Chapter 1: Prologue (I get a laugh outta staring at darkness)
Summary:
Percy knew it wasn’t healthy. He knew better than anyone how exhaustion had wound itself through him, how it had settled into his bones with a weight that never lifted. It was more than fatigue—it was decay.
Notes:
Chapter title from Hurricane (Jonnie's Theme) By Lord Huron
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Percy knew it wasn’t healthy. He knew better than anyone how exhaustion had wound itself through him, how it had settled into his bones with a weight that never lifted. It was more than fatigue—it was decay, a slow, inevitable erosion of everything that kept him standing. He felt it in the drag of his limbs, the dull ache behind his eyes, the way the world blurred and swayed when he pushed himself too far.
It was killing him.
And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
It wasn’t just the sleepless nights. No, that would’ve been easier to endure. This was the curse—Tartarus had marked him, branded him with something deeper than scars. The gods had let him go, but they hadn’t freed him. Not really. Every time his body begged for rest, the nightmares came—merciless, inescapable. They pulled him under, dragged him back to the pit, forced him to relive the screams, the blood, the suffocating dark.
He could fight monsters. He could face armies. But this? This he couldn't outrun.
Someday, it would kill him. He had accepted that.
He had made his peace with it long ago—the quiet certainty that he would never live to see old age, never watch the years stretch out before him like they did for ordinary people. Heroes didn’t get that kind of ending. Most died before they ever had the chance to dream of anything else, and he had never been one of the lucky few.
He had been forged for battle, a weapon sharpened by sacrifice and suffering. And weapons didn’t get happy endings. They broke, or they were discarded. What was life to someone who had spent their youth convinced they wouldn’t live past sixteen? He had stopped caring about death a long time ago. Thanatos felt more like an old acquaintance now, a shadow lurking just close enough to remind him that it was only a matter of time. He would die—sooner rather than later. Especially if the sleepless nights kept stripping him down, hollowing him out piece by piece.
He had once imagined something grander. A death worth remembering—something fierce, something with meaning. But what did it matter anymore? He wasn’t picky. And for a brief, fleeting moment, when he first learned about the curse, he had considered ending it himself. The thought had crept in like an unwelcome guest, slipping beneath his skin, waiting. Would it really be so different from the slow decline he was already enduring? Would it really matter?
But then—he couldn’t.
Not because he wanted to live, but because of them. His friends. His family. It would hurt them more than if he simply pretended. So he did. He let them believe the lie. Let them think he was fighting. Let them cling to the idea that he wanted to be here.
He didn’t deserve life. Not after everything.
Dionysus hadn’t been pleased when he stumbled upon those thoughts in their sessions—the ones meant to strip away his trigger words, to make him whole again. “Suicidal ideation,” the god had called it. And apparently, that was something they needed to work on too.
So they did. And somehow, it worked. He didn’t crave death anymore. He still didn’t care if something came for him—if fate decided his time was up—but he no longer actively wanted it.
Bucky had helped with that. Bucky, who had a way of looking at him like he was worth something. Like his life mattered. Like maybe—just maybe—he was supposed to be here. It was a foreign feeling, unsettling in its weight. And it left a pit in his stomach, because for all the want that had started to creep in—he knew.
With the way things were, with sleep deprivation clawing at his very existence, he wouldn’t get to live long anyway.
Notes:
Percy’s thoughts on death are much more akin to mine than Bucky’s. Is that concerning? Yes, definitely. But whatever.
Percy's side of this story is gonna be a little dark, hence the Mature rating.
Chapter 2: Chapter One: And he grabbed my arm with his dead man's hand
Summary:
The wind howled against the house, rattling the windows in their frames as sheets of rain lashed against the glass, a relentless percussion against the storm-darkened world. Bucky woke to the sound of it, his body pulling him from sleep before his mind had even caught up. But something was wrong.
His gaze flicked down the hallway—and his stomach dropped.
Percy’s door stood open.
Chapter Text
The wind howled against the house, rattling the windows in their frames as sheets of rain lashed against the glass, a relentless percussion against the storm-darkened world. The sea had been dragged into its fury, waves crashing violently against the shore, their unyielding roar filling the air with something primal, something unsettled.
Bucky woke to the sound of it, his body pulling him from sleep before his mind had even caught up. A slow inhale. A quiet exhale. But something was wrong. The storm didn’t feel distant—it pressed in, heavy and watchful, something more than just weather. He lay there for a moment, blinking into the darkness, listening. The steady drum of rain. The distant growl of thunder rolling across the sky. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply before pushing himself upright. The air was thick with salt and electricity, sharp enough to taste.
Then his gaze flicked down the hallway—and his stomach dropped.
Percy’s door stood open.
Every instinct in Bucky’s body snapped to attention, a cold spike of fear lodging itself deep between his ribs. The room was empty. The moment froze, stretched unbearably thin, before his legs carried him forward without conscious thought. His pulse kicked into gear, his breath shortening as he moved with quick, controlled steps toward the living room.
The second he stepped in, the storm crashed into him. Cold, wet air slammed against his skin, sharp as a blade. The porch doors stood wide open, the wind driving sheets of rain straight into the house, soaking the hardwood floors in a slick sheen of water. Bucky’s stomach twisted. His muscles coiled, tight and braced.
Physically, Percy would be fine—Bucky knew that. He was built for this, shaped by salt and tide, a child of storm and sea, forged in tempests far worse than the one raging now. The ocean wasn’t his enemy; it bent to him, answered to him, moved at his command. But that didn’t mean Percy was okay.
The storm wasn’t what worried Bucky. It was the reason behind it. He had seen the signs, even when Percy tried to hide them. The tension that never fully left his shoulders, the way exhaustion settled deeper into his frame with each passing day. The way his gaze drifted—not absentminded, but distant, like he was being pulled into thoughts too heavy to share.
And the nightmares. Bucky had noticed those, too. The restless nights, the sharp, uneven breathing, the way Percy stirred but never called out. He carried it all alone, bottled it up tight like he could contain the weight of it through sheer force of will. But some things couldn’t be contained. Some things found their way out, spilling into the world in ways Percy couldn’t always control.
Like this storm. If one of those nightmares had been bad enough to summon something like this, then Percy wasn’t in the right state to be left alone. Not now. Not like this.
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
Bucky exhaled sharply, clearing the lingering weight of sleep from his mind as he pushed toward the open porch doors. The rain met him like an unforgiving wall, icy rivulets carving restless paths down his skin, seeping into the wood beneath his bare feet. He barely shivered. His pulse remained measured, steady—but underneath that quiet control, something tightened, coiling inward, a restless thing refusing to settle.
He wished Percy would wake him when it got bad.
The sleepless nights never bothered him. He welcomed them, if it meant Percy had someone—someone steady, someone to reach for without hesitation, someone to pull him back when the dark pressed too close. He would stay up for him. Always.
But Percy never asked. And that was the problem.
Bucky froze just inside the doorway, breath hitching as his gaze locked onto the storm’s restless heart. Percy stood at its center, shoulders drawn tight, shuddering with sobs the wind stole before they could fully form. The storm raged around him, wild and untamed, a perfect reflection of the turmoil knotting itself beneath his skin. Every gust of wind came as a sharp, ragged intake of breath; every violent crash of the waves echoed the tremor in his frame.
Rain poured in relentless sheets, carving silver paths through the night—but not a single drop touched him. It fell like a veil, a boundary drawn between him and the world, shielding him from everything except himself. And yet, the streaks glistening on his face told another truth. Tears—unhidden, unchecked—slipped past the divide, staining his skin like rain that refused to fall.
The sight struck something deep in Bucky’s chest, something raw and aching. The storm could scream its fury, drown the night in its chaos, but Percy never let himself break—not fully. Not where anyone could see.
He murmured a quiet prayer to Poseidon as he stepped forward, not out of fear, but because it felt like something he should do. A ritual of respect, a gesture meant to acknowledge the forces around him. But before the words had fully left him, a thought—unexpected, foreign—slipped into his mind like the tide pulling away from shore.
You don’t need it. He would never harm you.
The voice was not his own. It carried a weight beyond him, something ancient, something steady, as though the god himself had whispered it directly into the marrow of his being. The certainty of it settled in his chest like an anchor, undeniable.
And sure enough, as Bucky stepped into the storm, the rain did not touch him. The wind did not rise against his presence, did not shriek in protest—it merely stirred around him, weaving through his hair like curious fingers, tugging lightly at his clothes, a presence that did not seek to hinder but rather to acknowledge. The storm had no wrath for him. It was not a barrier, not a force to be conquered. It was simply there—alive, aware, something vast and knowing that had already chosen its course. And somewhere within its heart, Poseidon was watching.
He lowered himself beside Percy without a sound, settling into the space between them with quiet certainty. But he didn’t reach out—he knew better. Percy never wanted touch in moments like this, when the world had stripped him raw, when his grief lay open and unspoken between them, too heavy to name.
So Bucky stayed. Close enough to feel the tremors in Percy’s frame, close enough that if he ever wanted to reach for something, he wouldn’t have to search far. He let the storm rage. Let the wind howl its fury, let the rain carve restless paths through the night, let Percy cry without restraint. He didn’t try to hush him, didn’t offer empty reassurances. Instead, he gave him silence—the kind that didn’t press, didn’t demand, only existed. A quiet presence in the midst of the storm.
And if that was all he could give, then he would give it. Always.
The storm roared around him, wild and unrelenting, yet at its heart—at Percy’s heart—there was silence. A treacherous stillness, as if the winds and waves had yielded to his grief, encircling him in quiet reverence while the world beyond trembled beneath their fury. The tempest raged at the edges, untamed and violent, but here, at the eye, all was hollow.
The storm cradled him in its center, as though it understood—understood that the only chaos it could bear within its core was him. His trembling shoulders, the jagged pull of his breath, the flood of memories drowning him from the inside out. It did not seek to consume him, did not force him into battle. It merely was, shifting and unraveling in tandem with the fracture inside him.
And in that fragile, suspended moment—poised between devastation and surrender—the sea wept with him. Its waves whispered his name, its tides carried his grief, and somewhere beneath the surface, in the depths where sorrow had no boundaries, it knew.
The words barely cut through the howl of the wind, soft and hesitant, fragile against the storm’s fury.
"Why do you stay?"
Bucky turned, watching as Percy curled in on himself, his frame drawn tight, as though he could physically shrink beneath the weight of his own thoughts. There was something fractured in the way he sat there—something raw, exposed, like an open wound left to the mercy of the elements.
"I’m a monster, you know," Percy murmured, his voice splintering at the edges, fragile enough that it might shatter entirely if he spoke any louder.
Bucky blinked, thrown by the words, by the certainty in them. Percy—a monster? The thought barely fit in his mind, refusing to settle, impossible to reconcile with the boy he knew. Percy, who had only ever fought to protect, who bore the weight of the world with quiet resignation, who gave even when he had nothing left. Percy, who carried his kindness like a quiet ember, small but unwavering, even when he didn’t realize it.
No.
Bucky knew monsters. He had seen them, fought them, lived among them. And whatever Percy saw when he looked at himself, whatever ghosts whispered to him in the storm, they were wrong. Sure, he looked less than human—but that wasn’t what made a monster. Not to Bucky, at least.
“How could you be a monster?” Bucky asked, his voice quiet, full of something raw and bewildered. “You’re beautiful.”
Percy let out a bitter breath, shaking his head, his fingers curling in against his palms, claws pressing into skin like a warning—a reminder. “You’re the only one who’s ever thought such a thing,” he muttered, voice taut, stretched thin beneath the weight of something unspoken. “I am monstrous—can’t you see?”
Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. He only shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”
Percy’s gaze sharpened, the flicker of defensiveness settling into something colder, sharper—something that cut like the wind carving through the night. “I’ve drowned innocents,” he said, the words deliberate, heavy with the certainty of his own condemnation. “I’ve harmed my own family. I am cruel and unkind.”
Bucky shifted, closing the space between them until there was nothing left but the quiet press of air, the gentle pull of the storm lingering in its wake. He met Percy’s gaze, steady and unwavering. “You helped me,” he said, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. “You gave me a place to stay while I rebuilt myself. That doesn’t seem cruel or unkind to me.”
The storm whispered around them, curling at the edges, waiting. Percy exhaled sharply, lifting his hand between them, and the moonlight caught like silver fire on the sharp curve of his claws, on the glint of his fangs as he bared them—not in defiance, but in quiet self-loathing. The clouds parted above, casting pale light across the storm’s wake, illuminating him in a way that made him seem almost unreal.
“I have claws. Fangs,” he murmured, voice dropping lower, as if admitting the words aloud was a confession carved straight from his bones. “No other demigod has such things.” A breath, heavy and uneven. “I have killed humans.”
Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. The words didn’t startle him, didn’t shift the way he looked at Percy—only deepened something in his gaze, something steady, something knowing. He lifted his hands, deliberate and slow, taking Percy’s trembling fingers into his own with a gentleness that countered every sharp edge.
“Oh, but Draga mea,” he murmured, his voice unwavering, warm in the quiet between them. “So have I.”
His touch was firm, grounding, careful but unyielding. A tether in the shifting dark. “Do you think I’m a monster because I’ve killed?”
Percy was silent, his gaze flickering with something unreadable—hesitation, doubt, the deep ache of a question he did not know how to answer. Then, finally, barely above a whisper—
“No.”
Bucky tilted his head, a quiet smile lingering on his lips, soft but certain. “Then why would you think you are?” His voice dropped lower, settling into something certain, something unshakable. “If you’re a monster, then we shall be monstrous together.”
Percy collapsed forward into Bucky’s arms with a shuddering breath, his fingers twisting into the fabric of Bucky’s shirt with a grip so tight it trembled. He buried himself against Bucky’s shoulder, fists clenched, his body wracked with the force of something too heavy to name—too vast to contain. His breath came in uneven gasps, his frame tightening, as if the weight pressing into him might tear him apart if he let go even a fraction.
And for the first time since the storm had begun, the sea behind them stilled.
Bucky hadn’t realized how restless the waters had been—not just in the chaos of the storm, but before it, long before it, since the moment he first arrived. The ocean had never truly been at peace. The waves had crashed against the shore with relentless force, their fury woven into the rhythm of the tides, never yielding, never quiet. But now, in the wake of the storm, that rage had ceased. Now, the sea exhaled, its breath slowing, its pulse steadying into something softer, something gentle.
Had Percy really been this unsettled all this time?
The thought sat heavy in Bucky’s chest, settling deep. Percy had always seemed certain, grounded—unshaken, as if nothing could truly touch him. But maybe that had been the illusion. Maybe he had only ever gotten good at hiding it, pressing it down, tucking it out of sight where no one could reach. Protecting the ones he cared about at the cost of himself.
And his emotions—his grief, his exhaustion, his buried fractures—had manifested in the only way they could. Not in words, not in confessions, but in the sea itself. In violent waves and restless waters, in the storms that churned at the edge of his home, as if his own heart had bled into the tides without him ever needing to say a word.
Maybe the storm had been inevitable. Maybe it had simply been waiting—just like Percy had. Waiting to break.
He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Time had lost its grip on them, dissolving into the quiet that lingered in the storm’s wake, stretching endless between one heartbeat and the next. Percy lay curled against him, his frame drawn tight, like he feared that if he let go—even for a moment—he might vanish entirely. So Bucky held him. Let him sink into the space between them, let him tremble, let him cry. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to offer empty reassurances. He simply stayed, his presence unwavering, his warmth a steady anchor in the shifting dark.
Somewhere in the stillness, his fingers found their way into Percy’s hair, moving with slow, careful intent, grounding him in something tangible—something real. He barely noticed the motion, barely registered the way Percy softened beneath his touch, his hands still shaking but firm where they gripped the front of Bucky’s shirt, as if it was the last solid thing left in his world. Their heartbeats synced—one steady rhythm, one quiet tether. Percy’s breath evened.
And for the first time in a long, long time, the storm did not rise again.
Eventually, the night settled, the storm faded, and the weight of the world exhaled. Bucky gave Percy one last squeeze before shifting to stand, but Percy’s grip didn’t loosen—only shifted, sliding from the crumpled fabric of Bucky’s shirt to his hand, fingers curling tight, unyielding. A quiet plea. A silent tether. Bucky didn’t hesitate. He simply held on and gently pulled Percy toward the house, guiding him forward without a word.
Inside, Bucky moved on instinct. He grabbed a bowl, poured cereal, filled a glass of water—small, simple motions that steadied him, grounding him in routine, giving him something tangible to occupy his hands. There was no need for thought, no need for consideration. Only action.
Percy ate in silence, his movements slow, mechanical—like his body was simply going through the motions without fully registering them. His right hand lifted the spoon to his mouth with absent precision, but his left remained curled around Bucky’s, firm and unwavering.
A lifeline. A grip that did not waver, did not ease, as if Percy feared that if he let go—if he loosened even a fraction—he might slip away completely. Bucky didn’t let go.
A warm breeze brushed against Bucky’s back, soft and deliberate, carrying with it something intangible—a whisper of gratitude, a quiet thanks from the sea itself. From the gods.
Bucky didn’t react. Didn’t turn. He only squeezed Percy’s hand a little tighter and let it be.
Alpine slinked out of Bucky’s room with quiet curiosity, her sleek form gliding through the space like liquid shadow, taking in the scene before her with measured intent. She circled once, her keen gaze flicking between the two of them, assessing, deciding. Then, with effortless grace, she leapt up into Bucky’s lap, settling against him as if she had always belonged there. He exhaled softly, the weight of her warm body grounding him, his fingers threading absently through her fur. The motion steadied him, gave him something simple, something real to hold onto.
Mrs. O’Leary emerged next, shifting from the shadows with a quiet inevitability, her presence vast, ancient—something tethered to Percy as surely as the tide was to the moon. She did not hesitate, did not linger at the threshold. She simply appeared, solid and certain, curling herself around Percy’s chair with protective ease, a silent sentry standing guard.
Percy barely reacted. He remained still, withdrawn, lost in something distant. But when his foot pressed absently beneath her side, Mrs. O’Leary responded instantly—leaning into him, nudging his leg with her snout, as if to remind him.
I am here.
I will always be here.
The room held its quiet. No words were needed. No movement disturbed the stillness except for the slow rise and fall of breath, the steady pulse of presence. The storm had gone, the world had settled, and beyond the walls, the sea whispered—its waves folding into a rhythm both ancient and new, a heartbeat easing into peace at last.
Then, slowly, Percy started to fidget. It was subtle at first—a faint twitch, the restless shift of his grip—but then his fingers began moving, spinning the spoon between them in the same absent, familiar rhythm he used with Riptide. The motion was thoughtless, instinctive, something to occupy his hands, something to ground him. But it wasn’t enough.
His other hand, still wrapped around Bucky’s, started tapping against his knuckles—an uneven rhythm, tentative, uncertain. Hesitation woven into every deliberate press of his fingertips.
Percy wanted to say something.
Bucky felt it in the way his grip tightened, in the way his movements sharpened, shifting from unconscious to intentional. A silent gathering of courage, a battle between the words caught in his throat and the fear that kept them locked away.
But Bucky didn’t push. He just stayed. Quiet and steady, his presence unwavering, waiting—offering Percy the space to choose when he was ready. Because when that moment came, when the words finally found their way past the doubt, Bucky would be there to listen.
Percy took a deep, shuddering breath, his shoulders rising and falling as if he were struggling to contain the unraveling inside him. His voice came rough, jagged, each word scraping against his throat like broken glass.
"When I was sixteen, I fell into Tartarus with Annabeth."
The admission landed heavy between them, weighted with something raw—something that had never lost its edge, no matter how many years had passed.
He swallowed, harsh and uneven, a wince flickering across his face as though the memory itself had cut him open. But he didn’t stop.
"There are these curse spirits down there," he continued, voice frayed at the edges, cracking under the strain. "Arai. They—they inflict the worst curses on you. The ones you earned."
A breath hitched, sharp and trembling, his fingers twitching against his palm like the memories had curled inside his skin, refusing to let go.
"One of mine was that I’d never be able to get a restful night’s sleep again."
The words settled, heavy and merciless.
"Every time I try to sleep, the nightmares come. And when I’m so exhausted that I can’t stay awake any longer—it’s worse. Like I’m trapped. Like I’m still down there."
His voice faltered, catching in his throat, as if the weight of it all had finally reached its breaking point. Then, suddenly—he choked off, sucking in another sharp breath, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes, rubbing aggressively, as if he could scrub it away. As if he could claw himself free from something that had never loosened its grip.
Bucky didn’t move. He barely breathed.
"It’s killing me, Jamie.” The words barely broke the silence—raw, bitter, hanging in the air like a truth too heavy to ignore. Too final. Too certain. "I’ve been slowly dying for seven years now."
Percy let out a humorless snort, shaking his head as if the thought itself was laughable—ridiculous, absurd. But there was no humor in it, only resignation. Only an acceptance so deep it had settled into his bones.
"I accepted long ago that I would die young. I just…" The sentence faltered, his voice thinning out, breaking like a wave against a shore that would not hold. His fingers curled tighter against his palm, clawing into skin, searching for something solid—something that might keep him tethered when everything else felt too far away. "I just wish it wasn’t happening now."
Then, softer. Quieter. So quiet that Bucky wasn’t sure Percy had meant to say it at all—wasn’t sure if it had slipped past his lips on accident or if it had simply been too much to hold in any longer.
"Right when something good enters my life."
Something deep in Bucky’s chest twisted, sharp and sudden, like a vice tightening around his ribs.
