Chapter Text
Percy walked up the stairs to his apartment. Snow was beginning to fall more heavily outside, and he absent-mindedly rubbed his fingers together, trying to heat them up.
It was.. Quiet.
It had been the last few days. A feeling of calmness had settled over the city, well, as calm as New York could be in the leadup to Christmas. It was sort of nice.
He brushed the snow out of his hair as he finally approached his floor.
He wondered if Mom and Paul were home.
Arriving early from Camp had been a surprise, and he shifted the grocery bags over to one arm as he fumbled for his keys, turning them in the keyhole-
The door opened.
Already unlocked.
His eyes narrowed.
His Mom never left the door unlocked, not in New York, of all places, even though their new apartment was in a way nicer place than their old one, it simply wasn’t worth the risk.
And he knew no one knew he was coming.
He pushed open the door to a silent apartment. Too still.
He dropped the grocery bags on the floor by the door, and gripped Riptide in his pocket.
Percy stalked inside, keeping his steps feather-light on the hardwood floors.
“Mom?” He called, announcing his presence as he slid over to the wall, pressing his back against it, “I’m home!”
Waited.
One, two, three, four heartbeats.
No sign of a monster.
A smart one, then.
He continued down the corridor, watching the shadows at the end of it for even a flicker of movement.
He uncapped Riptide, and the feeling in the pit of his gut settled, the waves roiling inside him smoothing out into calm glass.
He turned into the kitchen, where-
“Hello Perseus,” A woman- if that’s what she was- said, sitting opposite from Mom in their sitting room, back ramrod-straight, eyes like green fire.
Unnatural.
Unhuman.
He didn’t respond, his jaw tight as he stared at her, then glanced at his mom.
Sally was pale, but calm. There was tea cooling on the table.
“What are you?”
The words came out perfectly level.
Any monster that came after him now, would have to be fighting for more than just the sake of killing a demigod.
They knew who he was. What he was.
What he was capable of.
They would be fighting for glory. And they would crumble to dust, just like every other monster.
(not every other monster).
“What?” The woman’s accent wasn’t quite placeable, but the calm disdain in her words was.
Gods she was reminding him of Hera.
He glanced at his Mom and then away again, raising Riptide, “I really don’t have the time for this.”
The woman-monster looked down at the sword with an appraising eye, “Celestial Bronze? Good. That Imperial Gold is so..tacky,” She waved a hand, before slipping to her feet, as smooth and as calm as water.
She reminded him of someone.
He couldn’t put his finger on who.
“You’ve grown up,” She continued, eyeing him up and down, “Strong. Brave,” She looked at the sword again, “Trained. Tell me, has your father taught you anything?”
Percy was already done with this conversation, shifting his feet ever so slightly, turning his body to protect his mom.
The woman didn’t move, just raised a sharp eyebrow, “So he did. Or you learned it. Either way, you survived to adulthood. Good.”
There was a pause.
Percy was really, really tempted to tell her that seventeen wasn’t actually adulthood and she’d need to wait another nine months for that, but regretfully held his tongue, taking a step forward.
“Who are you?”
The woman stared at him, eyes softening slightly, “I am Talia Al Ghul. Your biological mother.”
***
Robin perched next to Batman, overlooking Gotham. It had been a quieter night than most, and something inside him settled at the sight of it, even with the smog and dull lights.
It was beautiful in its own way.
Beautiful as the way his sword danced when he fought, or the flowing movements of martial arts. Beautiful because of their danger, not in spite of it.
He wonders what Mother would think of that.
She’d probably add a few things to the list.
“Robin?”
Damian snapped to attention, turning toward Father, hand already resting on his grapple.
“We’ve done enough tonight. It’s time to go home.”
Home.
Home to shifting desert sands, the scent of spices floating in the air accompanied by the silver sheen of metal.
Home to cold mountains, with snow like powder and sand, with blood splattering, painting the pure white, crimson.
Home to wood and soft rugs and the smell of old books and a light vanilla. Home to people (brothers, sisters-in-arms), yelling and arguing.
Home where no blood has been split.
He nodded, diving off the building. Following his father home.
The rain followed, as if pushing away all remnants of Batman and Robin, as if it tried hard enough, it could wipe the whole city clean.
It never did.
But at least it tried.
***
Ras stared down at the (life death not good not bad but equal equal in him above it all) Pits.
“Try it again.”
He didn’t gesture, just watched as the Shadows hauled a trainee over, broken and bleeding.
Pathetic.
