Chapter Text
Finally,
Fucking finally —I had some time to myself.
The kid was passed out, starfished across the spare bed like he owned the place, still sticky with syrup and ice cream. Drool on the pillow. Snoring like a broken flute. Gods willing, he’d stay that way for hours .
I stepped outside onto the deck balcony, lit a cigarette with a snap of my fingers, and took a long drag. Smoke curled around my face, hot and familiar. I leaned against the stone railing, cracked open a bottle of something strong, and let the burn hit the back of my throat.
This was my kind of silence.
No dumb questions.
No crying.
No brat asking if I brushed my teeth.
I exhaled slow. Watched the smoke disappear into the stars.
I had shit to do. Real war god shit. Mortals were killing each other at a steady pace and I was supposed to be somewhere about it. But here I was, ignoring all of Olympus, avoiding messages, and babysitting a half-pint in pajamas who thought food fixed everything.
I rubbed my temples, groaning.
What the fuck was I supposed to do with him?
He was loud. Messy. Always asking questions. He hugged too much. Talked too much. Looked at me like I was something safe. Like I hadn’t split kingdoms in half with my bare hands.
I didn’t want to care.
But here I was… thinking about what he might want for dinner. What did kids eat? Something fried? Pasta? Did he even like vegetables? Was he allergic to shit? Was I supposed to know that? I took another swig, annoyed.
This wasn’t sustainable.
I needed a solution. A better one.
And then it hit me.
My sons.
My godly brats. Old enough to fight, old enough to stab, definitely old enough to babysit.
Why the hell hadn’t I thought of them before?
I grinned to myself, teeth bared.
Let them deal with Percy. Let them play big brother, show him the ropes, whatever. They could burn off his energy, answer his dumb questions, make sure he didn’t impale himself on a decorative spear. Perfect.
I took another drag from the cigarette, blowing the smoke at the sky.
Yeah.
Let them handle it.
Deimos and Phobos.
Gods of fear and panic. My sons. My war-bred twins.
They used to ride beside me into battle without question. Armor bloodstained, blades sharp, eyes full of the kind of madness that made mortals break before the fight even started. They were terror incarnate.
Then the modern world happened.
And now they were just a pair of disrespectful little bastards with too much attitude and not enough sense.
Deimos showed up first, swaggering in like he owned the place. Red hair cropped messy, like he cut it with a knife and didn’t bother checking the mirror. Gold eyes, sharp and narrow, full of judgment and bone-deep anger. His face was a map of scars—one across the bridge of his nose, a couple old ones slicing through his jaw, fresher ones down his neck and arms. His leather jacket was torn at the seams, black gloves tight over his knuckles like he’d just come from cracking a skull.
He looked like a slightly smaller version of me.
Minus the drive.
Phobos trailed in behind him, wide-eyed and twitchy. Same gold eyes, but lighter red hair—almost pink in the right light, like the color had been washed out from too much worry. His jacket was too big, sleeves half covering his hands. His posture screamed don’t notice me , and yet, every time he flinched or bit his lip, it was all anyone could do.
Phobos was the older twin. You wouldn’t know it by the way he hovered behind Deimos like a shadow trying to disappear.
Both of them looked like eighteen-year-old punks pulled off the back of a motorcycle gang. All teenage wrath and misplaced godhood.
Deimos threw himself onto my couch, legs spread, boots tossed up on my fucking coffee table like he paid rent here. Phobos stood awkwardly at the edge of the room, hands twisting in his sleeves, casting quick, nervous glances at me like I was going to smite him—which, to be fair, was always a possibility.
I stared at them both.
Then, without ceremony, slapped them each upside the head.
Whack.
“Stop shaking like a bitch,” I barked at Phobos.
“And you—feet off my fucking table.”
Deimos growled at me, low in his throat, like a wolf with a sore tooth.
Phobos nodded furiously, still trembling. Ex- Gods of war. Pathetic. I cracked my neck.
“What do you want, old man?” Deimos asked, voice dripping with bored disdain as he sprawled deeper into the couch cushions.
I shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. “Shut up. Keep quiet.”
They clearly didn’t know how long it took to get a mortal kid to sleep. It was a war of attrition. A slow, dragging death. I’d finally gotten him to knock out and the peace had lasted, what, ten minutes ?
“Dad!”
Ah, fuck.