For half a second, his mind refused to accept it—tried to twist the words into something less brutal, something exaggerated, something that didn’t carry the weight of absolute certainty. His instinct was to rebel, to reject, to tell himself that Percy couldn't mean it.
But the thought was absurd. A brief, useless moment of denial. Because Percy was serious. Devastatingly, hopelessly, unchangeably serious. He spoke like someone who had long made peace with his fate—like someone who had carried the truth of it for so long that it had settled into him, woven itself into his bones. He spoke with the quiet resignation of a man who had no illusions, no hopeful fantasies of escape.
Percy understood exactly what was happening to him. And worst of all—he didn’t fight it.
Bucky couldn’t stand it.
He wouldn’t stand it.
He couldn’t lose Percy.
Not now. Not after everything.
The thought struck hard and fast, carving through him with a clarity so absolute it left no room for hesitation. It wasn’t just a refusal—it was something deeper, something raw and unshakable. A truth so fundamental it might as well have been etched into his very bones. Out of all the people he had lost—out of all the ghosts he carried, all the names that had slipped through his grasp—Percy was the one thing he wasn’t willing to let go. He refused to let go. Not while he still had a choice.
“Is there not something to fix it? To help?” Bucky barely managed to keep the desperation from breaking through, his voice tight with the effort to sound steady, to sound like someone who had control over this—over anything at all. But the thought of Percy fading, slipping away, wasting into nothing before his very eyes—it made rationality impossible.
Percy only shook his head, the motion slow, numb, his expression unreadable, locked away behind walls Bucky could not reach. “Nothing worth it.”
The words landed like stone—cold, unmoving, final.
But Bucky refused to believe that.
That couldn’t be true.
No—anything was worth it if it meant saving Percy. Anything.
Bucky swallowed hard, his grip tightening around Percy’s hand, refusing to let it slip free. “Then we redefine worth it,” he said, his voice fierce in its certainty. “Because I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care what it takes. There is something. There has to be.”
Percy doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even turn to face Bucky.
Notes:
Does Percy and Bucky’s conversation look familiar? To jog your memory, it’s from Playing god is fun (until you have to chose who’s dying first) :D
I feel like now is a good time to reveal that Kanoni was a descendent of Apollo.
Bucky when Percy isn’t where he’s supposed to be: I’m very concerned now.
Bucky: O Lord Poseidon, please let this storm not harm me
Poseidon: Bitch you don’t need no helpPercy: I’m a monster
Bucky: Um… no. You’re literally beautiful. If you’re a monster than you’re MY monster.My goal, make these installments and chapters as long as possible without it being annoying. Every time I edit something, I add more and more description until I can't or it just doesn't fit.
Binge listening to Lord Huron while writing this series. Has he ever released a song that hasn’t slapped? This man is so amazing.
Little warning: This is not Percy feeling better, he’s accepting his fate.
Translations:
Romanian:
Draga mea = my dear
Chapter 3: Chapter two: Once he's gazed upon her, a man is forever changed
Summary:
Percy’s decline was slow at first—a creeping erosion of vitality, stretched thin across sleepless nights that blurred into sleepless weeks. But then, suddenly, it wasn’t slow anymore. It was rapid. Brutal. Unforgiving. The moment he collapsed, mid-conversation, into Bucky’s arms, it felt like reality had slammed to a halt.
Chapter Text
Percy’s decline was slow at first—a creeping erosion of vitality, stretched thin across sleepless nights that blurred into sleepless weeks. Fatigue settled into him like a slow-moving poison, seeping into his bones, winding through his muscles, weighing him down inch by inch.
But then, suddenly, it wasn’t slow anymore. It was rapid. Brutal. Unforgiving. The moment he collapsed, mid-conversation, into Bucky’s arms, it felt like reality had slammed to a halt. One second, Percy had been speaking—his words sluggish, his gaze unfocused, his voice thinning at the edges like he was unraveling in real-time. And then—
His knees buckled. His body swayed, dangerously, precariously—before crumpling forward, the strength draining from him in an instant. He barely made a sound, just the faint murmur of incoherent words slipping past his lips, a breath of something broken, something lost.
Bucky’s heart lurched, cold fear slicing through him with merciless precision. Instinct took over—his grip tightening, his movements steady despite the terror clawing at his throat. He guided Percy down, slow, careful, his hands firm but gentle as he lowered him to the ground.
"Come on, Perc—stay with me." He barely heard his own voice, barely registered the words tumbling past his lips as he tried—prayed—to shake him awake.
It was terrifying. No—worse than that. It was the single most terrifying moment since he’d arrived. Because for the first time, the danger wasn’t distant, wasn’t creeping at the edges—it was here. And it wasn’t just coming for Percy. It had already taken hold.
Nobody had expected him to decline this quickly. Not even Annabeth—and she had known the truth longer than anyone besides Bucky. But knowing hadn’t prepared her. Nothing had. It scared everyone.
Nico was frantic. His usual sharp composure had shattered, replaced by something raw, something desperate. He tore through texts and ancient records with an urgency that bordered on panic, flipping pages, scanning lines, digging through histories that had long been buried. His eyes held that wild look—the look of someone losing control, of someone watching something slip through their fingers and knowing they couldn’t afford to let it happen.
Will muttered constantly under his breath, his voice a quiet hum of calculation and frustration. He spoke in half-finished theories, piecing together fragments of knowledge—mortal medicine, divine intervention, some impossible mixture of both. His mind worked at a relentless pace, refusing to slow, pushing for an answer even when there was none to find.
Hazel and Frank had thrown themselves into keeping Nico afloat—watching him closely, forcing him to rest, pulling him from his research when exhaustion threatened to consume him before they could uncover a solution. They were his anchor, his tether to reality when the weight of his frantic search threatened to pull him under.
Jason, Leo, and Piper had turned to the Romans, calling in every favor, every resource, every shred of ancient knowledge that might hold an answer. They scoured archives, questioned scholars, pulled together scraps of history in the hope that something—anything—could make a difference.
Even Thalia had stepped away from the Hunters—something unheard of, something unthinkable—just to be here.
She didn’t scramble through research. Didn’t scour ancient texts or chase desperate solutions like the others. She didn’t strategize, didn’t try to pull pieces together in search of some impossible cure. She just watched. Silent. Every time she saw Percy—every time she looked at him and felt the inevitability creeping closer—her eyes turned glassy with unshed tears. Not that she ever let them fall. Annabeth Chase did not break. She did not crumble beneath grief, no matter how much it threatened to hollow her out.
But this—this—was different. Because she was the only one, aside from Bucky, who knew. Who understood that this wasn’t an illness. Wasn’t something they could simply fix with time, or care, or desperate prayers whispered into the dark.
She had fought Percy on it. Over and over and over. Begged him to tell someone. Pleaded. Argued. But Percy had been firm. He had refused. And no amount of logic, no amount of reasoning, had been enough to change his mind. In the end, it was his decision. And there was nothing she or Bucky could do about it. Nothing but watch.
Percy talked more now.
But not about the things he once did—no easy tangents on ancient civilizations, no musings on language shifts, no amused observations about the strange evolution of dialects.
No, this was different.
These were the thoughts he had kept buried, the ones that had lingered in the silence for years, locked away behind careful restraint. The ones that scraped against his throat like broken glass, sharp and unforgiving. They came slow. Deliberate. Like a confession whispered in the dark. Like he was purging—forcing out every last secret before it was too late. And it felt wrong. Like final words. Like preparation. Like an ending neither of them wanted to name.
And it made Bucky feel sick.
Percy didn’t deserve this. Not after everything—not after the wars that had carved scars into his soul, the sacrifices that had stripped him bare, the years spent shouldering burdens that were never his to bear in the first place. He had given and given and given, until there was almost nothing left, until the world had wrung him dry, demanding more even when he had nothing left to offer.
And now—this.
Now he was unraveling, piece by piece, fraying at the edges like a tapestry coming undone, slipping through their fingers like grains of sand carried away by the tide. He had been unbreakable once, or at least that was the lie they all told themselves. But even the strongest bones cracked under pressure, even the fiercest storms ran themselves ragged, spent and hollow in the aftermath.
Was this how it ended?
Bucky swallowed hard, fingers twitching with the urge to do something—anything—to pull Percy back from the edge, to undo whatever cruel twist of fate had brought them to this moment. But there was nothing. No words, no reassurances, nothing that could change the truth staring him in the face.
Percy had fought. He had bled. He had endured horrors that should have broken him, survived things that no one else could have, clawed his way through battles that had left others in ruins. And yet, for all of that—for all the victories, all the sacrifices—it had never been enough.
Because heroes didn’t get happy endings. That wasn’t how it worked, was it? They suffered, they gave, they burned themselves down to embers for a world that barely stopped to mourn them. They weren’t granted long, peaceful lives. They weren’t given the luxury of growing old, of watching the world change around them at a distance, safe, untouched. They flared bright. And then they burned out.
And Bucky hated it. He hated every single part of it.
Because Percy deserved better. He deserved time. He deserved rest. He deserved to walk away from all of this without it clawing at his heels. And yet—this was the fate the world had chosen for him. Unfair. Unforgivable. But inevitable.
Percy sat across the table from Bucky, absentmindedly shaping the water in his cup, his fingers moving with a grace that felt almost otherworldly. The liquid obeyed him as if it were not just an element but an extension of his will, twisting and shifting into delicate forms—fish with translucent fins, birds that seemed to flutter before dissolving, coral that bloomed for a breath before retreating back into the tide.
The sunlight caught on his skin, on the droplets that clung to his fingers, turning them into tiny prisms, scattering refracted light like stars. Bucky watched him—watched the way the glow softened the edges of his features, how it caught in his eyes, making them seem deeper, endless, like the ocean itself. There was a quiet divinity in him, something raw and uncontainable, as if he was not meant to be touched by the ordinary world but had been dragged down into it all the same.
Percy was beautiful in a way that was almost cruel. Not just handsome, not just striking—but the kind of beauty that belonged in myths and whispered prayers, something so achingly perfect it hurt to look at for too long. And maybe that was what unsettled Bucky the most—that beauty like that never lasted. That the world never let something that brilliant, that radiant, stay unbroken.
Percy sat there, utterly unaware of the effect he had, lost in his own thoughts, in the quiet motion of water slipping through his fingers. And Bucky could only sit there, watching, hands curling into fists in his lap, because some part of him knew—knew deep in his bones—that the world would not let Percy remain untouched forever.
“I’m the nice aspects of my father,” Percy said finally, his voice quiet but steady, snapping Bucky out of his thoughts. “Calm seas, warm sunny days, coral reefs—things that bring peace, things that make the ocean beautiful instead of terrifying.”
As he spoke, the water in his grasp obeyed, shifting seamlessly under his control, morphing into gentle waves that lapped at the edges of his fingertips. Sunlight struck the surface, refracting into molten gold, spilling warmth across the table in shimmering ribbons. It was mesmerizing—deceptively tranquil, the kind of beauty that lured sailors in before swallowing them whole.
“But that doesn’t mean his other aspects aren’t there,” Percy continued, and something in his voice shifted—something more subdued, more restrained. His lips pressed together, his jaw tightening just enough to betray the weight of his thoughts. “The good is just more at the forefront. My mother, Amphitrite, has told me that out of all my father’s demigod children, I’m the most… diverse. In my moods. In my powers.”
He frowned, the water faltering, the smooth control slipping for just a moment, a sharp jerk disrupting the effortless motion of the waves.
“She blames herself,” he added, softer now. “Her involvement in my conception.”
For a moment, the water shuddered. Not just trembled—but shuddered, like it had taken a breath alongside him, like it had absorbed the uncertainty woven into his words. It was alive in his hands, an extension of him in ways that Bucky wasn’t sure even Percy fully understood.
Percy exhaled, the sound barely audible, his fingers twitching again, as if caught between restraint and inevitability. The water in his grasp wavered, unsettled, responding to the tension in his muscles, the quiet tremor in his breath.
“For all the good I am,” he said, his voice distant now, slipping into something rawer, something unguarded. “There are still murky waters, violent storms, trembling earth. There is death. There is blood.”
And then—
The water ruptured.
Once peaceful, once delicate, it exploded outward in an uncontrollable surge, swelling beyond his fingers, twisting itself into chaos. It churned violently, spiraling into the shape of a hurricane, its turbulence swallowing the last traces of sunlight, drowning the golden glow beneath its fury. Shadows bloomed where the light had once danced, jagged currents cutting through the space between them, the quiet beauty Percy had shaped only moments ago now torn apart by his own turmoil.
“I control aspects of my father’s powers that I shouldn’t. Powers he didn’t even know were possible.”
Percy’s voice was quiet, but there was a weight behind it, something heavy, something unspoken. His eyes darkened, the storm in his hands twisting as his emotions bled into the elements around him.
“Poisons,” he murmured, the word curling like smoke in the air. “The water in bones. Blood.”
There was a hesitation—a brief, almost imperceptible pause, a flicker of restraint before he added, “I even inherited an older domain. One my father abandoned millennia ago.” His jaw tightened. “Prophecy.”
Bucky, watching the storm churn between Percy’s fingers, spoke without hesitation. “Your dreams.”
Percy nodded, and the water obeyed. The turbulence shifted, collapsing in on itself, morphing into thick mist that spilled over the rim of his cup, unfurling in slow, deliberate tendrils. It crept along the edges of the table, slithering toward the air in searching fingers, grasping, pulling, swallowing the space between them like the breath of some unseen force.
And then it rose, climbing higher, drifting across his face in dense coils—smothering the contours of his features, swallowing the soft glow of sunlight until nothing remained. Nothing but the venomous gleam of his eyes, cutting through the fog like twin shards of something sharp, something unyielding, something utterly untouchable.
For a breath, he was unrecognizable. Not just a son of Poseidon—but something older. Something more. Something that should not have been abandoned. The mist thickened, curling tighter, and for a moment, Bucky thought—thought, not knew—that if he reached out, if he touched that fog, it might burn. It might bite.
“I see things that are yet to come,” he admitted, the mist swallowing the light, turning the space between them into something dense, something almost tangible. “I get feelings I don’t understand, but know I should follow. I See things—old and new. It’s not as strong as Rachel’s gift, or even Apollo’s children, but it’s there.”
His hands moved instinctively, as if trained by years of unconscious control, pulling the mist inward, condensing it, dragging it back into the cup until the water lay still once more.
Then, slowly, Percy leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest in a quiet, instinctive shield, shoulders drawing in like he was bracing against a weight no one else could see.
“I’m unbelievably powerful,” he said—not with arrogance, not with pride, but with resignation. A tired certainty that had settled deep in his bones, something so familiar it no longer felt worth examining. “Even for a child of the Big Three. The only reason I haven’t been killed yet is because enough gods like me. Enough powerful ones.”
His eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them—an old thought, perhaps, something he’d considered before but never voiced aloud.
“I’ve helped them,” he continued, his voice deceptively even, “and they think I’m entertaining.” A faint, humorless smile ghosted across his lips, brief, fleeting, more of a shadow than an actual expression. “Though, to be honest? I think they’re entertaining too.”
His fingers drummed idly against the table, the sound soft but rhythmic, grounding. His expression was neutral again—carefully composed, intentionally unreadable, save for the exhaustion clinging to the edges, worn in the fine tension of his jaw, the slight dip of his brow.
“And I’m sure that worries some people more,” he murmured, his gaze finally falling to the water in his cup, watching the way it sat, still, obedient. “Because I’m undeniably more divine than I should be.”
Bucky sat in silence, watching as Percy unraveled in front of him—not in desperation, not in rage, but in quiet surrender. The words spilled from him like floodwaters breaking through a dam, slow at first, hesitant, then all at once, unrelenting. He wasn’t just speaking. He was emptying himself, pouring out thoughts that had lived in the hollow spaces between his ribs for far too long, settling in the marrow like old wounds that had never quite healed.
It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an attempt to be understood. It was just the truth.
And Bucky hated it. He hated the way Percy spoke with resignation instead of fury, with certainty instead of defiance—like he had long since accepted the shape of his fate and never thought to fight it. Like it had settled into him the way the tide settles into the shore, inevitable, unchanging. Like he had simply let it happen.
And that, more than anything, made Bucky want to break something. Because Percy should have been angry. He should have railed against the gods, against destiny, against whatever cruel forces had carved his path in stone without his consent.
But he wasn’t. He just sat there, hands loose, voice steady, face unreadable except for the exhaustion clinging to the edges.
Bucky clenched his jaw, his fingers curling tighter where they rested against his knee, the tension coiling through him like a live wire. He could feel it pressing down, the weight of it, the quiet, insidious rage simmering beneath his skin—not at Percy, never at him, but at the world. At the gods. At whatever cruel forces had decided that Percy Jackson, of all people, had not earned peace.
It wasn’t fair. It was never fair.
Percy had fought. He had bled. He had given everything—his time, his youth, his body, his soul—and what had he been given in return? More burdens. More expectations. More battles that chipped away at him, carving out pieces until there was almost nothing left. And yet, here he sat. Quiet. Resigned. Accepting his fate like it was some inevitable truth, like there was no use fighting it anymore.
Bucky hated it. He hated the way Percy carried himself—shoulders drawn in, arms crossed in that instinctive shield, like he knew, deep down, that there was no escape. Hated the way his voice had held no bitterness, only certainty, only exhaustion, as if he had been bleeding for so long that he no longer remembered what it felt like to be whole.
And gods, Bucky wanted to break something.
Not for himself.
But for Percy.
For everything he deserved that the world had refused to give him.
The quiet stretched between them, thick with unspoken words, heavy with the things neither of them wanted to acknowledge. It sat there, tangible, pressing, curling into the space between them like mist—like something living, something breathing.
And then—
Percy exhaled. Slow, uneven. The kind of breath that wasn’t meant to be heard but carried weight all the same. His gaze was distant, unfocused, as if he wasn’t entirely tethered to the moment, as if pieces of him were somewhere else—somewhere older, somewhere he had never truly left.
“I used to think I was invincible,” he said finally, his voice quiet but steady. Not the steadiness of certainty, but the kind that came from exhaustion—from weariness so ingrained it had become second nature. “Like, no matter what happened, I’d get back up. Keep fighting.”
He huffed a humorless laugh—short, sharp, devoid of warmth.
“Guess that was naive.”
Bucky didn’t respond—not right away. He watched him instead, taking him in, studying the way the shadows pressed into his features, the way his fingers rested motionless against the table, drained of tension but somehow still carrying the weight of something unspoken.
Slowly, Bucky shifted, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low. Steady.
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But you’re still here.”
Percy’s expression flickered, a brief break in his composure—something unreadable passing through his eyes, a thought, a memory, an inevitability. His fingers twitched, barely perceptible.
“For now,” he murmured.
And that—
That made Bucky’s pulse spike with something close to fury.
For now.
Like it had already been decided. Like Percy had drawn a conclusion in his mind, settled into it without protest, without room for argument. Like there was nothing to be done.
Bucky inhaled sharply through his nose, holding the breath deep in his lungs, letting it press against the fire threatening to claw its way out. He couldn’t yell. Couldn’t force Percy to see things differently. He couldn’t shake him, couldn’t drag him out of whatever quiet resignation had wrapped itself around his thoughts.
Because that wasn’t how this worked. So instead, he swallowed the anger—let it cool, let it settle, let it bleed into something steadier. Something solid. Something that wouldn’t splinter under the weight of the moment. And when he finally spoke, his voice was even.
“I don’t accept that.” The words cut through the silence, firm, unyielding.
Percy blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“I don’t accept it,” Bucky repeated, sharper this time. There was no hesitation, no room for doubt. He sat up straighter, shoulders squaring, holding Percy’s gaze like it was the only solid thing in the room. “You don’t get to sit here and act like it’s already over. Not yet. Not while I’m still here.”
Percy stared at him, confusion flickering, shifting, morphing into something more complicated—something tangled in exhaustion, in resignation, in truths too old to dismantle.
“There’s nothing you can do, Jamie,” he said quietly.
Bucky shook his head, jaw tightening. “No. There’s nothing you think I can do. There’s a difference.”
Percy opened his mouth—ready to argue, ready to refute, ready to retreat into that same certainty he had settled into for far too long.
Bucky didn’t let him.
“You’re not dying,” he said, voice low but resolute, like something carved into stone, like something he refused to let break. “Not yet. And I don’t care how long it takes, I’ll find a way to fix this. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
Percy let out a breath—something close to a laugh, something soft and unsteady, but there was no relief in it. No hope. Not when it came to himself.
“That’s stupid,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Bucky only smirked, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah. But I’ve done stupider things for people I care about.”
Percy went quiet. And for the first time since they started talking, his fingers stopped fidgeting.
~~~
Bucky leaned against the railing of the porch that wrapped around the Big House, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watched the scene before him. The afternoon sun poured down in golden warmth, pooling in golden streaks along the worn wood, the air thick with the scent of salt, pine, and something softer—something almost nostalgic.
Percy was sprawled across the grass, limbs loose, eyes half-lidded, soaking up the sunlight like he was trying to absorb it, like it might somehow seep into his skin and fill the hollow spaces exhaustion had carved into him. It was a familiar sight, and yet, something about it felt more fragile than usual—more like an act of preservation than an act of rest.
Grover sat at his side, hooves tucked beneath him, fingers absently plucking at the blades of grass. Annabeth perched on Percy’s other side, legs stretched out, one hand tracing idle shapes into the dirt beside her, the other gesturing subtly, precisely, as she spoke. They were deep in conversation, voices low, brows furrowed, their tones serious enough to suggest some grand philosophical debate or strategy discussion.
