade! How bad has Gotham gotten?!” 

“Burn the non-Gothamite!”

Percy reaches over to give her noogie. He cackles as she screeches in protest. 

Until actual screeching cuts them both off. They stare dumbly at the red and gold phoenix perched on Hazel’s forearm which turns back into Frank. Both praetors look equal parts amused and unimpressed. 

“You two fight worse than me and Nico,” Hazel says. Jason swiftly points out that they don’t fight at all. The girl sticks her tongue out at him. (Something in Percy’s heart flares warm. It isn’t often that he sees his friends, but they’ve always given each other the comfort of feeling like the children they never could be.)

Annabeth sighs again, as she usually does around Percy. He lets go of the child, to which she replies by trying to elbow him in the gut. Except she’s only as tall as his solar plexus, so her strike hits him in the thigh. It still hurts though. Darn her and her pointy elbow. 

“What are your mother’s powers, Mariana?” Nico asks her. Surprisingly, Nico has always been the best with kids, especially as a counselor at Camp Half-blood. 

Mariana looks at each and every face in the room. Percy knows Annabeth is making a conscious effort to fall back into her usual RBF, in case it scares the girl away from opening up. 

“She can heal wounds when she sings, and her hair and her hands and her eyes glow yellow, or like gold — or y’know when Rapunzel does her ‘flower gleam and glow’ healing thing? It’s basically that, except she can only do it if I got the wound from a fight — so if I just stubbed my toe or fell off a tree or something, she wouldn’t be able to do anything—” 

“Woah woah, breathe Mari.” Percy squeezes her shoulder in comfort. The girl takes a deep, exaggerated breath as told. 

Coraline’s abilities certainly make her sound like a daughter of Apollo. Intense manifestations of power like her’s don’t usually happen in legacies, due to their diluted godly blood. It seems that his friends think the same.

“Okay, that solves one mystery…” Jason mutters. 

“Well we can’t be sure that her mom’s friend was a god,” Piper reasons. “What if she’s just a first gen legacy of Apollo?”

Vehemently, Percy shakes his head. “No, no she’s a demigod.” He lets go of the girl’s shoulder before he breaks it. “The manticore we fought said he didn’t even notice she was with me. Her scent is strong enough to cover up mine.”

Maybe he should stop with these eyebrow ladder metaphors, because he’s running out of places to reach. And their eyebrows are running out of forehead space to climb. 

Annabeth inhales sharply before letting it out in one big whoosh. “I mean, our scents do weaken as we age. But yeah, she’d still be a demigod then, if her scent is stronger than yours of all people…”

Hazel looks down at her notes. “Alright, what do we have so far… She’s Greek, female godly parent, legacy of Apollo — hey, what if her mother was a legionnaire? I could check the member files, we’ve got records of every demigod at Camp Jupiter since the start—”

“What if we just ask Apollo?” Nico blurts out. He’s staring intently at something on his phone. “Will says he’s at Camp Half-blood right now — well, he’s complaining that he’s there, actually, but semantics. I could shadow travel y’all there right now.” 

“Y’all?” Percy repeats incredulously. 

Nico blushes from the tips of his ears to his nose. “You know he’s Texan, he just rubs off on me!”

(He can hear Piper mumble, “In more ways than one,” to which Jason slaps her shoulder in mortification.)

Nico either doesn’t notice that or he’s got willpower of steel, since he merely inspects the shadowed corners of the principia. “It’ll be better if we go to the tunnel. I need better shadows for a cross-country jump.” 

In the next few minutes, Piper and Annabeth bid their farewells with hugs and head off to their college dorms in New Rome. Hazel and Frank say goodbye as well, but choose to stay in their office. Jason wants to accompany them to the tunnel, with the excuse of wanting to get to know the new demigod better. He’s friendly like that, like a big, excitable puppy. 

Mariana stares at Jason for a beat longer than necessary. She leans towards Percy, lowering her voice. "Three nickels, Perce. Three. Nickels."

“Alright,” Jason says as they exit the principia. “Got any questions before you leave, kiddo?”

Now the Trojan horse that Percy so gratefully accepted bursts open to launch her attack of questions.

“Why does no one know about this like we know about the Atlanteans and Themyscirans? Why is there a portal in the Sato Industries building? Isn’t Minerva a maiden goddess? Are you related to Wonder Woman and Wondergirl? Is our scent why the monsters wanna kill us? Do we smell good or bad?”

Mariana pauses for a breath, allowing Jason to let out his booming and infectious laugh. 

“Well,” he starts. “The reason why no one knows about us demigods is because of something called the Mist, which is like magic that hides the mythical world from people who might want to use us. Wonder Woman also helps make sure the mortal world doesn't know about us so mortal villains can’t go looking for demigods to hurt.”

“Because they wanna experiment on us for our powers?” she guesses. Jason nods like it physically hurts him. 

“And for your other questions: our Gotham portal is there because Akari Sato is a demigod too, a daughter of Vulcan.” 

Mariana nearly trips, but smoothly catches herself and lies about there being a rock. (There was no rock. Percy doesn’t believe her because he knows that the Sato family is close to Coraline and her daughter. Finding out that people around you are demigods must be weirder than finding out you’re a demigod yourself.) 

Jason continues like nothing happened. “And Roman Minerva is strictly bound to maidenhood, but Greek Athena, kind of, makes children from her mind? I don’t know the details actually, Annabeth hates talking about it, but Athena is still technically a maiden? Anyway — I am actually related to both Wonder Woman and Wondergirl! They’re both children of Zeus, and I’m a son of Jupiter.”

Mariana grimaces. “Oh geez, I’m sorry you have to go through that.”

Percy and Nico snort at her genuine sympathy while Jason accepts her pitying pats on the shoulder. (Except he’s so much taller than her that she has to tip toe to actually reach his shoulders.) 

“What about the scent?” she reminds him.

“Oh yeah, apparently demigods smell like buttered bread to monsters, so they wanna eat us,” he answers offhandedly. 

“You’re taking all this pretty well,” Nico compliments from Jason’s other side. “New demigods your age usually aren’t this cool about it.” 

She shrugs. “I’m from Gotham.”

Percy hates that those three words explain so much. Gotham really knows no chill.

They enter the darkness of the maintenance tunnel. 

“Alright, time to hop on the Nico Express,” Percy jokes.

“Choo choo,” Nico emotionlessly deadpans. He even mimes a railway driver. 

He offers Mariana his wrist, gently reassuring her that the weird feelings will only stay for a moment, while Percy hooks his own arm around his elbow. Jason one-arm hugs Percy then waves his goodbyes. It’s the last thing they see before getting sucked into the shadows.