I didn’t even get the chance to turn around before Percy came sprinting down the hall like a possessed gremlin, pajamas flapping and hair wild. He crashed into me like a missile, eyes wide with betrayal.
“You said you’d stay! You lied again! ” he shouted, stabbing a tiny finger into my side like he was calling down divine judgment. I put a hand on his forehead and shoved him back a step.
“Go back to your room, Percy. I’ll be there in a second.”
He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “Okay… Can I jump on the bed?”
“Whatever. Go.”
That was all the encouragement he needed. He grinned and bolted, feet thudding down the hallway. I exhaled through my nose, slow and murderous.
Behind me, Deimos snorted. “Is that… a mortal kid? In your house? ”
Phobos, eyes wide and panicked, whispered, “Was that your mortal kid?”
I turned toward them with a dead-eyed glare.
“Congratulations,” I said. “You two are brothers.”
They both groaned at the same time.
“Who was that?” Deimos asked, leaning over the back of the couch to watch Percy disappear down the hall.
I turned toward them, arms crossed, voice smug. “He’s your brother. And now it’s your job— both of you—to take care of him.”
The satisfaction in my tone was undeniable. Finally. A solution. Both twins turned to look at me, horrified. Phobos opened his mouth—ready to nod, agree, probably start stammering something useless and overly polite—but Deimos slapped a gloved hand over his brother’s mouth.
“What?” Deimos snarled. “ He’s your son! We’re not fucking babysitters.”
Phobos made a muffled noise behind the leather, wide eyes darting between me and the hallway like he was trying to process whether this was real or just another Ares-induced fever dream. I sighed. Of course it couldn’t have been the panic twin I pulled in alone. He’d be too scared to fight me. Too eager to obey. Would’ve folded like a paper offering if I told him it was his sacred duty.
But no.
I had to summon both . And Deimos, the mouthier one, the one who liked a fight just for the fun of it, had to butt in.
Now I had arguments.
I rubbed my temples.
“Think of it as training,” I said. “Fear and panic, handling one sugar-high mortal. If you survive it, I’ll actually be impressed. Now, take care of the kid until he’s I don’t know 16?”
Deimos scowled. Phobos slowly lowered Deimos’ hand from his face.
“Wait… he’s really our brother?”
I shrugged. “Aphrodite said he is. Close enough.”
The twins looked at each other again, eyes narrowed.
“Then why are you taking care of him?” Deimos asked, arms crossed, brow arched.
I exhaled hard through my nose. “He’s mine. Aphrodite’s too. Go ask your mother why he’s a half-blood instead of God born.”
That shut them up for half a second.
Then—
“ Dad! ” Percy’s voice called out from the hallway. “It’s been way more than one second!”
Before I could respond, he came barreling in, barefoot again, hair sticking up in ten directions. He ran right to me, wrapping his arms around my leg like it was the safest place in the world. I was still sitting, so he had his face buried in my thigh before I could even blink.
I grunted. “You’re clingy.”
He looked up, little fists gripping my jacket. His face twisted slightly, nose scrunching.
“You smell again. Don’t like this one.”
Of course he didn’t. I’d been outside. War and cigarettes and sweat—what, he wanted roses?
I grabbed under his arms and pulled him up, letting him sit sideways across my lap.
“Percy,” I said, jerking my chin toward the couch, “meet Deimos and Phobos. Your brothers. And your new babysitters.”
Percy blinked at them.
Deimos gave him a look —skeptical, sharp, almost amused. “That’s the kid?”
Phobos, on the other hand, was already halfway entranced, eyes wide, head tilted. “Wait… Mom’s actual kid?”
The two of them leaned forward, inspecting Percy like a rare relic.
“He does have the eyes,” Phobos said, nodding like he’d just solved a prophecy.
“And Mom had this exact hair color once. Remember that century? Pitch black like the night.” Deimos squinted. “Same straight, too.”
“How did we not see it?” they said in unison.
Percy frowned and leaned into me a little harder.
“…They’re weird,” he whispered.
“Get used to it.”
“Alright, enough of that,” I muttered, shifting Percy off my lap and setting him on the floor. “You’ve got babysitters now.”
Percy blinked up at me. “What?”
“Go with your brothers,” I said, nodding toward Deimos and Phobos. “They’re in charge.”
His face scrunched, confused. “But… you said…”
“They’ll teach you stuff,” I cut in, sharper now. “God stuff. War stuff. Whatever. You’ll like it.”