Bucky knew better.
Duck breeds.
Mallards, wood ducks, some obscure variant Grover was insisting had a superior nesting instinct. It was absurd, really, how fiercely they could argue over something so ridiculous, but maybe that was the point. Maybe it was easier to debate the intricacies of waterfowl than to speak about the real things—the weight pressing at Percy’s shoulders, the quiet tension fraying at the edges of his expression when he thought no one was looking.
Annabeth glanced up again, expectant, almost insistent. A silent invitation—one he knew he was meant to take. He didn’t.
Not because he didn’t want to. But because Grover’s visits were rare, and for all the tension stitched into Percy’s frame, for all the exhaustion lingering in the curve of his mouth, this was a moment. A pocket of something easy, something untouched. And Bucky wasn’t about to interrupt what little time they had.
But Bucky also just needed a break.
He couldn’t keep dealing with Percy’s blatant disregard for his own life—it was infuriating, maddening, like watching someone carelessly toss aside something rare, something irreplaceable, as if it held no value at all. And maybe Percy genuinely believed that. Maybe, somewhere along the way, he had convinced himself that his life wasn’t something worth protecting, worth fighting for.
But Bucky couldn’t accept that. Wouldn’t. It made his blood boil—because life was precious. Percy was precious. And yet, Percy had been conditioned to never see it that way, to treat his own existence like a tool, a weapon, a means to an end rather than something inherently worthy of preservation.
It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t self-pity. It was just fact to him—a truth so deeply embedded in his being that he no longer questioned it. And that? That was worse than recklessness. Worse than self-sacrifice. Because it wasn’t even a decision anymore. It was instinct. Automatic. And that terrified Bucky more than anything.
Bucky knew exactly where it had started—knew exactly how deep it ran, how thoroughly it had rooted itself inside Percy, shaping him long before he had even understood what it meant.
It had begun with teachers. People who should have guided him, who should have seen something more than just a troubled, difficult kid. But they hadn't. They dismissed him, overlooked him, decided he was too much effort to be worth saving. And that had been the first lesson—one that repeated over and over until it cemented itself into Percy’s bones, until he stopped expecting anything different.
Then there was Gabe Ugliano. Bucky could barely think the man’s name without his stomach twisting, without the urge to do something violent clawing at the edges of his mind. If he could drag Gabe back just to make his death slower, more painful, he would. Because if anyone had set the foundation for Percy’s disregard for himself, it had been him. His neglect, his cruelty, the sheer, unrelenting weight of his presence in Percy’s childhood.
But it hadn’t ended there. No—after that, it had only deepened, had morphed into something more insidious, reinforced by the gods themselves, by Chiron. And Bucky understood—he did. Chiron had meant well. He had done everything in his power to protect Percy, had tried to teach him how to survive in a world that never let demigods grow old. But intent didn’t erase the truth. And the truth was, Chiron had played a part in it too. They all had. And by the time Percy realized how deeply it had settled inside him, it was too late.
Dionysus had tried—tried harder than anyone—to untangle it from him, to erase the idea that his life was disposable. But there was only so much even a god could do. Because how did you unlearn something like that? How did you teach someone to want to live when everything they had ever known told them otherwise?
And worst of all—Percy had decided, again, that none of it mattered. That he would just keep going, keep pushing, keep forcing himself forward with nothing but sheer stubbornness. Like the exhaustion wasn’t real. Like the weight dragging him down didn’t exist. Like his body wouldn’t eventually betray him.
Bucky wanted to shake him. Wanted to grab Percy by the shoulders, hold him still, force him to look—really look—at himself, at the damage, at the exhaustion carved into his features like something permanent, something irreversible.
Because this wasn’t just about pretending to be fine. It wasn’t just about putting on a front, about ignoring the weight pressing down on him—it was about the reckless, infuriating belief that he could still handle it. That he could take another mercenary job, throw himself into another fight, another mission, another high-risk, high-stakes game that demanded more than he had left to give. That he could do it alone. Away from Bucky, away from Annabeth, away from anyone who might—at the very least—try to keep him grounded.
Like it wouldn’t get him killed.
Like it wouldn’t be the thing that finally pushed him past whatever fragile limit he had left.
He was slipping—fading—and instead of clawing his way back, instead of fighting, instead of stopping long enough to admit that maybe—just maybe—he needed help, he was acting like none of it mattered. Like he wasn’t actively dying in front of them. And Bucky didn’t know how much more of it he could stand. Because Percy wasn’t supposed to fade. Not like this. Not yet.
Bucky let out a slow breath, his lungs tightening with the weight pressing against his ribs. He felt useless—small and insignificant, just a mortal caught in a world of gods and monsters, bound by rules he could never truly bend. What could he do against a curse carved into divine law? Against something so ancient and unyielding?
He wished he knew. He wished he could keep his promise to Percy. He—
Someone was behind him. The sickening smell of antiseptic in the air.
The realization hit like a lightning strike, sharp and immediate, sparking through his limbs before his body had even moved. He whirled around, heart pounding, instinct coiling tight—
And froze.
Standing before him was light incarnate—radiance given form, a being of sun and searing heat, so blisteringly bright that the very air trembled in their presence. The world bent around them, shimmering like asphalt under a scorching midday sun, humming with energy, as if the very molecules in the atmosphere had surrendered to their divinity.
Their hair curled down their back in thick waves, each strand woven from pure gold—not merely reflecting the sunlight but generating it, burning with molten brilliance. It moved like liquid fire, catching every shift of their body, every slight tilt of their head, flowing with an unnatural smoothness that defied the laws of physics.
Their skin—bronze and gleaming, polished like hammered metal—was impossibly perfect, too flawless to belong to something mortal, shifting in the light as though it did not adhere to human constraints. And then their eyes. Bucky could barely hold their gaze.
They burned—not with warmth, not with gentleness, but with the raw, merciless intensity of the sun itself. Looking directly at them felt like staring into a solar flare, like peering too long at something so vast, so consuming, that it might leave permanent marks on his vision. And yet, their stare wasn’t passive—it was piercing, sharp enough to flay a person open without ever lifting a finger.
Around their head, golden stars shimmered—suspended in the air, sharp and brilliant, orbiting like celestial bodies caught in their gravity, indifferent to the natural laws that governed everything else. They pulsed, shifting ever so slightly, as though breathing, alive in their own right.
And yet—Despite the sheer impossibility of their form, despite the overwhelming divinity pressing into every fiber of existence—They wore a plain white t-shirt. Blue ripped jeans. Tennis shoes. It was absurd. It was unnatural. It was wrong. And somehow, that made it worse.
Because a god dressed in robes of fire, adorned in celestial armor, would have made sense. A god who belonged in myths, who carried themselves like the force of the universe itself, would have been easier to process. But this—this contradiction, this casual, effortless blending of the divine and the mundane—was unsettling in a way Bucky couldn’t quite name.
Bucky blinked.
“Uh,” Bucky says awkwardly, the word barely making it past his lips.
Because honestly, what was he supposed to say to someone like that? The being before him—the literal embodiment of light—smiled, warm and effortless, like he had just run into an old friend instead of a mortal soldier barely scraping by in a world of gods and monsters.
“Bucky Barnes,” the god greeted, his voice rich and easy, carrying the kind of unshaken confidence that only a god could pull off. “I’ve heard about you from my son, Will.”
Will. Of course. How could Bucky be so stupid? He was talking to Apollo.
His stomach twisted slightly as realization settled in, and he instinctively straightened, defaulting to the habits Reyna had drilled into him, the ones meant to keep you alive around gods, the ones Percy outright ignored with reckless abandon. Percy treated the gods with so much disrespect it was terrifying to everyone around him. Bucky—on the other hand—had learned better.
“Lord Apollo,” he said carefully, inclining his head in respect, though the words still felt somewhat foreign in his mouth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you?”
The last part came out more like a question than he intended, his voice tilting awkwardly at the end, betraying just how out of his depth he was.
Apollo snorted, amused. “It’s good to meet you too.”
Then—silence. Thick, awkward, unbearable silence. Bucky shifted uncomfortably, feeling every inch of Apollo’s gaze as the god studied him, his burning eyes sweeping over Bucky like a physical weight, like they could see too much, know too much. Heat curled in the air around him—not oppressive, but overwhelming, like standing too close to the sun, like being observed by something ancient and endless.
Bucky swallowed, resisting the urge to step back. Apollo did nothing but watch.
“What can I do for you?” Bucky asks suddenly, the words slipping out before he can fully process them.
Apollo exhales—a sigh, heavy and deliberate, though there’s something unreadable beneath it. He doesn’t answer. Not really.
“I am the god of many things,” he says instead, his voice smooth and unwavering, carrying the weight of something ancient. “Truth being one of them. So, it is in my nature to be completely honest.”
The statement lingers, hanging in the air like an unspoken warning.
Apollo steps forward, crossing the short distance between them, stopping just beside Bucky at the railing. His movement is effortless, fluid, as if gravity itself bends to accommodate him rather than the other way around. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze flicking toward Percy—just for a moment. And yet, his eyes don’t linger.
Bucky notices that immediately—how Apollo looks, but doesn’t really look, how there’s an intentional avoidance, like acknowledging Percy’s presence too long would break some unseen rule. Bucky feels his instincts sharpen, tension coiling tight in his chest.
Why wouldn’t Apollo want Percy to know he was here?
The question wedges itself into his mind, but he doesn’t ask—doesn’t dare ask. Instead, he just watches. Waits. And for the first time in a long while, Bucky feels the heavy weight of something bigger settling in around him.
“There is a way to help him,” Apollo had said, his voice steady, certain, carrying the kind of weight that made Bucky’s breath hitch in his throat.
He snapped his gaze toward the god, but the moment his eyes met Apollo’s, something shifted—his lungs refused to work, his body locked tight, as if the very act of hearing those words had stunned him.
There was a way.
A way to help Percy.
The hope was immediate—sharp, overwhelming, so sudden that it almost hurt.
But then Apollo continued, and the rush of relief faltered.
“There is a divine—I suppose you could call it a medication,” Apollo said, calm and collected, as if he wasn’t turning Bucky’s entire world upside down in mere seconds. “That I and a child of mine have been working on.”
Bucky barely got out a breath—“Wha—”—before Apollo sighed, cutting him off, leaning casually against the railing like this wasn’t the single most important conversation Bucky had ever had in his life.
“My father likes us to do things formally,” Apollo said solemnly and it feels like he’s putting on a show. “As much as I would love to, I can’t simply give him the medication. He—or someone else—must go on a quest for it.”
Bucky barely processed the words before the next ones hit him like a hammer.
“The child of the Sea refuses to go on any more quests and hasn’t told anyone the extent of his ailments or the offer I have given him,” Apollo continued, his tone unreadable. “And he would condemn me forever if I spoke of it with anyone.”
Bucky inhaled sharply, his pulse pounding in his ears.
Percy knew?
Percy had known this whole time?
Had known that Apollo had offered him something—a cure, a chance—and had never said a word?
The frustration burned hot and immediate—but before Bucky could even begin to process the depth of his emotions, Apollo turned fully to face him, the sunlight catching in his eyes, bright and blinding.
“But he has told you,” Apollo said simply.
Bucky didn’t hesitate. He didn’t need to think it over, didn’t need time to weigh the risks, to calculate the odds or consider the cost. The moment Apollo said there was a way to help—that was it. Decision made. His mind had snapped to clarity before his heart had even caught up, before the gravity of it had fully settled. There was a way. That was all that mattered. Because there was no other option.
Not for Percy.
Not for him.
Bucky had spent too much time standing on the sidelines, watching Percy fade, watching exhaustion carve into his skin, watching him act like none of it mattered. And now, finally, there was something to do—something actionable, something real. So of course he was going. Of course he was taking the quest. There was nothing else to consider.
“I’ll do it,” Bucky states, the words leaving his mouth before doubt has a chance to catch up. His voice is steady, unwavering, carrying the kind of certainty that leaves no room for negotiation. “I’ll go on a quest if it means Percy gets what he needs.”
Apollo’s reaction is immediate—his lips curl into a slow, knowing smile, something dangerously smug, something that should put Bucky on edge.
But it doesn’t.
Because Bucky doesn’t care about whatever game Apollo might be playing—doesn’t care about the amusement flickering in the god’s too-bright eyes, or the way the golden halo around his head sparkles just a little sharper, like it’s reacting to his satisfaction.
All Bucky cares about is the fact that Percy has a chance. And he’s going to take it.
Apollo tilts his head slightly, watching Bucky with an expression that is just shy of condescending—like he knows something Bucky doesn’t, like he’s waiting for Bucky to realize just how deep he’s about to throw himself into this.
“Talk with Dionysus,” Apollo says casually, like this is nothing, like this quest won’t change everything. “He can help you get started. I need you to retrieve my golden Lyre from the fates, they took it from me few months ago and refuse to return it to me.”
And with that, Apollo shifts—just barely, just enough for the sunlight to catch against his form too perfectly, too divine, before his presence fades, leaving behind nothing but the lingering warmth of the afternoon sun.
Bucky breathes out slowly. He has to do this. Now there’s no turning back.
Dionysus appeared where Apollo had stood just moments before, his presence shifting the atmosphere like a sudden change in weather—less blinding, less celestial brilliance, but no less powerful. His expression was unreadable at first, but as his gaze settled on Bucky, there was something heavy in the way he regarded him. Something solemn, something that carried knowledge Bucky wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.
Without a word, Dionysus tilted his head toward the entrance of the Big House, a silent gesture that expected rather than requested Bucky to follow. Bucky obeyed. Inside, the air was cooler, quieter—like the walls had absorbed centuries of secrets, holding them tight, allowing only the smallest fragments to slip through when necessary.
Dionysus didn’t waste time.
“You can’t tell Percy,” he said the moment Bucky was seated, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument.
Bucky tensed, his instincts immediately rebelling against the command.
“He won’t want you to go,” Dionysus continued, his tone clipped, like he had already imagined the fight that would ensue if Percy found out. “He’d rather go on the quest himself. And that—” he let out a slow breath, something grim flickering in his eyes—“that would kill him.”
The words sank deep, threading through Bucky’s ribs like ice water pouring directly into his veins. Bucky knew it was true. Percy didn’t let others take burdens meant for him. And if he knew—if he suspected what Bucky was planning—he wouldn’t allow it.
Dionysus studied him for a moment, assessing, deciding, then leaned back slightly.
“Wait to get your prophecy until Percy’s gone on his job in a couple days,” he instructed. “Rachel is here all weekend, so you won’t have to track our Oracle down.”
There was an air of finality in the words—as if the course was already set, as if Bucky had already crossed the threshold into something irreversible. Something that, whether Percy knew it or not, would change everything.
~~~
Bucky had been in Rachel’s cave more times than he could count. It was always warm, inviting—cozy in a way that felt separate from the rest of Camp, untouched by the endless cycle of training and battle. The walls were alive with color, layered in paintings that twisted and sprawled across the stone, each one an unspoken prophecy, a story only Rachel could decipher.
But this time—
This time, the air was different. Thicker. Heavier. Saturated with something that prickled at the edge of his senses, something unseen but undeniably present. It wasn’t just the warmth, wasn’t just the familiar scent of paint and incense. It was weight. Expectation. Purpose. He wasn’t here to visit. He was here for his quest.
The realization settled deep, pressing into his ribs, threading itself through the atmosphere like an unspoken force. And as he stepped further in, as the paintings loomed around him like watching eyes, Bucky couldn’t shake the feeling that the cave itself knew why he was here. That it had been waiting for him. That Rachel had, too.
Rachel stood at the center of the room, silent, unmoving, her presence heavy with something unspoken. Her hand hovered over a finished canvas, fingertips grazing the dried paint with a touch so light it was almost reverent—like she wasn’t just seeing it, but feeling it, as if searching for something beneath the layers of color that only she could perceive.
Bucky’s gaze drifted to the painting.
Dark colors bled into the canvas—deep blues, blacks, shifting shadows that pooled and twisted in a way that wasn’t just ominous but alive. A cave, most likely, though the details were abstract, blurred at the edges, as if the image itself was still shifting, still deciding what it was meant to be.
But what struck him wasn’t the darkness. It was the light. A single stream, slicing through the roof of the cavern, cutting through the gloom like a divine interruption—like something had forced its way in, refusing to be swallowed by the shadows. It bathed a lone figure standing beneath it, illuminating the edges of his form, catching on the gleam of his arm—an arm coated in deep, metallic blue, reflecting like armor, like something ancient, something unnatural.
Bucky stared.
It was him. It had to be.
The realization settled in his chest, cold and steady, fitting too perfectly for comfort.
Rachel didn’t speak. Neither did he. But the silence wasn’t empty—it was charged. Thick with inevitability, with the weight of something already decided. And suddenly, Bucky had the unsettling feeling that whatever lay ahead—whatever was waiting for him in Greece—was not just approaching. It had already begun.
“Rachel?” Bucky’s voice was careful, hesitant, like he was afraid to shatter whatever trance she had fallen into.
She startled—blinked rapidly, her expression flickering between confusion and realization, like surfacing from deep water. Her eyes found his, awareness snapping into place with sharp clarity.
“Bucky!” she said, exhaling sharply. “You’re here for a prophecy, I heard.”
“Uh, yeah.” He shifted on his feet, awkward, uncertain.
The energy in the cave was wrong—too thick, too charged, pressing down on him like something unseen, something expectant. Rachel chirped a response—quick, bright—but there was something off about it. Something strained, forced.
“Right,” she said, as if trying to shake off whatever had settled around her, as if brushing away an invisible weight. “Let’s get this show on the—”
Her voice cut off. Abrupt. Sharp. Wrong. Then—
Her eyes rolled back, the whites swallowed by a poisonous green glow, sickly and radiant, casting unnatural shadows across her face. The shift was instant, jarring, and Bucky barely had time to react before thick, curling green smoke poured from her mouth, spilling onto the floor, twisting in the air like something with intent, something breathing.
He froze. His pulse slammed against his ribs, the instinct to move warring against the sheer unnaturalness of it all.
Rachel stepped forward—but it wasn’t her. Not really. Her movements had lost their fluidity, her limbs stiff and unnatural, guided by some unseen force, dragged by an entity that was using her, wearing her like a mask. Like a puppet on strings.
And then—
She speaks.
The words slice through the cave, sharp and unrelenting, carrying the weight of something ancient, something forgotten. They do not simply echo—they settle, threading through the air like woven fate, laced with a power far older than either of them.
“Through lands old and gods unkind,
The soldier walks where fate is blind.
A lyre of gold, a song long lost,
Found in hands that weave the cost.”
The cave seems to tighten around them, the air growing impossibly dense, charged with an energy that crackles along Bucky’s skin. He barely breathes, barely moves, his pulse hammering against his ribs in quiet rebellion.
“To claim the gift, no blade may sing,
No trickster’s hand shall shift the string.
Only words and a heart laid bare—
A love unspoken, now laid there.”
And then—
Silence.
Heavy, suffocating silence, stretching impossibly wide, filling the space between them like a living thing. The green mist lingers, curling lazily around Rachel’s feet, reluctant to dissipate, as if the prophecy itself refuses to leave so soon, as if it knows it has not yet settled into its full weight.
Rachel collapses backward.
Bucky lunges—quick, instinctive—catching her just before she hits the ground, his grip firm, steady, despite the adrenaline surging through his veins like wildfire. He barely registers the green smoke dispersing, thinning into nothingness around them, retreating as though it had never been there to begin with. And yet, the weight of it lingers—heavy, suffocating, settling into the air like an unspoken warning.
He stares at the space where it had hung only moments before, breath uneven, pulse hammering against his ribs in protest. His mind races, dissecting the words, pulling them apart, searching for meaning—but none of it clicks. None of it fits in a way that makes sense.
“What the fuck does that mean?” His voice cuts through the silence, sharp, demanding, but there’s something else in it too—something frayed at the edges, something close to disbelief.
Rachel—barely stable—laughs. Bright. Loud. Too loud. Almost ridiculous after the sheer gravity of what had just transpired. But it isn’t relief. It isn’t ease. It’s exhaustion.
“I’m the Oracle,” she says between breaths, shaking her head, wiping an unsteady hand across her face. “And even I struggle with prophecies.”
She exhales, slow, deep, centering herself before looking at him again. There’s something in her gaze—something hovering between amusement and weariness, like she’s seen this reaction too many times before, like she understands it more than she should.
“I suggest talking with Annabeth,” she murmurs, her voice lighter now, but no less certain. “She’s good at figuring out what they mean.”
Bucky swallowed. Hard.
Because Annabeth wasn’t an option. Not yet, at least. She was too close to it—to Percy, to the weight of his silence, to the secrets he kept locked behind carefully constructed walls. If Bucky went to her now, she’d see through him in an instant, would dismantle his reasoning before he could even get the words out, and then—Percy would know.
And Percy couldn’t know. Not yet.
Which left him with one option.
Dionysus.
And wasn’t that a pleasant thought. The god of revelry, of indulgence, of chaos so deeply woven into his very being that every conversation felt like a game—one that Bucky wasn’t sure he even knew the rules to. Dionysus had helped before, sure. But only when it amused him. Only when it suited him. Only when there was some hidden entertainment in it that no one else could see.
Bucky was lucky that D liked Percy. Or else this wouldn’t even be a question. It would be a waste of time. And time wasn’t something they had to spare.