Even his grandchildren had been able to stand this level of pain, to bear it with the respect it deserves.
One step. Two steps.
Closer and closer.
He swallowed down the bloodlust as the man’-the boy’s pathetic whimpering continued, his blood drip, drip, dripping.
They threw him into the Green with a splash, the water arcing up.
(The green the life the everything the nothing)
They waited for him to resurface.
He leapt from the pool, and for a moment, Ras leaned forward, eyes alight (glowing green).
And then he howled and leapt at the nearest guard, teeth digging into the man’s skin, tearing blood from his body, digging into skin and muscle and tissue, desperate for something.
Ras threw a chakram, and the man’s head toppled off, blood getting everywhere.
He tutted.
He always had to clean up the messes himself. Disappointing.
He had never quite seen someone react like that before July, and yet, every single person they threw in nowadays seemed to be more beast than human.
And Ras’s sanity was the sanity of the League itself.
He was above it all.
But was unwilling to risk it.
Where was Talia?
Perhaps she would fare better than these pathetic Shadows.
***
“Oh sure,” Percy started, raising a brow, “My mom isn’t the woman that I’ve known all my life but rather a lady who dresses in, what I’m hoping, is black leather and an ostentatious amount of swords?”
Talia stared back at him before clucking her tongue at his mom, “Elena. Speak.”
“Her name,” Percy interrupted, “Is Sally Jackson.”
“Percy,” Sally gripped his arm, “Lower it.”
He stared at her for a full heartbeat, “You can’t be-”
“Lower the sword, Percy,” She insisted, “Now, please.”
Slowly, Percy lowered it, and the green eyes (his eyes but not) darted to follow its path, as it vanished into the pen again.
Something in Talia’s shoulders eased, “He gave it to you. I wor-wondered.”
Percy noted the slip of the tongue.
“Talia,” Sally nodded, “It’s been a while.”
“I am your biological mother.”
Percy forced that thought away. It was a lie, a trick. Something to get him off his guard. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.
“Elena,” Talia dipped her head, very slightly, “I am pleased to see you are well.”
“Why are you here?”
Percy could feel his heart sink with every moment his mom didn’t disagree with Talia’s statement. With every moment these calm, icy words were exchanged.
“Do I need a reason to visit my son?”
“That depends,” Sally countered, “Can you still call him your son?”
Talia’s facade cracked in that second, splintering into something dark and pained and angry.
“He is my son,” She hissed, “My flesh and blood. I made the choices to protect him. As I am doing now. As I have always done.”
Percy hated that something inside him recognised that anger.
(But Sally Jackson is his mom. Right?)
***
Sixteen Years, and Three Months Ago
Talia waited on the beach, carefully holding Perseus’s hands as he waded into the water.
He had learned to walk, earlier than most, and delighted in the seashore.
Of course he did.
She felt a smile, bittersweet, cross her face.
Her baby.
Her firstborn.
She waited, listening to his laughter and wondering why her heart felt so..full.
Over the past fifteen months, she had been on a “mission” of utmost delicacy, according to her Father.
Not even he truly knew what was occurring.
Perseus.
Her baby turned to look back at her, sea-green eyes just like his father’s and babbled something back at her.
She took a step forward with him, swinging her baby up into her arms, holding him tight to her chest. Feeling his heartbeat.
He was alive, safe and breathing.
For now.
She stepped into the surf, feeling the soothing water wash over her feet, her legs.
Then she felt it. The presence.
“Poseidon.”
“Talia.”
She looked up at her once-lover, Perseus’s father, who was staring down at their child, their child, with such an expression of wonder.
And part of her wondered how many centuries it had been since the god had felt it.
Perseus babbled up at him, raising a chubby fist, and Talia smiled again, this time warmer.
“He looks like you,” She offered, gently smoothing down Perseus’s black hair.
“And you,” Poseidon admitted, smiling gently, so gently at their son, “May I hold him.”
No.
“Yes,” She said, forcing back the protective and possessive urge to keep hold of her baby with the bright eyes and the warm laughter who made her feel something other than cold.
Perseus looked so small in his father’s arms.
“You will be so strong, little one,” Poseidon promised, looking down.
“And loved,” Talia added, her voice cracking, “So, so loved.”
Poseidon smiled at her for that, pressing a kiss to Perseus’s forehead.
“What is his name?”
“Perseus,” Talia said, her spine straight, her face devoid of emotion, and then she softened, minutely.
“The only hero to get a happy ending.”