“I don’t want them!” Percy shouted, suddenly loud. “I want you! ”
I groaned, already reaching for a cigarette I couldn’t light in the house. “Kid, I’m not gonna sit around holding your hand all day. Go. Play sword-fighting with the idiots.”
“I’m not going!” Percy sobbed, grabbing onto my leg again, tighter this time—desperate. His voice cracked. “Don’t send me away, Dad! Please—please don’t send me away again!”
I froze.
And fuck.
That hit something I didn’t have a name for.
His fingers dug into my pants, his forehead pressed to my knee, hot tears soaking through the fabric. He was crying like I’d just told him he didn’t matter. Like he’d been sent away before—and believed it would happen again.
My jaw tightened.
Deimos stood up fast. “What the fuck, Dad?”
Phobos looked horrified . “You made him cry! That’s just cruel! ”
“I wasn’t trying to—” Why did I have to defend myself
“Then what were you trying to do?” Deimos snapped. “Shove your kid onto us like he’s a problem? That’s just shitty parenting!”
“You think I don’t know that?” I growled, holding Percy awkwardly now as he clung tighter, crying harder into my chest. His little body shook with each breath, like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.
My head throbbed.
Gods, my head fucking throbbed.
Phobos crouched nearby, hands hovering like he wanted to help but didn’t know how. “He’s not a soldier, Dad. He’s five. ”
I sighed, deep and angry and exhausted, and shifted Percy to sit fully in my lap again. He buried his face against my shoulder like I was the only safe thing left in the world.
The kid wouldn’t let go.
Not even a little.
He’d gone limp in my lap, like if he didn’t move, I wouldn’t notice him—like I wouldn’t get the idea to push him away again. His fists were curled in my jacket, face buried against my chest, and every shaky breath was hot and wet through the fabric.
I looked down at him. Opened my mouth.
But nothing came out.
I didn’t even know what the fuck I was supposed to say. What could I say? Sorry I almost handed you off to two war gods in the middle of a sugar crash?
I’d never wanted him. That was the truth. Still didn’t.
Aphrodite dumped him on me with that smile— “These things happen, my love.” She didn’t give me a choice. Just a warm body and a warning not to fuck it up. And now here he was. Crying into my armor like I was his goddamn savior. My hands twitched where they hovered around him.
I felt a little bad.
Not a lot.
Just enough to make me angry at myself.
Any child of mine —a true Ares-born—should have the weakness beaten out of them by now. I never raised Phobos or Deimos to cry. They looked to much like me. I raised them to hurt . That was war. That was survival. And if they hated me for it, well, that was war too.
But Percy…
He wasn’t just mine.
He was hers.
That softness. That fucking sweetness in his voice when he said Dad like it meant something. That part wasn’t me.
That part was Aphrodite.
And damn her, damn her twice , I’d always been weak where she was concerned.
This kid—he had her eyes when he begged. Her mouth when he trembled. The same way she used to break me without lifting a finger.
No wonder I couldn’t just throw him out. It was easier with Phobos and Deimos. They looked like me. Acted like me. I could scream, slap, shove—and they’d bounce back swinging. Toughen up. That was how you made sons. But Percy wasn’t made for that. And maybe that pissed me off more than anything else.
Because now I was stuck .
With this sobbing, sniffling, shaking little thing I didn’t ask for—but somehow couldn’t throw away either.
“Dad,” Percy mumbled, voice so small I barely heard it. “Please don’t leave again.”
I didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Phobos, of all people, stepped closer and whispered, “You’re kind of a dick, you know that?”
Deimos nodded slowly, crossing his arms. “Can’t believe you made mom’s kid cry.” He was mine too!!! I wanted to yell.
I sighed and leaned back, dragging a hand down my face, still holding Percy against me.
“Shut the fuck up,” I muttered.
But I didn’t push Percy away.
The crying slowed.
Percy hiccuped once, then went quiet—still clinging, still pressed into me like I was something solid in a world full of falling things. His breath was warm against my chest. Damp. Small.
I stared past him. Past the twins, past the bloodstained walls, the rusted weapons, the cracked floor. The home of a war god.
And fuck —this wasn’t a place for a kid.
This wasn’t a place for him .
But here he was.
And I couldn’t leave.
I’d tried to hand him off. I tried to scare him off. I’d been cruel, impatient, ready to dump him on my sons like a sack of burdens I didn’t want to carry.