Notes:
Excuse the prophecy I'm terrible at them
Notice how Apollo never said Percy’s name?
Bucky any time Percy opens his mouth at this point: BITCH STOP. YOU AREN'T DEAD YET, STOP ACTING LIKE IT
He is fighting for his life at this point.
Anyway, next chap we get Percy's Pov. Then back to Bucky's for his quest.
If you have any ideas, art or story wise, let me know! I love to see them!
Chapter 4: Chapter three: Gonna tear the world up until I have my revenge
Summary:
By the time he made it back home, exhaustion pressed heavy against his ribs, hollowing him out. He wanted nothing more than the solid warmth of a bed, the quiet weight of Lea curled against him, Alpine’s familiar presence at his side. And Bucky, steady as ever, reading to him in that low, even voice—something grounding, something certain, something that would remind him he was home.
Percy stepped into the house, shaking off the damp chill clinging to his skin. The space felt hollow, like something essential had been carved out of it.
Too quiet.
Too empty
Chapter Text
Percy had strict rules when it came to the jobs he took as a mercenary. He had to. Without them, he was afraid he’d fall too far—slip into something dark and ruthless, lose himself in a world where survival meant sacrificing pieces of himself he could never get back. Because the truth was—he didn’t need the jobs anymore. He had made more than enough from his previous contracts—either by stripping wealth from the corpses of those he had killed or from the massive payouts that came with certain high-profile hits. If he wanted, he could have stopped, stepped back, let the life go.
His godly parents would give him anything he asked for. But he never asked. Because asking felt weak. Asking meant admitting he needed something, meant exposing a vulnerability he wasn’t willing to show—not to them, not to anyone.
So he kept going. Not out of necessity. Not even out of greed. But because, sometimes, desperate people reached out to him. People with nowhere else to turn. People trapped in abusive relationships, tangled in dangerous situations with gangs, people who simply wanted a chance to escape—to start over, to carve out a new life beyond the ruins of whatever hell they had been stuck in.
And those jobs—those were the ones Percy couldn’t turn away from. Those were the ones that kept him moving. Because if he could do something—if he could make a difference, even in the smallest ways—then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t feel like he was drowning in the choices he had already made.
Percy had long since stopped questioning the jobs Wade—better known to the world as Deadpool—dumped on his lap. Some paid well. Others carried a strange morality he wasn’t supposed to scrutinize too closely. This one wasn’t about money or obligation. It was about a fifteen-year-old girl who was desperate to disappear.
Quick and clean—that was Percy’s priority. For her sake, not her father’s.
He erased her past with calculated precision, crafting a new identity that could withstand scrutiny. The paper trail was airtight. A fresh set of documents, a car with untraceable plates, and a bank account stocked just enough to carry her through the next two months. No breadcrumbs. No loose ends.
The father didn’t put up much of a fight. One well-placed blow sent him sprawling, unconscious before he could process what was happening. As the girl moved swiftly through the house, gathering the remnants of a life she refused to carry forward, Percy staged a robbery. Overturned drawers, shattered glass, a convenient illusion of chaos.
Then, with a quiet instruction, he sent her away.
When she was far beyond earshot, Percy finished the job. Efficient. Unceremonious.
The girl didn’t flinch when he handed over the keys to the car and a folder with her new life wrapped neatly inside. She clutched it like a lifeline, gratitude brimming in her eyes. She insisted on paying him—though all she had was a crumpled hundred-dollar bill. Percy had half a mind to refuse. But taking it felt easier than arguing.
She drove off without a second glance.
He watched her tail lights fade into the distance before vanishing himself.
The dad reminded him of Gabe. The same stench of alcohol lingering in the air, the same worn-in poker table cluttering the kitchen like an afterthought. It made his stomach turn. The entire time he was inside the house, his chest stayed tight, breath shallow, muscles wound like a coiled spring—waiting. Anticipating. Preparing for a fight that never came but lived in his bones anyway. His shoulders ached from holding tension too long, a ghost of old reflexes that never truly faded.
On the drive home, he fought to shake it off. He forced his breathing into steady, controlled exhales, though each one felt like pushing air through a constricting knot in his throat. His pulse refused to settle, fluttering beneath his skin, leaving him unsteady, fragile—like a single gust of wind could knock him off his axis.
By the time he made it back, exhaustion pressed heavy against his ribs, hollowing him out. He wanted nothing more than the solid warmth of a bed, the quiet weight of Lea curled against him, Alpine’s familiar presence at his side. And Bucky, steady as ever, reading to him in that low, even voice—something grounding, something certain, something that would remind him he was home.
Percy stepped into the house, shaking off the damp chill clinging to his skin. The space felt hollow, like something essential had been carved out of it.
Too quiet.
His instincts prickled. Something was wrong.
“Bucky?” His voice sliced through the silence, edged with expectation.
Nothing.
A frown tugged at his lips as he kicked off his shoes, his focus sweeping the room with practiced familiarity. The couch sat undisturbed—no half-finished soda cans cluttering the table, no abandoned socks kicked to the side in the careless way Bucky always left them. The blanket he’d curled up with last night still draped over the armrest, untouched.
Percy swallowed. The uneasy weight in his chest tightened as he pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. Bucky hadn’t called him to tell him anything.
Bucky wasn’t the type to vanish. He left notes. He tried to call, left voicemails if he didn’t get through. He checked in. If he was held up, there was always a reason, always an explanation. If something was wrong—
No. He shut the thought down before it could gain traction. He wouldn’t spiral. Wouldn’t let his mind rush to worst-case scenarios. That would just cause him to spiral into something that would drag him further into something bad. Bucky was probably at camp. He liked checking in on the kids, and Annabeth had mentioned stopping by this week. That tracked. That made sense.
And yet, the unease gnawed at him, sharp and relentless, coiling in his gut like a warning he couldn’t shake. Why couldn’t he be allowed something nice in life?
The rain had thickened into a steady, relentless rhythm, drumming against the roof like an impatient heartbeat. Each drop carried weight, pressing against the world with a force that demanded to be felt.
He grabbed his jacket, yanking it over his shoulders as he shoved the door open. The storm swallowed him whole.
Wind lashed at his skin, cold and cutting, but it barely registered. The chill tangled in his hair, dragged through his clothes, seeped into his bones—but he kept moving, his legs carrying him forward before he even realized he’d started. The sand beneath his feet was slick and uneven, the grains clumping together under the relentless hammering of the rain.
The ocean roared ahead. Churning, chaotic, restless beneath the heavy gray sky. A force both ancient and immediate, vast and consuming. The sight of it sent a rush through his veins—something sharp, something urgent, something unnamable.
He stepped into the water.
The cold was a shock, biting through fabric and skin alike, but he welcomed it. He waded deeper, waves clawing at his legs, pulling, pushing, demanding. The storm swallowed the world around him, and the weight in his chest tightened with every step.
The ocean swallowed him the moment he dunked himself fully in—cool, familiar, alive. It wrapped around him, rushing past like it understood the tight coil winding inside his chest, like it knew his worry, his urgency. The current tugged at him with a knowing pull, carrying him forward even as his breath came short, even as his pulse pounded like war drums in his ears.
He barely had to think. His body knew the way. It always did. But tonight, it felt different. Not steady, not soothing. Restless.
The waves pitched harder, surging with an insistence that bordered on aggression. The undercurrent dragged fast beneath him, pulling at his limbs like unseen hands urging him forward—or trying to hold him back. Above, the storm hung thick and unmoving, the weight of it pressing down, watching, waiting. The longer he swam, the tighter his chest pulled, that gnawing unease sharpening instead of fading.
Something was wrong.
The rain stopped the second he crossed into camp’s borders.
Too sudden. Too clean.
One moment, the storm clawed at him, wind shoving into his skin like desperate fingers—then, silence. Stillness. The sun shone bright overhead, warmth brushing against him, the air impossibly calm. No hint of the chaos that had chased him here.
It should have been reassuring.
It wasn’t.
Percy trudged forward, absently shaking the lingering dampness from his jacket. Camp thrived around him, humming with the usual rhythm of daily life. Campers milled about, voices light with conversation, laughter spilling from the pavilion in easy waves. Normal. Routine. And yet—wrong. The invisible thread tightened in his chest, pulling taut with each step, twisting in that way that signaled something was off. Something unseen. Something waiting.
He barely spared a glance at his surroundings, his focus narrowing as he set his course toward the Athena cabin. If Bucky wasn’t there, he’d check Ares next—Clarisse loved sparring with him. Their friendship had always drawn more than a few raised eyebrows, but Percy had come to appreciate their dynamic—the way they tested each other’s limits, pushed without breaking. His steps carried him past the training grounds when—
Apollo.
The realization struck hard and immediate, shifting the air around him like a sudden pressure drop before a storm. He didn’t need to see the god to know he was here. He could feel him.
Oppressive heat pressed into his skin, thick and inescapable, like stepping into a sun-drenched wasteland with no shelter. The air shifted—sharp, sterile, too clean, clinging to the breeze like antiseptic in a hospital corridor. It was the kind of wrongness that wasn’t loud or obvious but settled deep beneath the surface, curling into the space between breaths, between moments.
His pulse climbed. Apollo wasn’t just passing through. If he was he wouldn’t be so oppressive, so all consuming. Apollo was here for a reason.
The Big House.
Apollo was inside. And he wasn’t alone.
Percy strained his senses, letting the world sharpen, letting the finer details slip into focus—beyond sight, beyond sound. And there it was. Dionysus. Agitated.
The god of madness was restless, his presence vibrating against the very bones of the building, thrumming beneath the wood and stone like a barely contained storm. The air around the Big House was charged, thick with something volatile—something untamed, just a shade too wild, too frayed at the edges, unraveling in ways Percy couldn’t fully grasp. It crackled like static, invisible but felt, humming in the spaces between words that never quite reached him.
A leaden weight sank Into his stomach—heavy, absolute. It wasn’t fear, not yet, but something deeper, something undeniable. His body moved before thought could catch up. His stride stretched, urgency pressing into each step. His pulse pounded, a relentless beat against his throat, thick and uneven, an instinctive drum of warning.
Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. And Apollo was at the heart of it. Not just involved—no, tangled in its very core, a presence he could no longer ignore.
Percy stepped into the Big House, his pulse a relentless drum in his ears. The walls felt too close, the air too thick, but the sensation barely registered beneath the weight pressing against his ribs. He was moving too fast—too sharp—but restraint was beyond him now.
“Where’s Jamie?” The words tore from his throat, edged and unyielding, a blade meant to cut. He hadn’t intended to sound so harsh, but intention had little power against instinct.
Apollo turned too quickly, his usual effortless grace fractured, the motion jagged, startled. Percy barely spared him a glance, too consumed by the way his own skin felt wrong—too tight, too foreign, like he was wearing it instead of inhabiting it. But Apollo’s expression twisted, a flicker of something between guilt and hesitation, and Percy knew why.
He looked awful.
Worse than last time. Worse than Apollo had ever seen him. And considering how bad that last time had been—considering the wreckage Percy had barely crawled out of—it was saying something. Percy knew it. He felt it in the way his limbs dragged, in the static hum rattling beneath his skin. But knowing didn’t mean accepting. Didn’t mean acknowledging.
The neon dye in his hair had begun to surrender to time, bleeding out in uneven patches, retreating into stark white roots. They cracked and splintered like old paint, each strand a fractured reminder of something that used to be vivid, used to be alive. His skin—ashen, brittle—had lost its warmth, stretched too thin over his bones, hollowed out like something worn down past recognition. His eyes had always been restless, their colors shifting like tides—endless, unpredictable. Now, they barely moved at all. Sluggish, dim, exhausted in a way even sleep couldn’t touch, the weight of them pressing into his skull, dragging him down.
The bruises beneath them were deep” alm’st too dark to be real, spreading like ink beneath his skin. His shoulders hunched under some unseen force, his entire frame folding inward, curling around some quiet ache he couldn’t put into words.
A corpse.
A walking, barely-functioning corpse.
“He’s on a quest for me.” The statement struck like a blade, slicing through Percy’s ribs, lodging somewhere deep, somewhere irreparable.
It was instant. Confusion didn’t linger, didn’t falter—it was erased, wiped clean in a single breath, replaced by something far colder, far sharper. Something unrelenting. Something absolute.
His fingers twitched at his sides, a restless tremor barely contained, barely controlled. Violence crackled beneath his skin—hot, electric—pressing against the fragile barrier of restraint, begging to be freed. His breath came in shallow bursts, uneven, scraping against his throat as if the very act of breathing had become a struggle against the weight pressing down on him.
The air thickened. It twisted around him, heavy and cloying, dragging against his limbs, pressing into his lungs like smoke—stifling, suffocating. The world was shifting, responding, bending beneath the gravity of his fury. Color bled from his eyes, spilling into the air, draining the space around him. The distortion spread, warping the edges of reality itself, as if the very fabric of the world recognized his wrath and dared not challenge it.
Outside, the sky darkened—not gently, not gradually, but all at once, as if someone had wrenched the light from the heavens with unforgiving hands. The wind clawed through the trees, tearing through branches, howling with unseen voices—warning, beckoning, screaming. And then came the rain. Not soft. Not passive. But deliberate. Heavy. It struck the earth with purpose, each drop a hammer, a declaration, a force that mirrored the tempest churning beneath his skin.
Dionysus watched in silence from the edge of the room, his presence barely tethered to reality, flickering at the seams. His violet gaze glowed—soft at first, then sharper, richer, shifting with something unreadable, something ancient. His form trembled between shapes, restless, unfixed. Wild. Untamed. His black curls twisted like living shadows, coiling in unseen currents, framing a face that seemed half-human, half-myth. His clothes rippled, bleeding through hues too intense, too luminous, stained in colors so vivid they would sear mortal eyes, branding them with visions they weren’t meant to understand.
But he did not interfere.
Dionysus never interfered.
“You sent him on a quest?” Percy—Perseus—demanded.
The words tore from him, guttural and raw, scraping against the air like something jagged, something barely restrained. His lips curled back, baring too many teeth, too sharp, too wrong—something that didn’t belong in a human expression.
Apollo exhaled slowly, watching him with the careful wariness of someone standing too close to a lit fuse. “He chose to go,” he said, measured, deliberate. “I doubt I could’ve convinced him otherwise.”
Percy scoffed, the sound hollow, humorless.
“Don’t pretend like you would have tried,” he snapped. His power twisted at his heels, coiling tight, sinking into the earth, seeping into the very bones of the world around them. The air warped, thickening, pulsing with something that wasn’t supposed to exist here—something older than the space they stood in.
“What did you say to him?” His voice was sharper now, cutting through the room like a blade honed to a killing edge. “What tale did you spin to get him to go?”
Apollo didn’t flinch. He didn’t step back. But something in him shifted—something too subtle for most to notice. “I merely told him the truth.”
The words struck like a hammer against glass.
The ground trembled beneath them. Percy growled, a low, visceral sound, torn from somewhere deep in his chest—something ancient, something raw enough to scrape against his ribs like broken metal. His fists curled. His breath came in uneven bursts. The world shuddered, as if it could feel what sat just beneath his skin, clawing for release.
“Bullshit.”
And this time, the earth didn’t just tremble. It cracked.
The walls groaned beneath an unseen force, ancient wood creaking and warping, straining under pressure that should not exist. The Big House shuddered, its very bones protesting, as if it could sense the storm gathering in its heart. Outside, the wind screamed. It wasn’t just the howl of a gale—it was a voice, many voices, shrieking through the trees, tearing at the sky, bending the world to Percy’s fury.
Above his head, a silver laurel flickered into existence—not delicate, not ornamental, but a crown forged of power, threaded with pearls that caught the light like drops of frozen seafoam, laced with the fury of tempests long past. The scars across his skin ignited, glowing gold, a searing testament to every battle, every monster, every wound that had failed to break him. They pulsed beneath his flesh, reminders that he was something made in war, reforged in survival.
His mouth stretched too far, his c”eeks’splitting unnaturally wide, revealing too many teeth—jagged, predatory, wrong. They cut into his gums, sharp enough to draw blood, filling his mouth in grotesque, endless rows. His hair lifted, weightless, suspended as if submerged in water—water that did not exist. Yet droplets clung to his fingertips, trailing down his skin, slipping toward the floor. But they never landed. Before they could reach the ground, they boiled, twisting into vapor, curling into mist—living, breathing mist that slithered through the air like a sentient force.
And it moved toward Apollo. It coiled tight, winding around his throat, pressing inward, clinging to his skin with unnatural precision. It was suffocating, sentient, a force that did not waver. Blood-stained seas spilled from Percy’s eyes, their color too rich, too deep, leaking into the air itself, staining the atmosphere with something ancient, something primal. And the heat—gods, the heat—rose like a living thing, blistering, unbearable, pressing against reality until the very fabric of the world threatened to buckle.
Apollo flinched.
Then—
“Perseus!”
Dionysus’s voice lashed through the chaos, cutting cleanly through the storm, through the suffocating heat, through the air that had grown too thick, too warped. It wasn’t just a name—it was an anchor, a command, a force sharp enough to pierce through the haze clouding Percy’s mind.
Percy jolted, the sound hitting him like a sudden, visceral shock. His body shuddered violently, his breath catching hard in his throat—too fast, too uneven, almost painful.
“You’re hurting him.”
The words struck deep, sharp and unavoidable, slicing through whatever had taken hold of him. His mind stuttered, snagging, everything unraveling at once. His fingers twitched at his sides, the tension locking his muscles beginning to fracture. His chest heaved, dragging in air that had felt unreachable moments ago. The colors—the mist curling around Apollo’s throat, the fire licking at the edges of the room, the unbearable heat suffocating everything—shuddered. Then, slowly, they began to fade. The world crept back toward itself, as if cautiously returning to familiar shape, watching, waiting.
Dionysus exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound quiet but weighted, measured in a way that suggested patience worn thin—fraying at the edges. Then, before Percy could fully register the shift, before his mind could catch up to the unraveling of moments slipping through his fingers, Dionysus moved. A hand—light, effortless—pressed against the crown of Percy’s bowed head, fingers threading through damp hair, ruffling it with something that almost felt like familiarity. Almost felt like care.
“Barnes will be fine,” he murmured, the words calm, steady, but carrying something beneath them—something firm, something that left no room for argument. His tone was soft. His voice smooth. But his eyes—his eyes were not. Over his shoulder, locked onto Apollo, they burned—not with fire, not with fury, but with warning. A silent, searing message laced in something ancient, something not meant to be spoken aloud.
Apollo didn’t challenge it. He didn’t try. He was gone before Percy could think, before he could process the shift, the vanishing space where a presence had been just a breath before.
Just like that.
Vanished.
Dionysus’s grip tightened around Percy’s arm, firm but not cruel—a tether, an anchor to something beyond this moment.
The world twisted. Space fractured, folding in on itself, bending reality into something unrecognizable. Air compressed, thick and suffocating, pressing against Percy’s ribs, stealing the breath from his lungs. A violent snap. A sound that wasn’t quite sound—more sensation than anything else. It ripped through the air, through flesh, through thought, like something had been torn apart at the seams. Stillness. They reappeared, sudden and jarring, the shift leaving an echo in Percy’s bones—something deep, something off-kilter.
A vast meadow stretched around them, open and boundless, unfurling in soft waves of green, gentle in contrast to the storm brewing overhead. Flowers punctuated the landscape in bursts of color, bright and chaotic, scattered like remnants of some forgotten celebration. In the distance, a dense forest loomed, its towering branches swaying under the push of the wind—wild, restless, unsettled. The sky churned, thick and dark, clouds swallowing the last remnants of sunlight in deep, rolling waves. The air crackled, heavy with something unsaid, something waiting to break.
Then, the rain. It didn’t fall gently. It didn’t whisper. It crashed. The drops struck the earth with purpose, relentless and unyielding, sinking into the soil, pooling between blades of grass, running in rivers toward places unseen.
Percy barely noticed. His breath came slow, uneven, his heartbeat struggling to match the rhythm of the shifting world around him.
“Apollo had no right!” The snarl ripped from Percy’s throat, raw and unfiltered, slicing through the rain-thickened air. He moved in tight, erratic circles, his steps sharp, restless—like pressure building beneath the surface of an impending storm. The rain clung to him, slicking through his hair, soaking his clothes, dragging against his skin, but he barely registered it. His body was too wound, too tense, coiled impossibly tight beneath the weight of something uncontainable.
Dionysus, in contrast, was the picture of leisure. He lounged in the drenched grass with all the ease of someone who had never once feared drowning, idly swirling the contents of his goblet, utterly unaffected. The storm did not touch him—it never did. Percy knew this projection of calm, this steady, unshaken composure. Dionysus always wore it like armor, a deliberate choice. But it wasn’t working.
“You don’t own him,” Dionysus said, simple, matter-of-fact.
Percy froze mid-step. His eyes snapped toward the god, confusion flickering through the storm of his expression. The words didn’t fit—not with the tangled mess of emotion writhing beneath his ribs. “What? Who?”
“Barnes.” Dionysus took a slow, deliberate sip, violet gaze unwavering. “You don’t own him.”
Percy’s fury reignited instantly, crackling beneath his skin like wildfire, something untamed, something too big to fit inside his body. He spun to face Dionysus, his hands twitching, power pulsing at his fingertips, sparking against the air. Above them, the sky rumbled in tandem, restless and volatile, answering the chaos simmering in his veins.
“I know that!” His voice was sharp, desperate, something raw spilling unchecked through his words. “He’s his own person.”
Dionysus raised his hands in mock surrender, his expression unreadable, eyes alight with something closer to amusement than concern. “Exactly. Which means he can decide whether or not he goes on this quest.”
“I know that!” Percy snapped again, sharper this time, his voice barely restrained, stretched thin over something breaking.
Dionysus arched a brow, slow and deliberate, watching him with an air of quiet amusement—carefully measured, carefully aimed. “With the way you’re acting?” He tilted his head, studying him like some great unraveling puzzle. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
Percy clenched his jaw, his breathing uneven, his chest burning—not from exhaustion, but frustration. Helpless, unwanted frustration, something bitter and aching and unfixable.
“Because Apollo manipulated him,” he bit out. “He used him.”
The words twisted in his mouth. They tasted bitter. Wrong.
Rage surged, hot and uncontainable, crackling beneath Percy’s skin like a live wire, desperate for release. His pulse hammered against his throat, beating in tandem with the storm raging overhead, syncing with the relentless crash of rain against the earth.
Then—movement. His gaze snapped toward a jagged rock, half-buried in the mud, slick with rain, sharp enough to cut. Before thought could catch up to instinct, his fingers closed around it. Heat pulsed through his veins, igniting his limbs, fueling the tremor in his grip. His breath came short, uneven, his body thrumming with the undeniable demand—action. Without hesitation, he hurled it.
The rock sliced through the air, a vicious projectile, twisting end over end before colliding with the tree in a brutal, unforgiving crack. The impact resonated, deep and hollow, sending shuddering vibrations through the bark, shaking loose droplets of rain in violent bursts. They scattered, ricocheting off the trunk, dissolving back into the storm. But the mark remained. Embedded deep.
Dionysus barely flinched, unmoved by the storm curling at Percy’s feet, by the fury coiling in his voice. He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, and after a beat, he spoke—his tone ever neutral, effortlessly detached.
“Barnes has his own reasons for going.”
Percy’s head snapped up, the motion sharp, sudden. His body tensed, breath hitching, lungs fighting against the pressure tightening around his ribs. “What could possibly make risking his life worth it?”
The words tore from him, demanding, edged with something too raw, too unguarded. They sliced through the rainfall like a blade, splitting the air, cutting through the heavy silence that loomed between them. Dionysus barely seemed to register the bite in Percy’s voice. He tilted his goblet, watching the liquid swirl lazily, as if the conversation itself was nothing more than an idle distraction.
“You,” he said simply, almost bored.
Percy stilled. Something inside him cracked—not violently, not outwardly, but deep, insidious, like a fault line splitting in slow motion. The rain around them hesitated. It did not fall. Did not move. Water droplets hung midair, frozen in time, suspended as if gravity itself had forgotten its duty. Percy’s fingers twitched at his sides, muscles stiff, his chest tightening under a weight he didn’t know how to bear.
“What?” The word came soft, fractured, barely more than a breath.
Dionysus exhaled, heavy and deliberate, the sound carrying a weight that pressed against the space between them. It wasn’t frustration, wasn’t impatience—just something measured, something tired.
“Apollo told him about the quest,” he said, slow and steady, as if ensuring every word landed exactly as intended. “The one meant to get you the meds you need.”
Percy’s breath hitched. His pulse stuttered. James. James hadn’t hesitated.
Dionysus’s gaze flickered, unreadable, sharp but not unkind. “If going meant helping you, he was in.”
Percy swallowed hard, but the feeling stuck, caught somewhere deep, like his body refused to let it pass. His chest tightened, his hands flexed, restless, uncertain.
Why?
Why would he—?
Dionysus watched him carefully, unwavering, his gaze steady as if bracing for the inevitable response.
“Because he cares about you,” he said. “As much as you care for him.”
Percy shook his head, slow, numb. Like the action alone could erase the truth hanging between them, unravel it, deny it before it had a chance to settle.
“I’m not worth that,” he whispered, barely more than breath, barely anything at all.
Dionysus’s aura shifted—subtle but undeniable, like the air had stretched thinner, like something had softened in a way that felt impossibly rare. His expression didn’t change much. But something in his posture, in the depth of his gaze, gave way—just enough for Percy to notice.
“You’re more than worth it.” The words were quieter now, careful, edged with something Percy couldn’t quite name. A pause. “I’m glad someone sees that.”
Percy exhaled heavily, the breath staggering out of him, uneven, wrecked. It scraped against his throat, raw with exhaustion, with something too tangled to name. The fight drained from his limbs, slipping away like sand through his fingers, leaving behind only the weight of what remained.
He sank to the ground, his knees folding, his body yielding to gravity as if it had no more strength to resist. His fingers pressed into the damp earth, gripping at the mud, at the slick blades of grass, at something solid—something real. The rain resumed its relentless fall, droplets striking his skin, soaking through his clothes, bleeding into the fabric until there was no distinction between him and the storm. It clung to him, tracing the curve of his jaw, slipping down his neck, but he barely felt it.
Everything had crashed down on him all at once. The moment. The aftermath. The realization.
His limbs felt heavy, dragging, as if the fight had carved something out of him and left only emptiness behind. He hardly recognized himself. The man who had attacked Apollo, who had let his fury take shape, tangible, monstrous—that wasn’t him. It wasn’t supposed to be him. Percy didn’t get that angry. Not like that. Not ever. And if he did, he controlled it. He always controlled it.
Except this time—
He hadn’t.
The last time something like this had happened—when he had let himself bleed into something unrecognizable—it had been with Akhlys. The memory twisted inside him like poison, curling around his ribs, sinking into his stomach like lead.
He swallowed hard, nausea churning violently inside him, twisting his insides until the very act of breathing felt unbearable. His muscles tensed, pulling inward, forcing him to curl into himself, arms wrapping tight around his knees like he could anchor himself—like he could hold his own body together before it unraveled completely. He buried his face in the space between his arms, his breath coming in uneven bursts, each inhale scraping against his throat like sandpaper, burning, raw. His chest ached, rising and falling under the weight of something suffocating, something too vast to name.
The storm carried on, relentless in its descent, sheets of rain falling in rhythmic, measured waves—as if mimicking the chaos tightening inside his ribs. The wind pressed against him, tugging at his clothes, whispering against his skin, but he barely felt it.
He had never felt so much hate before. Not like this. Not in a way that sank into his bones, deep and unrelenting, refusing to fade. It was raw—feral—something monstrous clawing at the edges of his control, demanding release, demanding ruin. He had wanted to tear Apollo apart. Rip him limb from limb. Reduce him to nothing but remnants, golden ichor staining the earth in useless, meaningless fragments. He wanted to burn him down to the marrow. Boil the flesh from his bones. Make him suffer, make him understand—make him pay for daring to take what wasn’t his to take.
Because James was his.
His.
Apollo had no right—none—to send him away, to gamble with his life like it was nothing, like it was expendable, like the risks meant less than whatever self-serving cause Apollo had twisted into justification.
He couldn’t—
He can’t—
Percy cut the thought off with violent precision, recoiling as if his own mind had betrayed him. As if the sheer presence of those words, of that impulse, was enough to make him sick. His pulse pounded too hard, his breath faltering, every inch of him locked beneath something dark and unrelenting.
What the hell was wrong with him?
This wasn’t anger. Not really. Not the kind he knew. This was something worse. Something feral. Something corrosive. Something that made the air feel thick, made his skin feel too tight, made his own reflection feel unfamiliar. It was wrong. It was terrifying.
His breath hitched, sharp and uneven, snagging against the walls of his throat. His chest tightened, every muscle coiling, locking down like his body was bracing for something—something violent, something inevitable. Nausea churned, hot and urgent beneath his ribs, twisting deep, clawing at his insides. He clenched his fists, fingers digging into his palms, pressing hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indentations, hard enough to remind himself that he was still here. Still real. Still in control.
Except—
Was he?
The storm raged overhead, a force untethered, raw and unrelenting. Rain lashed against the ground, wind screaming through the trees, the sky folding in on itself with the weight of something unnatural. But it no longer felt like his. It had been his once—his fury, his grief, his loss ripped into existence, shaping the chaos. But now? Now it was separate. Distant. Something he had unleashed but couldn’t quite pull back. Couldn’t quite rein in.
Gods.
What was happening to him?
Had he always had this inside him? This storm, this power, this thing clawing at his ribs, desperate to be free?
Or was this new?
Was this something that had been waiting beneath his skin, biding its time, waiting for the right moment to break free?
And if that was true—
Could he ever put it back?
Could he ever be the same? Or had he already changed? Irrevocably. Permanently.
“I’m sorry,” Percy mumbled, voice barely audible, his hands tangled in his hair, pulling at the strands like he could physically tear the guilt from his mind. “I don’t—I didn’t mean to—” His breath hitched, frustration spilling out in a sharp, ragged groan.
Dionysus merely shrugged, unconcerned. “It happens,” he said, tone dismissive, as if this were no more serious than a misplaced bet. “Everyone gets a little possessive.”
Percy’s eyes snapped up, raw and burning. “I wanted to kill him,” he said, his voice a quiet, unsteady thing. Not an exaggeration. Not a passing thought. A truth.
Dionysus leveled Percy with a measured, knowing look. There was no jest in his expression, no teasing lilt in his voice—only certainty. “You’re more divine than you think,” he mused. “More like us than you care to admit.”
Percy stiffened, but Dionysus continued, his tone calm, unyielding. “You cling to the ones you love with a force that mirrors the gods themselves. Possessive, protective—to the point of obsession. You think that’s just human nature?” He huffed a quiet laugh. “No. That’s the sea in you. Deep, relentless. When it chooses something, it doesn’t let go.”
Percy’s fingers twitched at his sides, the weight of those words settling heavy in his chest.
Dionysus tilted his head slightly, watching him with sharp amusement. “Pollo saw it too—clear as day, in that little display of yours. You think the ocean is merely vast, ever-changing? No. It is consuming. It takes what it wants and keeps it.”
A slow, knowing smirk edged onto his lips. “And the moment you took Barnes into the lake, you should have known. That wasn’t just water you shared with him. That was belonging. That was claiming.”
Percy swallowed hard, his pulse stuttering as the memory surged forward, vivid and all-consuming—James, drenched in seawater, strands of his dark hair slicked against his face, breathless in a way that wasn’t just exhaustion but something raw, something felt. Percy had never been able to name it before—not the pull, not the tether, not the way James looked like something sculpted by the very ocean itself, carved from salt and spray and endless depths. But now, standing before Dionysus, he understood.
He could see it clearly—see the way James had always carried something untouchable, something magnetic. His eyes had held entire stories, shifting in depth and color, flickering between sharp intellect and quiet longing, liquid pools of something Percy had drowned in far too easily. The way his skin caught the light, kissed with golden undertones, stark against the soaked fabric clinging to his frame, every drop of water tracing rivulets down his arms, slipping over the curves of his collarbone.
The way his presence had been undeniable—even then—like gravity, like certainty, something Percy had never been able to fight. And gods—James had been beautiful. Not just in the way Percy had always known him to be, but in a way that had carved itself into his chest, deep and irrefutable. A force. A truth.
And maybe—just maybe—something Percy had always known, but had never let himself fully admit. Until now. Until this moment. Until it was too late to take it back.
“I didn’t—”
He wanted to say he hadn’t known. Wanted to believe it. But did he truly not know? Or had he chosen ignorance, blind acceptance, letting himself believe that there had been no meaning behind his actions, no consequence?
He had heard the story before. Triton had told him—the way Poseidon and Amphitrite had led his mother to the beach, had let the tide embrace her, had watched as she played in the waves, blissfully unaware of what it meant. But they had known. They had known exactly what they were doing.
Claiming her.
Making her theirs.
Percy had done the same thing.
Dragged James to the lake, fingers locked around his wrist, laughter spilling between them like seafoam, effortless, bright. He had pulled him deeper, had shown him his favorite spot, had watched as the wonder unfurled across James’s face, had felt something dangerously close to pride settle in his chest at the way James had looked at him—like Percy was the marvel, like he was the miracle. Had kept his hands on him the entire time. Had held him there.
Had he known? Had he understood what it meant?
Because that’s what gods did. It was a challenge. A declaration. A silent warning that what had been brought into their world, what had been bathed in their presence, no longer belonged to anyone else. That it was theirs. That it was permanent.
But he wasn’t—
He wasn’t a god.
He shouldn’t be like this.
So why was he?
Why had it felt so instinctive? So natural?
Why had he never questioned it—never doubted, never hesitated, never considered what it might mean? And more terrifying than anything—
Why did he feel like it was still true? Like it had never stopped being true?
Like James had been his from the very moment the water had touched his skin? Like he had never belonged to anyone else? Not really. Not ever.
Percy hated how good that thought made him feel.
Walking back into an empty house, knowing James wouldn’t be there, sent a hollow ache through Percy’s chest—deep, relentless, curling around his ribs like something tangible. The silence hit first, vast and unnatural, stretching through the space where James should have been. The absence carved into him, too sharp, too real. He wanted James. Needed him, even. And gods, it felt like such a childish thing to want—like something fragile, something small and selfish. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t change the way the longing burned, hot and aching, winding through his veins like an unshakable pull.
His throat tightened, breath hitching, vision blurring as he dragged himself toward the couch, not bothering with grace or caution, just letting gravity pull him down, letting exhaustion take over. The cushions caught him, the fabric rough beneath his cheek as he face-planted against them, burying himself in the scent of worn fabric and old memories, trying—failing—to find comfort in it.
A soft thud, then another. Alpine landed on his back, warmth pressing into him, small paws kneading against his spine before settling into place, a familiar weight anchoring him. A moment later, Lea followed, curling neatly against his legs, her slow, steady breath evening out against him. Percy exhaled, long and shaky, the pressure in his chest momentarily easing beneath their presence, their quiet reassurance.
But it wasn’t enough. Not really. Because James wasn’t here. Wasn’t where he should be—wasn’t settled on the end of the couch with his book, pages turning in quiet intervals, his presence woven into the fabric of Percy’s evenings like something steady, something certain. Wasn’t letting his voice filter through the space between them, soft and unhurried, the gentle cadence lulling Percy toward sleep, each syllable wrapping around him like warmth, like safety. Wasn’t casting glances over the edge of the pages, subtle but knowing, aware of the way Percy’s breathing slowed, the way exhaustion crept in despite the fight against it.
And gods, Percy wasn’t sure how long he could stand that. Not like this. Not when the house felt more empty than it ever had before—when the silence pressed in from all sides, thick and unnatural, twisting around the absence like a wound that refused to close. Not when the shadows stretched too far, too wide, swallowing the corners James used to occupy, turning familiar spaces into something vacant, something unbearable. Not when the air was too still, lacking the quiet energy James carried, the pulse of life he wove into every room he walked into.
Percy exhaled sharply, his chest aching under the weight of it. He had never noticed how much space James filled. Until now. Until he was gone. And gods, Percy wasn’t sure he could take it. Not another night. Not another breath. Not like this. Not when he was already so close to the edge.
~~~
Percy was miserable. It was the kind of misery that settled deep, pressing into his bones, dragging at his limbs, sapping every ounce of strength he might have otherwise possessed. Right now, there was only one good thing in his life—one tether, one certainty, one presence that had made everything feel less suffocating. James. And where was James? Off on a quest.
Percy felt the loss like a wound, sharp and aching. He missed him more than he could fully process—more than he could admit without feeling like the sheer weight of it might break him. Sometimes, the ache was dull, a steady, relentless thrum beneath his ribs. Other times, it was overwhelming—blistering, consuming, like something clawing its way through his chest, demanding attention, refusing to let him forget.
He wanted nothing more than to curl up and cry, but he didn’t have the energy for it. Didn’t have the energy for much of anything these days. His body felt sluggish, drained, like movement itself was too much effort. Most of his time was spent lying down or sitting, shifting only when absolutely necessary. The only reason he moved at all was for Alpine and Lea—feeding them, playing with them when they demanded it. If not for them, he might not have moved at all.
He might have stayed curled on the couch, sinking deeper, letting exhaustion take over, letting the days stretch long and empty without James here to break them up, without his presence to fill the space with warmth, with laughter, with something worth holding onto.
The house felt hollow.
Percy felt hollow.
He couldn’t sleep anymore. Not even thirty minutes. James had always been the one to anchor him into sleep, to keep him there, to pull him from the restless edges of exhaustion and guide him into something deep, something unbroken. But James wasn’t here. And without him, sleep wasn’t just difficult anymore—it was impossible. Percy would lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain against the windows, the distant hum of the wind, the quiet, hollow silence that settled into the spaces where James used to be.
When had it happened?
When had he become this dependent?
He tried to trace it back, to pinpoint the shift, but no single moment stood out. No grand revelation, no sudden change. Maybe it had always been there. A bond that had formed in the small moments—in the soft glances exchanged across firelight, in the accidental brushes of hands, in the way James’s presence had always filled the space around Percy with something steady, something sure.
Maybe that was why the tension had been there for so long, humming beneath every interaction, shaping the silences, threading itself into the way they moved around each other. Maybe that was why Percy had pushed James away so hard in the beginning—because he had felt it even then. Had sensed the inevitability of it, the way it could consume him if he let it, if he wasn’t careful.
He would never know.
But Aphrodite had always promised to make his love life interesting. She certainly lived up to that. And gods, Percy wished she hadn’t. Not like this. Not when the space beside him was so empty. Not when the silence was the only thing left keeping him awake.
~~~
Percy sat on the beach at Camp Half-Blood, the damp sand clinging to his skin, cool and grounding beneath his palms. The tide reached his chest, rolling in slow, rhythmic pulses, but it was weaker than usual—sluggish, almost hesitant, as if the ocean itself mirrored his exhaustion. This was as far out of the water as he could bring himself to go.
Annabeth sat beside him, perched comfortably in a beach chair she had insisted on lugging out with her—practical as always, refusing to settle into the wet sand the way Percy did, keeping herself just out of reach of the tide. The waves curled lazily at their feet, never quite reaching Annabeth, as if respecting the invisible boundary she had drawn between herself and the sea.
Percy barely registered the chill of the water against his skin, barely felt the way the salt clung to him, tightening around his chest, pressing into his lungs like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. But today, the ocean felt distant. Not absent—never absent—but restrained, quieter, holding itself back the same way Percy was, as if it understood. The sky stretched wide overhead, muted in the dim evening light, a hazy gray tinged with streaks of gold, but the colors didn’t spark anything inside him. Not like they should.
Because James wasn’t here.
And the ocean—his ocean—had never felt so empty.
Percy felt numb. The anger had burned itself out, the sadness had weighed him down until it became too heavy to carry. Now, there was only this—this dull, empty void where emotion had once existed. Nothing felt worth it. He was too tired to care. Too tired to do anything. Lea and Alpine were being taken care of—Nico and Annabeth had stepped in, making sure they were fed, played with, loved. And Percy? He had barely moved. The guilt gnawed at him, persistent and sharp, whispering failure in the quiet spaces between his thoughts.
He dropped his chin onto his knees, arms curling around himself weakly, but the gesture did little to provide comfort. Even breathing had become difficult—each inhale sluggish, each exhale a chore. His lungs felt too tight, like they were rejecting the air, like the very act of existing had turned into an unbearable burden. The weight of it all pressed down on him, thick and suffocating, settling into his bones, dragging him deeper into the relentless exhaustion.
He didn’t have the strength to fight it. Didn’t have the energy to want to fight it. And gods, he wasn’t sure if that was ever going to change. Not now. Not like this. Not when everything felt so empty.
“Bucky will be fine,” Annabeth reassures for what feels like the hundredth time. The words have become routine—an automated response, repeated so often that they barely hold weight anymore.
Percy exhales sharply, dropping his chin into his palm. His fingers twitch against his cheek, restless, like his body is rejecting the comfort Annabeth is offering.
“You keep saying that,” he mumbles, voice quiet, flat. He doesn’t have the energy to argue. Not really.
“Because it’s true,” Annabeth insists, unwavering, her sharp, analytical certainty pressing against the edges of Percy’s fraying patience. “He’s the most demigod-like mortal I’ve ever met. He could beat some of the best fighters here if he actually put in the effort and didn’t hold back. He’s smart. He could do it.”
Percy shakes his head. “He’s also alone, Annie.” His voice cracks slightly, betraying the steadiness he’s trying to maintain. “You don’t do quests alone.”
Annabeth presses her lips into a thin line. “He’s mortal,” she argues, stubborn and steady. “Monsters won’t go after him.”
Percy’s laugh is short, humorless. He gestures vaguely, frustration threading through his movements. “And he also spends so much of his time with me that I guarantee my scent has rubbed off on him.” His words are sharp, biting, fired off like an accusation—not at Annabeth, not really, but at the situation itself. “None of this is as reassuring as anyone thinks it is.”
Annabeth exhales through her nose, slow and measured, but she doesn’t push further. Percy doesn’t know if it’s because she agrees with him—or because she knows that no amount of logic will make him feel better. Either way, the silence that follows is heavy. And gods, Percy hates it.
The silence between them stretches, thick and heavy, pressing against Percy’s chest like something tangible. The waves drag against his torso, cold and slow, creeping up and receding, as if hesitant, as if mirroring the tension curling tight in his ribs. Percy exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. His fingers tremble slightly, though whether from the cold or exhaustion, he doesn’t know.
“I just—” He stops short, gritting his teeth, swallowing down the words threatening to spill out unfiltered, reckless.