But he’d still come to me. He still called me Dad. He trusted me to come back.
And now?
Now I knew the worst thing I could do to him was leave. I closed my eyes.
Fucking Aphrodite.
This was her fault. Every part of it. That kid’s eyes. His voice. His hope. She knew I wouldn’t be able to walk away from something that looked so much like her—and gods damn her, she’d been right.
I looked down at him. His lashes were sticky with tears. His cheeks red. His grip on my jacket slackening as sleep finally started to pull him under again.
“Great,” I muttered under my breath. “I’m really doing this.”
Phobos and Deimos both looked at me.
“You’re keeping him?” They asked in quiet unison.
I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t need to. I already knew the truth. I was going to raise him.
Not because I wanted to.
Not because I was good at it.
But because I couldn’t fucking not .
“One day you’ll understand what it cost me not to walk away,” I muttered. “So you’d better make it fucking worth it, Percy Jackson.”
++++
The funeral was small. Modest. But filled with so much grief the air itself felt like it was made of saltwater.
The child sat near the front. Alone. Crying prettily, like something out of a tragic painting. His little hands were folded tightly in his lap, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen, but still glowing like sea glass caught in the sun.
Poseidon’s son. No doubt about it.
And one day, he would be strong. Unshakably so. I recognized that soft scent of the sea, that made it possible he could even be mine. Which is why I stepped forward, heels silent in the grass.
“Hello,” I began gently.
Percy looked up at me, lip trembling. “Hi. Were you a friend of my mom too?”
His voice cracked on the word mom. My heart didn’t break—but it tilted. I kneeled slowly in front of him, adjusting my coat around me like the wind had a right to touch me.
“Yes,” I said softly, brushing a bit of hair from his damp forehead. “You see… Sally adopted you when you were just a baby. From me.” I lied to the sweet boy. His brows pulled together, confused, uncertain.
“I’m sort of your mom too,” I added with a wistful smile. “But only in spirit.” I paused. Let that settle. I had no intention of dishonoring the woman he’d lost. “Sally Jackson was your real mother. She chose you. Raised you. And even in her final moments, she prayed for you.”
I looked past him, toward the headstone adorned in sea-colored flowers.
“And such a beautiful prayer,” I whispered. “Even I heard it.”
His little shoulders trembled.
“She loved you more than the world, Percy.”
He nodded quickly, like agreeing would keep the tears from coming again. It didn’t. I reached out, gently brushing away one that had started to fall. And as I looked at him—his grief, his strength, the waves coiled beneath his blood—I began to think. Maybe there was still a way to place him where he needed to be.
Not with Poseidon.
Not in the sea.
But in war.
With someone who could forge him into something dangerous. I smiled again, this time with a different kind of softness.
“Would you like to come with me?” I asked. “Just for a little while.”
He nodded.
And the first step of the plan unfolded.
Percy cried in my arms as the last prayer of his mother still echoed in the corners of the world. I held him close, his small body shivering like something half-drowned. He didn’t understand what he’d lost—not fully. But he felt it. That kind of pain lingers even in children. Especially in children.
And so I did what I could.
I cupped his tear-streaked cheek, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and whispered a blessing into his skin. It wasn’t much. Nothing to curse him. Nothing to change him completely.
Just enough.
Enough to make him look a little like me.
Softness in the curve of his mouth. A shimmer in the green of his eyes. A glow to his skin, like the sun always wanted to touch him. It didn’t overwrite what he was. Just enhanced it—like framing a masterpiece instead of repainting it. He was already beautiful, even like this. Even broken.
But now… now he would carry a piece of me wherever he went.
It would be his strength.
And his weakness.
And Ares’, too.
Because anything that reminded him of me always made him lose control. It made him care. Even when he didn’t want to. Especially when he didn’t want to. I stroked Percy’s hair as his sobs quieted, as sleep began to take him.
“Shhh,” I whispered. “I’m only giving you what might save you.”
He needed strength. Ares could give him that. I could not. But I could give him the threads to pull Ares close.
Ares, my brute. My fire. My terrible, violent love.
He could raise the child strong. He could raise the child to live.
And he…
He might even grow to be fond of him.
I laid Percy gently on the small bed I’d conjured from nothing, wrapping him in a blanket made of mist and rose-colored warmth.
Tomorrow, I would hand him off.
And Ares, whether he knew it or not, would never be the same again.