Annabeth watches him, gaze unreadable but steady. She knows. She always knows. And maybe that’s why she doesn’t push. Maybe that’s why she lets him sit there, lets him pull his knees tighter against his chest, lets him curl in on himself, lets him stew in his own frustration without telling him it’s irrational, without telling him to get over it.
Instead, she shifts slightly in her chair, pushing her feet deeper into the damp sand. “I know you miss him.”
Percy’s jaw tightens. He stares straight ahead, watching the tide roll in, watching how it barely stirs, how even the ocean seems reluctant to move forward. He misses him. Of course he does. But it’s more than that. It’s not just longing—it’s restlessness, it’s helplessness, it’s wrong, like something vital has been ripped out of his orbit, leaving him off balance, leaving him grasping at nothing.
He clenches his fists, nails pressing into his palms, grounding himself. James should be here. Not miles away. Not risking his life. Not tangled in this. Percy squeezes his eyes shut, breath hitching.
Annabeth sighs, quiet but firm. “He’s coming back.”
Percy doesn’t respond. Because gods, he wishes he could believe her. But he’s spent too much time losing people to ever truly trust the universe to give him what he wants. Not when it matters most. Not when it’s James. Not when it’s this.
~~~
Percy had stopped bothering with land entirely. The effort of existing there, of pretending he could still function the way he had before, had become too much. The ocean was easier—endless, untethered, cold enough to numb him where nothing else could. For a moment, he’d almost considered staying on land, letting the inevitable come without drawing it out. But—James. He needed to see him one last time. Needed to say goodbye. It was selfish, he knew. But gods, Percy deserved to be selfish just this once.
Still—he didn’t want it like this. Didn’t want to live just long enough to say goodbye. He wanted more. He wanted time. Years. Decades. He wanted to grow old with James, to spend lifetimes together, to sit beside him under golden sunsets with their fingers intertwined, not aching over what was lost, but cherishing what was still there. He wanted to wake up beside him and know—without question—that they had time. That they could have time. That nothing could take that away.
But Percy would never get it. And that truth—gods, that truth hurt. Not like a wound. Not like a loss. Like an inevitability. Like something carved into fate before he ever had the chance to fight against it. And even now, surrounded by the sea, surrounded by the only place that had ever truly been his, the ache in his chest refused to fade.
Because James wasn’t here.
And Percy wasn’t sure if the ocean could ever make up for that. Not really. Not ever.
Percy had never wanted to live for someone before. Sure, he had stayed alive because of people—had endured, had pushed forward out of obligation, out of necessity. But it had never been his choice. It had been a chore, an expectation, something he had to fulfill for everyone else. Never himself. Because thinking of himself—choosing himself—had never felt like an option.
But James…
James made him want to live. Not just survive. Not just fight. But live. Grow old. See the years stretch before him and crave more instead of fearing their weight. He made life something worth holding onto, something that wasn’t just endurance, wasn’t just pushing through the pain, but something good, something rich and full of light.
James was light. He was warmth, laughter, the quiet, steady force that pulled Percy back from the edge every time he threatened to spiral too far. James was love. And gods, Percy wasn’t sure he’d ever had that before—not like this. Not something this profound, this unshakable, this real. James was his everything. And whatever hardships the universe threw at him—whatever storms he had to wade through, whatever battles he had to fight—it didn’t matter. As long as he got through it with James.
Call him sappy, but it was true. Pain meant nothing in comparison to the love waiting on the other side.
Percy just wanted James here. Not halfway across the world, not tangled in some reckless, perilous quest that he never should have been dragged into. Here. With him. It felt like such a simple thing to want—such an ordinary, human desire. But for him? For Percy? It might as well have been impossible.
He clenched his jaw, fingers curling into fists, frustration burning hot beneath his skin. Why did the universe always do this? Why couldn’t he ever have the one thing he truly wanted?
Not a battle, not a prophecy, not another impossible mission. Just—James. Safe. Here. The house was too empty without him. The silence pressed too deep, too heavy, dragging at Percy’s chest, curling into the spaces between his ribs like something meant to suffocate him. He needed him back. Needed his voice, his warmth, the quiet way he filled a room without even realizing it, without trying, just existing and making the world feel less unbearable.
But he wasn’t here. He was off doing what heroes did—risking his life, throwing himself into danger, all because Apollo had spun some tale, had dangled Percy’s well-being like bait. Percy exhaled sharply, anger curling in his gut. James shouldn’t have had to go. He shouldn’t have had to make that choice.
But he had.
And gods, Percy hated that he had. Hated that his own helplessness had turned into James’s burden. Hated that once again, he was left grasping at nothing, wishing for something the universe would never let him have. Because he never got what he wanted.
Not really.
Not when it mattered most. Not when it was him. Not when it was James. Not when it was everything.
Notes:
Don't worry, more of Bucky's quest will be explained next chapter. It might take a bit to come out though because I have next to nothing of it written and I also don't know how to write it.
The reason I haven't been giving Percy Pov all that much: he is genuinely kinda obsessed with Bucky.
When you think of Dionysus, think the Spiral from the Magnus Archives. That’s where some of my inspiration for him comes from. Appearance wise at least. Something so wild it isn’t possible to describe properly and is painful to behold.
Percy is barely holding onto his mortality and it shows. He’s struggling with that fact.
Percy: why the FUCK would you take away the one good thing in my life?! I’m going to fucking KILL YOU—
Apollo: Choking on his own blood.
Dionysus: OKAY TIME FOR ME TO INTERVENEIf you have any ideas, story or art wise, let me know! I love to see them!
Chapter 5: Chapter four: Oh, you fool, there are rules, I am coming for you
Notes:
Title from The Yawning Grave by Lord Huron
FINALLY RAHHH FINALLY THIS TOOK ME FOR FUCKING EVER
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Questing alone was unheard of—an unspoken law woven into the very fabric of camp traditions, reinforced by cautionary tales and the grim fate of those who had dared to try. But Dionysus dismissed such concerns with a lazy wave of his hand, claiming he was an exception. Rules were flexible, subjective things when it came to Bucky, shifting like mist at his convenience. He wasn’t a Demigod camper, bound by curfews and cautious planning—he was an adult. That distinction, however flimsy it appeared to the wary, granted him privileges others could never dream of.
The camp's laws bent in his presence, like reeds in the wind. No one was foolish enough to challenge Dionysus on what he allowed Bucky to do. After all, he was Dionysus—he did as he pleased. That alone was reason enough to grant Bucky passage, to turn a blind eye and let him wander where others were forbidden.
The fact that Bucky—a mortal, in the most fragile, breakable sense of the word—was about to embark on a quest was more than just unsettling. It was borderline terrifying. He wasn’t a child of Olympus, wasn’t granted the favor of the gods or the protection of ichor running through his veins. He was just flesh and bone, a man who had spent a lifetime surviving impossible odds but still understood that quests weren’t battles. They were something worse.
He’d heard the stories. Knew what quests could do to a person. They weren’t simple missions with clear objectives and triumphant endings—they changed people, broke them, remade them in ways they hadn’t asked for. And if someone was underprepared, if the Fates so much as tilted their thread in the wrong direction, a quest could easily mean death. Bucky had a feeling his super soldier serum wasn’t going to be much help against fate. There were things in this world stronger than steel-reinforced bones and enhanced reflexes. Ancient, untouchable forces that no amount of training could outmaneuver.
But Percy was worth it. More than worth it. He had become something solid, something undeniable in Bucky’s life—like an anchor in deep water, tethering him to something steady, something that made the risk feel like it wasn’t just reckless, but necessary. If Percy needed him, there wasn’t a choice to be made. There was only forward.
The decision had been made long before Bucky set foot in Camp Half-Blood.
It wasn’t a fleeting impulse, or one born out of reckless determination. It was something heavier—something inevitable. The kind of choice that settled deep in the bones, refusing to be uprooted no matter how many warnings or well-meaning cautions were thrown his way. He had known, the second Percy asked, that he wouldn’t say no.
There was no convenient excuse to hide behind. No strategic retreat, no measured delay under the guise of logic. It was happening, and Bucky had already accepted that he’d see it through to the end, whatever that looked like.
Bucky stood at the threshold of the cabin, shoulders squared, jaw tight—like he was bracing for a lecture he’d already decided to ignore. The air was thick with the scent of crushed grapes and old wood, the lingering remnants of Dionysus' ever-present goblet resting beside him. The god sat reclined, a practiced air of disinterest draped over him, but his gaze was sharp, cutting through the dim light with an intensity that felt wholly unlike the usual detached irritation he reserved for camp affairs.
"You actually intend to do this," Dionysus said, not quite a question, not quite an accusation.
Bucky nodded once. He had already accepted the risks, the uncertainty, the fact that he was walking into something that could shape him—or ruin him—in ways he hadn’t fully grasped yet. But it didn’t matter.
Dionysus exhaled heavily, shifting his grip on the goblet. “And there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”
“Not a thing.”
The silence stretched, settling into something weighty between them. The god studied him for a moment longer, then sat forward, setting his goblet aside with deliberate slowness. Dionysus watched Bucky carefully, his gaze heavy, filled with something deeper than the usual disinterest he typically displayed. There was scrutiny in his stare—something akin to warning, maybe even reluctant concern.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” Dionysus asked, his voice lacking its usual lazy drawl. This wasn’t a test. It was a final checkpoint, one last opportunity to turn back.
Bucky didn’t hesitate. His nod was firm, unwavering. “Even if I wasn’t, I’d still go anyway.”
A quiet sigh slipped past Dionysus’ lips, like he had expected that answer but still held some vague hope that he wouldn’t hear it. He adjusted the grip on his wine goblet, fingers tightening around the stem.
“This is dangerous,” he said, more solemn than before, his expression sharp with something unspoken. “You might die.”
“I know.” Bucky met his gaze without flinching. “You’ve said before.”
Dionysus studied him a moment longer, his expression unreadable, searching for something in Bucky’s resolve that wasn’t going to crack. When he found nothing—not fear, not doubt, only quiet certainty—he exhaled.
“Okay…”
It was barely more than a breath, a resigned murmur to the Fates. He rolled his shoulders, took one more measured sip of his wine, then flicked his wrist. A flash of golden light split the air between them, momentarily illuminating the dim space before dissipating just as quickly. When the light faded, two weapons rested in Dionysus’ palm—a knife and a spear, both forged from celestial bronze, their polished surfaces catching the flickering torchlight.
He held them out to Bucky, his gaze heavy. “Then take these.”
There was something unspoken in his tone—an acknowledgement, perhaps. A silent concession that if Bucky was truly going to walk into the heart of danger, then at least he wouldn’t do it empty-handed.
Bucky slung the spear over his shoulder in one fluid motion, its weight unfamiliar but solid, then secured the knife to the small of his back with practiced efficiency. He barely had time to adjust to the feel of the weapons before Dionysus spoke again.
“There’s someone waiting for you outside,” the god muttered, his gaze lingering on Bucky for a beat longer than expected.
Bucky glanced up, brows furrowing. “Who?”
Dionysus simply waved a hand toward the door, his attention already drifting back toward his goblet, as if the matter was no longer his concern. As if the answer to Bucky’s question would make itself known soon enough.
The midday sun bore down on the camp, casting sharp shadows along the worn dirt paths and reflecting off the celestial bronze of the weapons slung across Bucky’s back. The scent of pine hung heavy in the air, carried by the occasional breeze that did little to break the warmth settling over everything.
Hermes stood just outside the cabin, his stance casual, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket while the other ran absentmindedly along the hilt of a dagger at his hip. His winged sandals hovered inches off the ground, making it hard to tell whether he was actually standing or merely waiting out of courtesy. The god was all sharp angles and knowing glances, his golden eyes glinting under the daylight with a quiet amusement.
“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” Hermes said, tilting his head slightly. “Going off alone? Bold move.”
Bucky adjusted the grip on his spear, feeling the weight of it settle against his back. He wasn’t in the mood for riddles or cryptic warnings—he had already made his decision. “I assume you’re not just here to admire my determination.”
Hermes smirked, shaking his head. “Nope. I’ve got something for you.” His grin widens, sharp, dangerous. “If you would follow me.”
The camp was alive with the sounds of midday—voices carrying across the training fields, the rhythmic clash of weapons, the distant hum of waves rolling against the shore. But as Bucky followed Hermes down the worn path leading to the docks, a different kind of quiet settled over the space between them. Not uneasy silence, but something expectant, charged with an energy that wasn’t entirely Hermes’ own.
The god moved with his usual ease, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. He didn’t offer explanations, didn’t comment on the weight of the spear strapped across Bucky’s back or the tension bracing his stance. He just walked—leading, but not guiding, like whatever waited ahead was something Bucky was simply meant to find.
The moment they reached the dock, Bucky felt it.
The air shifted, thick with salt and something deeper, something ancient. The water beyond shimmered, its surface unnaturally smooth despite the push of the wind. Nestled against the edge of the dock, tethered only by a single rope, was a vessel unlike any of the camp’s usual boats—sleek and sturdy, its polished wood gleaming under the midday sun, its presence at odds with everything around it. It hadn’t been built for leisure or simple travel. It had been placed here—waiting.
Bucky eyed Hermes, searching for some indication of what exactly he was looking at.
Hermes merely smirked, the corners of his mouth tugging upward with something just shy of amusement. “It’s yours,” he said simply, as if that answered every unspoken question lingering between them.
Bucky frowned, glancing back at the boat. “And where, exactly, did it come from?”
Hermes shrugged, nonchalant, but there was something deliberate about the way he didn’t answer. Something pointed in the way he simply rested a hand against one of the dock’s wooden posts, his golden eyes glinting.
The wind shifted again, the waves lapping against the hull with a rhythm that felt more like acknowledgment than coincidence.
Bucky didn’t need Hermes to say it outright. He already knew.
It wasn’t just any boat. It wasn’t just placed there by chance. The presence lingering in the air—the weight pressing against his chest, the unmistakable pulse in the water—it could only mean one thing. It was familiar, feeling the same way Percy’s house felt.
Poseidon. A gift, whether he called it that or not.
Hermes stepped onto the dock with an easy bounce in his stride, clearly enjoying the moment far more than Bucky was. He gestured broadly toward the boat, his ever present grin on his face.
“Alright, soldier, here’s your noble steed,” he declared, as if presenting a prize horse instead of a vessel imbued with godly influence.
Bucky shot him a dry look. “That’s not reassuring.”
Hermes chuckled, leaning against one of the dock posts, utterly unconcerned. “Relax, it’s not gonna sink on you. Probably.” He tilted his head, pretending to reconsider. “Well, unless you fight it too much. That’d be a shame. You’d be the first mortal to lose a divine boat to stubbornness.”
Bucky glanced at the vessel again, its polished wood gleaming under the sun. The waves lapped against its sides with a rhythm that felt less like water movement and more like expectation—like the boat was already anticipating the journey ahead, waiting for him to step aboard.
“You’re saying I just… let it go with the flow?” Bucky asked skeptically.
“Exactly!” Hermes clapped his hands together, clearly pleased. “See, you’re catching on. No need to steer like a mortal idiot—this thing knows where it’s going. You? You just hang on and try not to mess with the course.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You’re telling me it moves on its own?”
Hermes grinned, utterly unfazed. “Oh yeah. Fast, too. You’ll be gliding across the water before you know it. Trust me, this thing runs better than half the chariots up on Olympus.”
Bucky exhaled, sizing up the boat again. The divine presence clung to it like mist over the water, unseen but undeniably felt. He had trusted stranger things before. He supposed this wasn’t the worst of them.
Hermes gave a dramatic bow toward the vessel. “All aboard. Try not to look too tense—you’ll ruin the aesthetic.”
Bucky huffed, shaking his head, but stepped toward the boat anyway.
~~~
Bucky hated boats.
He loved the sea—loved the weight of a book in his hands as he lay sprawled on the shore, the sound of waves lapping at the sand like some ancient lullaby. He loved watching Percy disappear beneath the surf, loved the way the sunlight fractured against the water when he surfaced again, all wild curls and laughter. And on rare occasions, when Percy got his way, Bucky even loved the sea when it swallowed him whole—when salt clung to his lips, when strong hands dragged him under and he surrendered, momentarily weightless in its depths.
But boats? No. Boats made him feel unsteady, like he had no command over his own limbs, no claim to balance or control. He hated the way they pitched with the tide, the way they rattled and groaned like something barely holding together. He hated the way his stomach twisted with the constant, treacherous sway, hated the knowledge that if he went overboard, it wouldn’t be by choice.
There was a reason he hadn’t joined the Navy. Not that it had mattered, in the end. The Army had taken him anyway.
Bucky wished he flew.
The boat rocked beneath him with a rhythm he couldn’t predict, the deck lurching just enough to keep him on edge, forcing him to brace himself against the railing as though the sea had decided to toy with him personally. Poseidon’s assistant did their best, but Bucky still felt like a damn newborn fawn—unsteady, all awkward limbs and misplaced gravity.
Flying would be better. Flying would be solid, controlled, predictable. But no, that wasn’t an option. Zeus had his grudges, and unfortunately, Percy was one of them—a silent vendetta the old god maintained for the sake of appearances, too prideful to admit that, beneath all the bluster, he actually liked his nephew. Percy found it hilarious, of course. Said it was the funniest thing in the world, watching Olympus bend over backward to pretend they weren’t quietly impressed by him.
Bucky could hear his voice now, half-laughing, half-mocking, making some joke about Zeus throwing a tantrum the moment he got near the sky. And damn, he missed that.
He missed the easy confidence Percy carried, the way he could turn any miserable situation into something bearable with nothing more than his presence—like he could trick the world into steadying itself just because he decided it should. If Percy were here, this boat ride would’ve been tolerable. Hell, it might’ve even been fun. He’d probably be standing beside Bucky, arms crossed, smirking like he had some great, terrible idea, like he was ready to do something impulsive just to see what happened.
But he wasn’t here. Bucky clenched his jaw, staring out at the rolling horizon. The boat pitched again, and he hated the way it reminded him of everything he was missing.
The boat lurched violently, pitching against the waves like it had no regard for stability. Bucky swore under his breath as his balance betrayed him, stumbling sideways before his fingers found purchase on the railing, gripping hard enough that his knuckles ached. The salt-heavy wind stung at his face, whipping his hair into a mess, and the sea below churned, restless, endless—an expanse of rolling water that offered no comfort, only the promise of what lay beneath.
He hated this. The constant motion, the way the deck refused to stay still, how his muscles tensed before every inevitable sway. If he had to endure this miserable ride, at least there was food—an endless supply of it, apparently, which was the only redeeming factor of this cursed vessel. That, and the fact that it steered itself, which he supposed was something.
Gods. He really missed Percy.
How many times could he think that before he started annoying himself? Probably too many to count, but apparently not enough to stop. It was like his mind refused to focus on anything else, circling back to the same thought over and over again, like a needle stuck on a scratched record—he missed Percy.
The solitude was gnawing at him, unraveling his patience thread by thread. He was not built for solitary boat life. He had never been the kind to sit idle, but this—this was something worse. He was so bored it felt like a physical ache, a tension coiled beneath his skin, making him restless, irritable. He almost wished for something to happen, some kind of disruption just to break the monotony, just to shake him out of this slow, suffocating crawl toward nothingness.
And he didn’t even have ADHD. Percy did. That thought struck him like a revelation—Percy would’ve lost his mind on this boat. Except, no, that wasn’t quite right. Percy wouldn’t have let himself lose his mind. He would’ve swum to Greece by now, probably laughing about it, probably saying something absurd like, “It’s not that far,” before diving headfirst into the sea like it was nothing.
Bucky exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. How many times could he mention Percy to himself in one sentence? Maybe Annabeth was onto something—maybe he really did need a life outside of their little house on the beach.
Except… he didn’t want one.
Their life was good—was home. The quiet rhythm of waves against the shore, the late nights with Percy and the ridiculous hellhound sprawling across their feet, the cat curled in some sun-warmed spot like it owned the world. A cute little family, Leo had called them, all smug grin and teasing lilt.
Bucky really was too far gone.
A single day without Percy, and already he was restless—already he felt like a caged animal, pacing the cramped quarters of the boat like movement alone could silence the gnawing impatience under his skin. The walls felt too close, the open sea too wide, and the absence of Percy too sharp, too obvious, like something had been carved out of him and left raw in its wake.
A week. Gods, he had at least a week of this before he could go home. He wasn’t sure he’d survive.
But this wasn’t about him.
This was for Percy. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remember that, to hold onto that truth like an anchor. This quest is for Percy. If he didn’t do this, Percy would waste away—would die of sleep deprivation, trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t wake from, worn down to nothing by some relentless, cruel curse. Bucky had to do this. He had to get the medicine, had to find whatever ancient remedy could cut through the gods’ interference and free Percy from their grasp.
One week. He could survive one week away from Percy if it meant he got to be with him for the rest of his life.
And that—that was the thought that kept him moving, kept him from ripping apart the boat plank by plank just for the sake of something to do. Because the alternative—losing Percy—was unthinkable.
~~~
The boat wasn’t luxurious—far from it. It was small, barely large enough to be called a proper vessel, but functional. The kind of thing built for utility rather than comfort.
Above deck, the space was cramped, the wooden planks slightly warped from exposure to sun and salt, though still sturdy enough to hold against the waves. The railings were solid, the mast rising sharply against the sky, ropes wound tightly around the base where the sails adjusted themselves, guided by whatever unseen force steered the boat. Despite its size, it was well-kept, every part of it showing signs of careful maintenance—even if it wasn’t built for leisure.
The deck had just enough room to move around, but there wasn’t much privacy, no space to pace properly, nowhere to retreat if the endless horizon ever became too much. The wind was a constant presence, tangling in Bucky’s hair, carrying the scent of salt and deepwater stillness.
Below deck was better, though still confined. The space was narrow but organized, shelves lining the walls, packed full of supplies. Food, endless in quantity—bread, dried meats, fresh fruit that never seemed to rot, bags of rice and beans carefully stacked in wooden crates. Water, stored in thick barrels, replenishing itself the moment any was taken, the kind of magic that made survival easy, if nothing else.
There were blankets, too—thick, durable, enough to stave off the chill when the wind became too sharp. Tarps and extra rope, stored neatly in the back corner, meant for emergencies, though Bucky doubted he’d need them unless the boat decided to start falling apart.
A single cot sat in the corner, small, stiff, barely enough for a proper night’s sleep, but better than the hard deck. The lanterns along the walls flickered with steady golden light, illuminating the space without smoke, without heat, never needing fuel.
The boat was efficient, practical, and entirely self-sustaining—a vessel designed to carry him exactly where he needed to go, with no regard for anything else.
It was survival. Not comfort. Bucky had dealt with worse.
Bucky lay on the narrow cot below deck, staring up at the wooden beams above him. The lanterns cast a dim, flickering glow, their light soft enough to be soothing but not enough to drown out the creeping restlessness in his chest. He shifted, adjusting the blanket tangled around his legs, pressing his head deeper into the stiff pillow.
Sleep refused to come.
The boat swayed gently, its motion constant, unrelenting—not dangerous, just different. Just enough to keep his body instinctively on edge, like it knew something was wrong, even if logic told him he was safe. The quiet creak of the hull, the muffled rush of waves outside, the steady pull of the tide—it all pressed against him, reminding him, again and again, that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
He tried to settle, tried to force his mind into something else—anything but the present. Percy. Their home. The rhythmic wash of waves against the shore, not the boat, just the ocean outside the window. The soft breeze rolling in, curling against his skin, not the open deck, just the night air slipping through the cracks in their walls. The bed beneath him—firm, familiar, the scent of salt and warmth clinging to the blankets—not this cramped cot, not this rocking, shifting thing that refused to stay still.
For a moment, just a moment, he could almost believe it.
Almost.
And eventually, exhaustion won out. Eventually, Bucky managed to fall asleep.
It wasn’t easy. The boat was a constant presence beneath him, shifting unpredictably, reminding him with every subtle sway that he wasn’t home. He had to convince himself—force his mind into familiarity, shape the alien sensations into something comfortable.
He had to keep reminding himself: The rhythmic lapping of waves against the hull? No, not the restless sea—just the ocean outside his window, just the gentle sound that had lulled him to sleep a thousand times before. The soft breeze rolling over him, tugging at his hair and ghosting across his skin? Not an open deck beneath an endless sky—just the night air sneaking through a cracked window, curling into his room like something familiar, like something safe.
If he focused hard enough, if he held onto the illusion with enough conviction, he could almost believe it. He could almost pretend that when he opened his eyes, he’d be back in their house on the beach—Percy breathing slow beside him, the scent of salt and warmth and home settled into the walls.
It wasn’t real.
But it was enough.
And eventually, exhaustion won out, and Bucky drifted into sleep.
~~~
Bucky stirred slowly, pulled from the hazy edge of sleep by a creeping unease.
Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, exactly—just that the wind felt sharper, more hostile, carrying a bite that hadn’t been there before. The air had a charged quality to it, thick with the scent of ozone, sharp and electric, like the sky itself was holding its breath before the storm broke.
He cracked his eyes open, and immediately regretted it. The wind roared against his skin, a brutal force that cut through the lingering warmth of sleep. And above him—around him—shadows twisted, churning.
Storm spirits. Writhing masses of condensed squall, their bodies barely distinguishable from the chaos of the elements themselves—wild, untamed things, formed from roiling clouds and streaks of crackling energy. Their eyes burned like distant lightning, flickering in and out of existence, their forms shifting, never solid, never steady. They swirled, coiled, tore at the wind around them, unraveling the peaceful night into turbulence.
Bucky barely had time to think what the fuck before they descended.
The storm spirits struck like lightning—fast, merciless, a blur of howling wind and flashing eyes. The boat pitched violently beneath Bucky’s feet as he barely had time to roll aside, avoiding the first spirit’s strike by inches. The creature hissed, its form writhing like a cyclone given life, wisps of crackling energy threading through the roaring gusts of its body.
Bucky didn’t wait. He couldn’t afford to.
He lunged forward, spear in hand, driving the weapon toward the swirling mass. The tip sliced through the storm’s body, disrupting its form, scattering pieces of its essence in a burst of wind—but the spirit reformed, surging toward him like a vengeance-fueled hurricane.
Shit.
The second spirit was already closing in from his left, and Bucky barely had time to twist away, shoving forward with his knife. It was like trying to cut through a tornado—his blade passed through, but the spirit shivered, reassembling itself instantly, eyes sparking with cruel amusement.
Then the third spirit struck. The force of the blow sent Bucky sprawling across the deck, his back slamming hard against the wood. Wind roared in his ears, rattling the ship’s framework, pressing against his ribs like a thousand invisible hands crushing down. The spirit hovered over him, a twisting column of fury, its form condensing, tightening, readying itself for a final strike—
A wall of seawater surged from the depths, monstrous in its power, crashing into the spirit like a hammer from the gods. The creature screeched, its form breaking apart under the sheer force of Poseidon’s wrath, torn from the air and sent spiraling into the ocean.
Bucky gasped, vision swimming. Holy shit.
The other two spirits hesitated, their forms flickering, uncertainty rippling through their chaotic mass. But Bucky wasn’t about to give them time to rethink their odds. He pushed off the deck, gripping his spear tighter. Time to finish this.
He lunged, spear in hand, driving forward with everything he had. The first spirit shrieked as the weapon struck true, its form unraveling in the wake of his assault—wind twisting violently, its essence scattering into the night air before it could pull itself back together.
One down.
The second spirit lashed out. A vortex of wind and biting electricity tore toward Bucky, ripping across the deck, fast enough that he barely had time to throw himself aside. Too slow. The force clipped his shoulder, the shock rattling his bones, stealing his breath as he stumbled, he barely caught himself. He rolled onto his knee, knife in his free hand, ignoring the way the world tipped dangerously for a moment. The spirit surged toward him like a living tempest, its crackling form wild, erratic—unstable.
He used that. With a snarl, he shifted his weight, dodged at the last second, twisting as he brought his knife upward in a sharp arc. The spirit collided with the blade, and though it wasn’t enough to kill it outright, the disruption sent it spiraling, shrieking as it lost control for a fraction of a second.
A fraction of a second was all Bucky needed. He drove his spear through its center, putting everything into the strike. The spirit convulsed, its form scattering like shredded storm clouds, dissipating into nothingness.
Two down.
The final spirit hesitated. Bucky could feel it—the uncertainty, the lingering doubt in its movements, the wariness curling through its form now that it was the last one left. Good. Bucky bared his teeth, blood thrumming in his ears. His grip tightened on his spear as he took a single step forward, just enough to make the spirit retreat slightly. Just enough to show that it was afraid.
Bucky tightened his grip on his spear, adrenaline still thrumming sharp in his veins. The storm spirit whirled, testing the air, searching for an opening. Bucky didn’t give it one. He surged forward, feinting left before twisting sharply to the right, forcing the spirit to overcommit its movement.
It took the bait.
Lightning crackled through its form as it lunged, the wind around it shrieking with its force—but Bucky was ready. He ducked, pivoting on instinct, and slammed his knife into the swirling center of its body. The blade met resistance—only for a second. Then the spirit’s form spasmed, flickering wildly, struggling to reassemble itself.
Bucky didn’t let it.
He drove his spear into the core of the storm, every ounce of force behind the strike. The spirit let out a piercing, furious screech—the sound rattled his bones, echoed across the deck like a dying hurricane. But then—it broke.
The wind tore apart, scattering like shredded storm clouds. The last remnants of lightning fizzled into the sky.
Gone.
Bucky exhaled sharply, heart hammering, hands aching from the force of his grip. The sea rocked beneath him, steadier now—quieter. Poseidon had withdrawn, the god’s presence fading into the waves, leaving nothing but the aftermath of the fight.
Bucky barely had time to process it before exhaustion hit, settling into his limbs like a weight. But he was alive. He had handled it. And now, all he had to do was get through the rest of this damn boat ride. That thought almost made him miss the storm spirits.
~~~
Land was finally in sight. It was distant—still blurred by the haze of the horizon—but unmistakable. A port city near Athens, known as the gateway to the sea. Piraeus. The name surfaced in his mind like an unspoken whisper, a quiet offering from someone beyond him. Poseidon, most likely. Bucky exhaled, sending a silent thanks his way—not just for the knowledge but for getting him this far, for ensuring the boat had done what it was supposed to do.
Still, as the shoreline crept closer, too slow, far too slow, Bucky couldn’t help but wish the boat would move faster.
It controlled itself, guided by whatever unseen forces had set it on this course, but gods, couldn’t it hurry up? Every inch forward felt like a drawn-out eternity, the rhythm of the waves suddenly too gentle, too steady, as if the sea itself was deliberately dragging out the moment, stretching time just to test his patience. The distant city loomed, its buildings clustering along the waterfront, shadowed by the hills beyond—but still out of reach. Still not close enough to put solid ground beneath his feet.
As Bucky nears the port, just when the anticipation of finally stepping onto solid ground begins to settle in his bones, the sea decides it isn’t done with him yet.
The water shifts beneath the boat—not a storm this time, not an obvious threat—but something unnatural. A ripple that isn’t just the current, a disturbance that feels deliberate. Bucky stiffens, hand instinctively reaching for his knife as he scans the horizon. Just beneath the surface, something moves—dark, twisting, cutting through the water like a shadow given life. It’s fast, too fast to be ordinary, and when it rises just enough to catch the light, Bucky’s breath stalls.
A sea serpent. Not one of Poseidon’s creatures, no. This one is different—hostile, ancient, the kind of thing that lurks in myth but never stays buried for long. Its scales gleam like wet obsidian, shifting as it coils beneath the surface, watching, waiting. It knows Bucky is alone. It knows the boat has no crew, no protection beyond whatever weapons Bucky carries.
And then it strikes. The boat shudders violently as the serpent rams its side, nearly knocking Bucky off his feet. He barely manages to stay upright, gripping the railing as the creature rears up, its head rising above the waves, eyes burning with deep, unnatural hunger.
He has no backup. No divine intervention. Just himself. Just fantastic, isn’t it.
The serpent lash out, a violent whip of its tail. The boat lurched, the force of the impact nearly sending Bucky sprawling. He barely managed to keep his footing, spear gripped tight, jaw clenched against the wild rush of wind and sea spray. The creature coiled beneath the surface, dark and massive, its obsidian scales cutting through the waves like something unnatural—something ancient.
Then it rose, its monstrous head breaching the water, eyes gleaming with cold, predatory hunger. Bucky barely had time to react before the serpent lunged—he twisted away, just avoiding its snapping jaws, feeling the wind of its strike lash against his face. He countered, driving forward, spear aimed for the vulnerable flesh beneath its jaw—but the beast was too fast. It reared back, dodging, then whipped its tail violently across the deck.
Bucky didn’t have time to brace. The impact hit like a battering ram, slamming into his side, sending him airborne before he could even register what was happening. And then he was falling—straight into the sea. Cold, crushing water swallowed him whole. The force of his landing dragged him deep, salt burning in his throat as he fought against the sudden disorienting pull. The serpent followed, diving after him, its massive form slicing through the currents.
Bucky had seconds. His lungs screamed as he forced himself to move, kicking upward with everything he had. Too slow. The serpent twisted, its massive body circling him, trapping him in a spiral of currents, dragging him deeper with its sheer presence alone. He gritted his teeth against the burning in his chest, forcing his grip tighter around his knife. The serpent reared back, preparing to strike—Bucky met it first.
He slashed, blade cutting through the water, slicing deep into the creature’s eye. The sea shuddered as the serpent screamed, its pained roar vibrating through the depths. It lashed out wildly, its movements erratic now, no longer calculated—Bucky used that. He kicked upward, forcing himself toward the surface, breaking free in a violent, gasping rush of air.
The boat was still there, thank the gods, drifting just close enough for him to reach. With a final surge of strength, he grabbed onto the railing, hauled himself up, dragging his drenched, aching body back onto the deck.
The serpent wasn’t done. Annoying.
It thrashed, furious now, its wounded eye flickering with shattered electricity, its body twisting with raw vengeance. Bucky didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his spear with his left hand—his right arm useless now, bleeding freely from the gash he'd taken earlier, he couldn’t remember when—but he pushed forward anyway.
The creature lunged—Bucky met it, driving the spear upward, straight into the soft, wounded flesh beneath its jaw. This time, he didn’t miss. The force of his strike shattered through bone, through muscle, through everything keeping the serpent whole. Its body convulsed, waves crashing violently against the boat, the air thick with the scent of ozone and blood and sea spray—
And then, at last—it fell. The massive form twisted, collapsed, and sank beneath the waves, vanishing into the dark abyss below. Bucky staggered, breathing hard, aching everywhere. But he was alive. Somehow. How the fuck did he do that?
Just ahead, the port city loomed—close enough now that he could finally, finally dock.
~~~
The ship moved with an eerie precision, its mechanisms whirring and groaning as it secured itself against the dock. Ropes coiled and slithered like living things, looping around the mooring posts with practiced ease. The anchor dropped with a heavy, resounding splash, the chain rattling as it settled into place. All of it happened without the slightest need for human intervention—a small mercy, given Bucky’s current predicament.
With a sharp exhale, he shrugged off his ruined jacket, the fabric stiff with salt and darkened with blood. Tearing away the sleeve of his shirt, he revealed the mess beneath—his arm was a patchwork of torn flesh and angry red, the wound jagged and uneven as if the serpent had hesitated in its cruelty before sinking deep. It wasn’t clean, not by any means. But Bucky had seen worse. He could work with this.
He knelt on the worn wooden planks, fishing his backpack from beneath the deck, his movements measured despite the pain radiating from his injury. Water sloshed as he uncapped the bottle, pouring it over the wound with practiced efficiency, biting back a hiss as the sting flared through his nerves. Bandages, a needle, thread—his fingers found each item with the precision of habit. The task ahead was unpleasant, but necessary. He had no choice but to endure.
He had stitched himself up more times than he could count—both as the soldier and as the man he was now. The muscle memory was ingrained, his hands moving with practiced efficiency, each motion steady despite the sting of raw flesh beneath his fingers. He would even go as far as to say he was good at it, though that was hardly a skill one aspired to master. It was just survival.
Still, the metal arm made the task more difficult than it needed to be. Precision was everything, and there was an undeniable clumsiness in the way the cold, unyielding fingers grasped the delicate needle. It was too small, too flimsy, compared to the relentless strength of steel. But there was no room for frustration. He adjusted, compensating for the lack of finesse with sheer determination.
Biting down on the ragged edge of his torn-up jacket, he pushed the needle through his skin, the sensation sharp and immediate. The thread tugged against the torn edges of his flesh, pulling them together with each careful movement. He worked methodically, pressing through the pain, pulling and tightening, sealing the wound as best as he could. His breath was controlled, measured, each exhale dampening the fabric clenched between his teeth. The pain was just another thing to endure—another thing to overcome. And he had gotten very good at that.
Bucky finished tying off the last of the stitches, his fingers deftly securing the knot before cutting the thread. The wound was closed—rough, but serviceable. He poured the remaining water over his arm, washing away the excess blood, then wrapped it tightly in clean bandages. The pain still radiated through the limb, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, but he could ignore it. He had ignored worse.
He gathered his supplies, tucking the needle and thread back into his pack before shrugging it over his good shoulder. His jacket was beyond saving—a ruined thing of torn fabric and blood-soaked leather—but he draped it over his arm anyway, an absent habit more than anything. With a steadying breath, he moved toward the edge of the deck, boots thudding against the worn wooden planks.
The city stretched beyond the docks in layers of stone and light, the hum of life weaving through its streets. Piraeus pulsed with movement—sailors unloading goods, travelers bargaining in hurried Greek, the scent of salt and roasted meat thick in the air. The sea was a constant presence, pressing against the port, shimmering beneath the midday sun.
Bucky steps off the boat, the solid weight of the dock beneath his boots feeling more like an end than an arrival. The moment his feet leave the wooden planks, the vessel shudders—then, without warning, it sinks, dragged into the depths with a quiet finality, vanishing beneath the waves like it had never existed at all. The sea does not churn. It does not resist. It simply takes, swallowing the boat into its depths with eerie ease, as though it had never been meant to linger in the world beyond its purpose.
Bucky stares, caught between disbelief and resignation, the salty breeze cooling the flush of frustration creeping up his neck. How the hell was he supposed to get back now? But that—that was a problem for future Bucky. With a quiet exhale, he turns, stepping into the crowd, slipping between bodies with practiced ease. His movements are smooth, effortless—a skill honed over years of necessity, learned in streets far removed from these. He doesn’t force himself to disappear; he simply knows how not to be noticed.
The air hums with voices, Greek rolling off tongues like song, merchants shouting their wares, tourists murmuring in fragmented English, the scent of sun-warmed stone mixing with the salty brine of the sea. The energy here is alive, pressing in from all sides, a stark contrast to the quiet weight curling at the back of his mind.
The Fates were here. Somewhere. In the far-reaching lands of Greece, where gods had walked and myths had never truly faded, they watched—waiting, weaving, deciding. And Bucky knew, without seeing them, without hearing them, that they had already seen him. Already known him. Already begun to tighten the strings around whatever came next.
Piraeus was alive in a way few places were—a city that thrived at the crossroads of trade and travel, where the sea bled into the streets and every alleyway hummed with motion. The air was thick with salt and the scent of fresh bread, the mingling aromas of open-air tavernas spilling out onto the cobbled walkways. Sunlight glinted off the whitewashed walls of homes stacked along the hillsides, their balconies bursting with vines and flowers, a riot of bougainvillea spilling magenta and violet over the stone.
The port itself was a world unto itself—sailors shouting as they unloaded crates of olives, fish, and fine linens; vendors stationed beneath striped awnings, hawking everything from silver jewelry to amphorae painted with scenes of gods and heroes. The hum of conversation twisted through the air, a blend of Greek and scattered tongues from travelers passing through.
Beyond the docks, the city unfurled in layers of history and life. Narrow streets wove between limestone buildings, leading to sun-drenched courtyards where locals gathered beneath the shade of olive trees, sipping thick coffee from delicate cups. Children darted between their elders, laughter ringing in the air as they chased one another through the labyrinthine alleyways. A man hunched over a chessboard outside a café, his opponent leaning back with a wry smirk, their game punctuated by murmured curses and triumphant taps of the pieces.
Everywhere, the pulse of Piraeus was unmistakable—bustling and bright, a city teeming with stories.
Bucky had no clear direction—no cryptic note, no ancient map marking his destination with a bold red ‘X.’ Just the name of the country and the knowledge that the Fates were somewhere within it, tangled in its streets like threads woven into a tapestry. So, he did what he always did when he had nothing to go on: he moved forward.
He wandered through Piraeus, letting the city guide him. The scent of roasting lamb and fresh bread drew him toward a bustling marketplace, where vendors called out their wares in rapid, melodic Greek. He handed over a few crumpled bills for a warm loaf and a bottle of water, tearing into the bread as he walked, the salt of the sea mixing with the crisp bite of freshly baked crust. His hunger dulled as he ate, though the exhaustion from the journey still pressed heavy against his shoulders.
At some point, he ducked into a small, dimly lit bathroom—one he found tucked behind a café, its cracked mirror fogged at the edges. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting harsh illumination onto his reflection. He looked rough. Disheveled. The blood had dried in erratic streaks along his forearm, and his shirt hung off him like an afterthought, one sleeve torn away, the other still intact. Not exactly the image of a man people would want to answer questions for.
He sighed, gripping the fabric at his shoulder and ripping the other sleeve off of his shirt in one swift motion. Now it looked deliberate. At least somewhat. He ran a handful of water over his face, scrubbing away the worst of the grime, then worked at the splotches of dried blood, wiping his skin clean as best as he could. The bandages on his arm were fresh enough—tight, secure—but he adjusted them anyway, making them appear less haphazard.
Presentable. Well, as much as he could be.
Bucky barely caught himself as the invisible force tugged at him, his boots scuffing against the cobblestone. It wasn’t a push, wasn’t anything aggressive—but it was undeniable, something deep and pulling, a presence so weighted it nearly unbalanced him. His breath hitched slightly as he instinctively turned toward the café, eyes scanning the outdoor seating.
Then he saw her.
The woman sat with easy grace, her posture relaxed yet commanding, as if the very air bent itself around her existence. Her smile was small but knowing, and she held his gaze without hesitation, as though she had expected him—had been waiting.
And she was beautiful in a way that felt impossible.
Her hair was blacker than midnight, darker than the depths of the ocean—a shade that seemed to swallow light rather than reflect it, cascading down her shoulders in smooth, unbroken waves. It did not shimmer, did not glow, but rather existed in a way that defied nature itself, as if it belonged to something beyond the limitations of the mortal world.
Her eyes were sea-green, but not the soft, familiar kind found in rolling waves. No, they gleamed—sharp as gemstones, catching the morning light in fractured shards, carrying something ancient, something unyielding beneath their surface. They lacked the restless movement of tides, the gentle ebb and flow that might have made her seem more human. Instead, they were fixed, deliberate, as if they saw beyond sight itself.
Her skin was bronzed, rich with color, but there was something unnatural about it. Not simply sun-kissed, not simply touched by the warmth of the earth—but radiant, as if spun from gold itself. It was luminous in a way that skin should not be, carrying an ethereal glow that belonged in temples, in myths, in stories whispered across generations. The lines of her face were cut with precision, sculpted in a way that suggested the hands of something divine had shaped her features with intention, perfect and deliberate.
She reminded him of Percy—almost. But Percy’s presence was fluid, restless, his very being entwined with the sea’s movement. She lacked that untamed energy. Her hair did not float, did not shift as if it existed beneath water’s surface. Her eyes did not shift with color, did not dance between hues like storm-tossed waves. She was also a woman. So…
Bucky felt as though his body was moving independent of his own will, his boots carrying him forward in smooth, unthinking strides, as if some unseen force had seized control and was pulling him directly to her. He wasn’t sure he could stop even if he wanted to.
He had been around Dionysus long enough to recognize the differences—the subtle ways gods and mortals occupied space differently, how they bent the air around them, how even at their most concealed, their presence always felt larger than life. Gods were not simply people with power. They were something else entirely—something too vast, too unnatural, too uncontrollable to ever truly blend in.
And this woman was no exception.
The moment he reached her, the strings that had guided him forward seemed to snap all at once. His legs gave out in a graceless motion, and he dropped onto the chair across from her with a rough exhale, like a marionette suddenly bereft of its puppeteer.
The goddess smiled at him, but there was nothing ordinary about it. It was effortless, elegant—so perfectly measured that it almost felt rehearsed, like it had been crafted for him alone, shaped in such a way as to make him feel both welcome and entirely at her mercy. Her fingers rested on the table with deliberate poise, the gold hue of her skin catching the morning light like polished metal.
The city hummed around them, but in that moment, the world felt unnaturally still. As if nothing else existed beyond this table, beyond her presence.
“Hello, dear,” she greets, her voice like silk—smooth, warm, and carrying an unspoken weight that sent a shiver down Bucky’s spine.
“Hello,” he mumbles, throat dry as he racks his brain, grasping for everything Annabeth and Percy had drilled into him about the gods—their temperaments, their domains, their impossible nature. There were two he knew of who changed their appearance to match those one was drawn to, and the thought of it made his stomach twist. It wasn’t something he wanted to dwell on, not now, not with her looking like—well. Like Percy.
Aphrodite and Eros.
And as soon as the name surfaces in his mind, the realization settles like a stone in his chest. Aphrodite.
“Lady Aphrodite,” he says, stiff, unsure, the title falling awkwardly from his tongue.
She grins, all teeth and amusement, her eyes flashing like sea-glass catching the light.
“I heard through the Grapevine”—her voice lilts playfully, emphasizing the word in a way that makes Bucky inwardly grimace—“that there’s someone on a quest for a demigod I quite like.”
Dionysus. She means Dionysus. “Uh, yes.”
Her hands clap together, delight spilling across her face like sunlight breaking through the clouds. “That’s so sweet of you! If there was ever a grand gesture, going on a quest for your love is certainly one.”
Bucky nearly chokes. “Uh—I—love?” The word lodges itself in his throat, foreign and unwelcome, and he can feel his own discomfort radiating off him in waves. He is very intentionally playing dumb. He knows that. But acknowledging this conversation for what it is—not what it could mean, not what it might imply—is far easier.
Aphrodite sighs, dragging the moment out with exaggerated flair, tilting her head like a frustrated teacher humoring an especially dense student. “You mortals think love is such a tricky thing. You complicate it beyond reason, twist it into something fraught and tangled. It’s not that hard.” She leans forward, resting her chin against her fingers, smile sly and knowing. “You just need to open your eyes.”
She pauses, watching him with sharp amusement, and then her smirk deepens—something slow, something edged in certainty. “Or perhaps,” she continues, voice softer now, almost teasing, “yours are already open. You just haven’t realized it yet.” She taps the table lightly, nails clicking against the surface. “Or maybe… you don’t want to.”
Aphrodite leans in, the air between them seeming to shift, thick with something unspoken, something heavy. Her hand comes to rest lightly on Bucky’s bicep, fingers warm against the fabric of his torn sleeve. There is no urgency in her touch, only certainty—a casual claim of space, as if the very act of placing a hand upon him was simply inevitable.
“Anyway,” she says, her voice smooth and velvety, carrying the weight of countless years disguised beneath effortless charm, “I just wanted to give you some advice.” Her smile lingers, knowing. “I am one of the elder gods, though some seem to want to forget that.” The edge in her tone is subtle but unmistakable, a quiet reminder that her power, her influence, stretches far beyond beauty and romance.
Her fingers tighten just slightly—a shift, a subtle emphasis—as she continues, her gaze unwavering. “I have seen the Fates weave themselves through this world, meddling in mortal and immortal affairs alike for longer than you could possibly comprehend. And I know that you will never find them the way you are looking for them.”
Bucky blinks, his brow furrowing. “What—”
“You cannot look for them.” The words are delivered with the finality of a truth that has always existed, waiting only to be spoken aloud. Her expression softens, but her tone remains resolute, unyielding in its certainty. “Just follow your instincts. Walk. Let your feet guide you, and do not resist where they take you. When the Fates decide that it is time for you to find them, you will find them.”
She tilts her head, studying him as if gauging his reaction. Then, with the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corners of her lips, she adds, “Never sooner. Never later.”
There is no room for argument, no space for doubt. The words settle over him like a decree, final and absolute, like the inevitability of gravity, like the certainty of the tides. He exhales slowly, processing, and Aphrodite watches, patient, radiant, waiting for him to understand.
“Now!” Aphrodite chirps, the lightness in her voice cutting through the lingering weight of their conversation like a blade through silk. The shift is so sudden, so effortless, that it takes Bucky a half-second to adjust, his mind still tangled in the gravity of her words.
With a flourish, she produces a gift bag—dark gray and deep blue, the colors rich and velvety beneath the morning light—and sets it in front of him with deliberate precision. The bag itself isn’t ostentatious, but there’s a weight to it, a presence that hints at something far more significant than mere fabric and ribbon.
“As much as you look practically divine in a tank top, with your arms fully on display…” Aphrodite’s gaze flickers over him, her lips curving into a slow, indulgent smile. Then, almost absently, she licks her lips, the motion far too intentional to be anything but teasing.
Bucky very nearly grimaces. He fights to keep his expression neutral, locking his jaw as he forces himself to hold her gaze without visibly recoiling. He had dealt with many things in his life—violence, war, unspeakable horrors—but the flirtations of a goddess were a challenge he had never quite trained for.
“That simply won’t do,” she continues, voice honeyed and light, as if his discomfort were nothing more than mild amusement to her. “You aren’t nearly as protected that way.”
She taps the edge of the bag with a well-manicured finger, her nails gleaming like polished pearl. “This,” she says, tone brimming with satisfaction, “is a little gift I had my husband assist me with. It should serve you quite well.”
There is something in the way she says it, something layered beneath the words, something that suggests this is not simply armor, not simply protection, but a token of something far older, far more potent. Bucky hesitates for a beat, studying the bag, feeling the faint hum of power radiating from whatever lies inside. Aphrodite watches him, expectant, pleased, her knowing smile never once faltering.
Inside the bag lay a black leather jacket—sleek and refined, the material supple yet undeniably sturdy beneath his fingers. It was heavier than he expected, carrying a weight that was not just physical but something more—something old, something carefully crafted. He pulled it free, the leather whispering against itself as he unfolded it, the scent rich and unmistakable, like fresh-cut hide and something faintly divine. He glanced up at the goddess, hesitant. Aphrodite merely watched him, eyes gleaming with expectation, the corner of her lips curling ever so slightly, as if she already knew exactly how this moment would play out.
With careful movements, mindful of his injured arm, Bucky slid the jacket on, rolling his shoulders beneath its embrace. The fit was seamless—almost unnervingly so. It molded to him like it had been designed with him in mind, the leather flexing where it needed to, firm where it should be. And then there was something else—an odd sensation that settled over him like a cool breeze, a quiet resistance against the sun’s oppressive glare. The heat that had been pressing against his skin suddenly dulled, softened, as if the jacket itself was warding off the elements.
It was more than just clothing. It was protection.
Aphrodite’s fingers trace idly along the edge of the table, the motion slow, deliberate—like a painter contemplating the final brushstroke of a masterpiece. Her eyes gleam with amusement as she studies Bucky, the faintest hint of satisfaction playing at the corners of her lips.
“It’s quite fancy,” she muses, her tone light but edged with certainty, as if she already knows the weight of her gift before Bucky even has the chance to grasp its full significance. “So you would be better off not losing it.”
She leans back slightly, the golden glow of her skin catching the morning light, making her look almost ethereal, like something sculpted from divinity itself. “It won’t get destroyed, weathered, or tarnished,” she continues, voice velvety smooth. “It’s rather indestructible. And with nearly bottomless pockets—” she tilts her head, watching his reaction with quiet amusement “—it’ll fit you no matter what.”
Bucky exhales, fingers tightening slightly against the leather at his shoulders, the weight of it suddenly feeling more significant, more purposeful. He swallows, the words awkward as they leave his lips. “Thank you, Lady Aphrodite.”
Aphrodite’s smile widens, bright and pleased, as if his gratitude is precisely what she was expecting. “Don’t worry about it, darling,” she purrs, winking at him with effortless charm. “Anything to help my favorite mortal.”
She pushes herself up in one smooth, fluid motion, adjusting the folds of her dress with absent grace. “This was such a lovely chat,” she says, as if they had merely been discussing idle gossip, as if she hadn’t just altered the course of his journey in ways he had yet to fully comprehend. Then, with a playful smirk, she adds, “But I do have a date with my boyfriend I need to get to.”
Her expression flickers with something coy, something deliberately teasing, and then—just as easily—she is gone. She moves through the crowd with unnatural ease, slipping between the people like water flowing between rocks, her presence dissolving into the hum of the city until she is nothing more than a lingering impression of gold and laughter.
Bucky remains seated, stiff and still, fingers absently tugging at the edges of his new jacket as if grounding himself in reality. The scent of coffee and fresh bread swirls around him, the world resuming its rhythm, unbothered by the fact that a goddess had just graced its streets.
~~~
Bucky wanders without thought, his feet carrying him forward through the winding streets of Piraeus, past merchants calling out their wares, past weathered stone archways leading into shaded courtyards, past the hum of voices and the rhythm of life that saturates the city. He doesn’t question where he’s going, doesn’t second-guess the direction his body seems to know before his mind does.
And then, quite suddenly, the city falls away.
He stands at the threshold of a forest—small compared to the sprawling wilds he’s known, but dense, thick, crowded with towering trees that stretch toward the sky with an unnatural stillness. The trunks loom in tight clusters, their bark dark and gnarled, tangled with twisting roots that coil over the ground like grasping fingers. The canopy above is heavy, strangling most of the sunlight before it can reach the earth, leaving the forest floor swathed in a dim green glow.
Bucky hesitates, hovering just outside the treeline, his breath slow and measured as something unfamiliar settles over him. It isn’t fear, not exactly, but it prickles along his spine in warning. The trees don’t just feel ancient—they feel purposeful. A presence lingers here, thick in the air, pressing against his skin like the weight of a hand. Divine. He knows enough to recognize that much, even if he can’t yet place why. The sensation isn’t aggressive, but it coils around his ribs, sets his teeth on edge in the way that instinctively tells him he’s treading into something far beyond mortal understanding.
Probably a good sign. Even if it makes every nerve in his body stand on alert. So he steps in.
The shift is immediate. The second he crosses the threshold, the air thickens, muffled in a way that makes it feel like he’s suddenly submerged beneath deep water. The noise of the city vanishes behind him, swallowed in an unnatural silence, and only the faint rustle of unseen movement lingers—a breeze that doesn’t quite belong, the whispering of leaves without wind.
The deeper he walks, the stranger it becomes.
The forest is dense, but the path—if it can even be called that—twists in ways that don’t entirely make sense. The trees seem to shift in his peripheral vision, not moving, not changing, but standing in ways they hadn’t before. The roots writhe along the earth in slow, patient motions, rearranging themselves like the forest is breathing, like it’s watching him. There is no clear direction, no obvious trail. And yet, his feet keep carrying him forward, drawn by something intangible, something just out of reach.
The air smells of damp earth and something sharper beneath it—something like old parchment, like wax and burning incense, like a temple hidden in the depths of time. He exhales, slow, steady, keeping his steps deliberate, even.
A blur of motion, a sudden force tearing through the dense forest, and then the unmistakable sound of hooves pounding against the earth. Bucky barely had a second to register the charging form before instinct kicked in, his body snapping backward, muscles coiling as he ducked just in time. A rush of displaced air swept past him, the sheer force of the creature’s near-collision rattling through his bones.
The deer—if it could even be called that—was wild with panic, its massive form twisting as it skidded to an uneasy halt, breath coming in ragged bursts. Its hide shimmered unnaturally beneath the dappled light, not like any animal he had ever seen—too smooth, too perfect, carrying an otherworldly sheen that had nothing to do with the sweat glistening along its flanks.
And then he saw the wound. Silver. The blood that leaked from its torn flesh was not red, not the deep crimson of mortality, but something luminous—something unnatural. It dripped from a jagged gash along its side, pooling against the earth like quicksilver, reflecting light in a way that made it seem almost alive. Divine. Whatever this creature was, it wasn’t ordinary. But that didn’t matter—not in this moment, not when it stood there trembling, injured and desperate, its great chest heaving with exhaustion. Bucky knew fear when he saw it. He knew pain. And he knew better than to meet it with aggression.
He straightened slowly, keeping his movements deliberate, his breath even. The deer flinched, hooves shifting uneasily, its wild eyes locking onto him with a mixture of wariness and uncertainty.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, voice low, calm. He didn’t reach for it, didn’t move too quickly—just held its gaze, solid and steady, letting the tension between them settle.
The deer huffed, nostrils flaring, muscles twitching with barely restrained energy. It was ready to flee, ready to bolt—but something in Bucky’s presence kept it rooted, hesitant.
“I can help,” he said softly, kneeling down, pulling his pack open, fingers finding bandages, water, anything that might serve.
The creature hesitated for just a moment longer, then, almost imperceptibly, it shifted forward—just a fraction, just enough to show trust. And then, without warning, it bent its legs, lowering itself onto the ground, folding its massive frame before him in silent offering.
Bucky swallowed, exhaling slow. Whatever this was, whatever force had led him here, had sent this creature barreling into his path—he wasn’t about to ignore it. So, carefully, he reached out. And the deer did not pull away.
Bucky worked quickly but carefully, his fingers deft as he poured the water over the wound, watching as the silver blood mixed with the damp earth beneath the creature’s massive frame. The liquid shimmered like mercury, pooling unnaturally in the moss, catching light in shifting, unnatural ways. He had never seen anything bleed like this.
Still, he didn’t linger on the thought—he couldn’t. He focused instead on the deer’s trembling form, on the rise and fall of its breath, on the flickering muscles that pulsed with restrained energy beneath its battered hide. He knew that tension well—knew what it felt like to be cornered, wounded, barely holding on.
He kept his voice calm as he worked. “You’re okay,” he murmured, fingers pressing gently against the torn flesh as he wrapped the bandage around its side. “I’ve got you.”
The deer huffed, exhaling in a sharp, uneven motion, but it did not pull away. It did not thrash or attempt to flee. Instead, it remained still, watching him with wide, golden eyes—piercing, deep, holding something beyond mere animal instinct. It understood. Bucky secured the bandage, his grip firm but careful, ensuring it would stay in place. He knew it wasn’t enough—not real treatment, not what the creature deserved—but it would hold. For now.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with something unspoken. And then, slowly, the deer moved. It shifted forward, just slightly, then bent its massive frame, lowering itself further, pressing its forelegs against the damp earth. Kneeling, offering.
Bucky froze, his breath caught in his throat as he stared. This wasn’t natural. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t just some wounded animal seeking shelter. This was something more. He inhaled slowly, testing the moment, waiting to see if the creature would pull away—but it remained still, patient, waiting.
And then, finally, carefully, he placed a hand against its flank, feeling the warmth beneath his palm, the solidness of something ancient, something powerful. With practiced ease, he swung himself onto the creature’s back, adjusting his weight, mindful of its injury. The deer rose in one smooth motion, muscles shifting beneath him, balance effortless.
Without hesitation, it began to move—swift, fluid, carrying him deeper into the forest. The trees blurred around them, shifting with an unnatural pace, bending to make way. The forest itself seemed to respond, opening its path as if welcoming him into something meant only for him.
The deer moved with a strange grace, its pace steady yet swift, weaving through the dense foliage as if following a path unseen. Bucky didn’t question it—not when every step seemed deliberate, when the very air around them pulsed with purpose. He could feel it now, the shift in the atmosphere, the subtle pull of something ancient, something waiting.
Then, all at once, the trees parted, giving way to jagged rock and earth split open like a wound. The cave loomed before him—a dark, gaping maw, its entrance uneven and fractured, as if it had been torn into existence rather than formed by time. It was not inviting, not welcoming. It did not beckon like some sacred threshold meant to be crossed. Instead, it simply existed, ominous and absolute, a place that had been waiting long before he ever arrived.
The air here was thick—too thick. It pressed against his skin like unseen hands, heavy with something he did not yet understand. The feeling of divinity was unmistakable, but it was not warm, not comforting. It was suffocating.
The deer came to an abrupt halt, its hooves digging into the dirt, breath huffing in short bursts. It did not move to enter. It merely stood there, waiting.
Bucky swallowed, shifting off the deer’s back, his fingers tightening against the creature’s hide. He could feel them—within the depths of that fractured abyss, woven into the very rock and shadow. The Fates.
They were here.
Watching.
Waiting.
For him.
A chill threaded its way through his spine, settling uneasily between his ribs. The air felt heavier here, thick with something intangible—something ancient. It left him feeling exposed, as if the very fabric of his existence was being weighed and measured in silence.
He could fight them. The thought flashed across his mind like an ember, brief and burning, before snuffing itself out. What good would that do? He wasn’t foolish enough to believe he stood a chance. Combat required predictability, strategy, weakness to exploit. The Fates had none.
Tricking them? No, that was worse. That would be inviting disaster with open arms. They saw beyond the veils of deception, unraveling lies before they were even spoken. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think he could outmaneuver beings who wove the very threads of destiny. They were the Fates, after all. Bucky? Just a mortal—one of countless souls caught in the endless weave of their design. He would be doomed before he even took his first step.
The deer lingers for just a breath—long enough for him to press his palm against its hide, the warmth of its body grounding him in the present. His fingers brush against coarse fur, and he exhales softly, murmuring a quiet thank you, though he isn’t sure if the creature understands or merely tolerates his farewell. Either way, it does not stay. It turns, slipping into the shadows of the forest with effortless grace, vanishing as if it had never been there at all.
Left alone, he hesitates. The cave looms ahead, its mouth gaping wide like the threshold of something ancient, waiting. The air around it feels different—denser, charged, as if the stone itself is holding its breath in anticipation.
This was it. The climax of his quest, the precipice upon which everything balanced. No more diversions, no more delays. The weight of every step before this one pressed against his ribs, but he couldn’t falter now.
Taking one last steadying breath, he forces himself forward. Percy was depending on him.
The cave swallows him whole. Shadows curl at the edges of his vision, shifting with the flickering light of the torches that line the walls—embers of defiance against the suffocating dark. The walls are slick with damp, the air dense with earth and old stone, wrapping around him like the whispered breath of something unseen.
Each step echoes, too loud, too alone. It feels like the cavern is listening, waiting. He forces himself to move with purpose, steady, though his pulse betrays him—racing with the weight of what lies ahead.
This was the final threshold, the culmination of everything that had led him here. Every obstacle, every sacrifice—it all narrowed to this singular moment. There was no turning back now. Not when Percy needed him. Not when the answers lay just beyond the reach of the wavering light.
His fingers tighten around his knife as he presses deeper into the cave, each inhale measured, each exhale laced with quiet resolve.
The cave exhaled cold breath, curling around Bucky’s limbs like unseen fingers, pressing against his skin despite the protective weight of the leather jacket Aphrodite had gifted him. The scent of damp stone and ancient dust hung in the air, mingling with something older—something watchful. The warmth of the jacket seeped into him, shielding him from the worst of the chill, yet it did nothing to ease the heavy feeling settling in his chest.
He could feel them. The Fates. Their unseen gaze traced his every movement, weighing him, measuring him, deciding. A quiet pressure built at the back of his neck, like a hand hovering just shy of touching, a reminder that the path ahead was not entirely his own.
As he pressed forward, the cavern stretched wider, its jagged walls pulling away into shadowed recesses, revealing a vast chamber that swallowed his footsteps in eerie silence. Then—light. A single, searing beam burst through a fissure in the ceiling, cutting through the darkness like a sword and striking him directly. It bathed him in a pale glow, illuminating the dust swirling around him, as if the very air recognized his presence. The weight of unseen forces thickened, pressing into his bones, his breath hitching as something—power, destiny, judgment—settled over him.
Bucky swallowed, the weight of unseen forces pressing harder against his ribs as the light bore into him. It wasn’t warm—it wasn’t cold either—but it carried something heavier than temperature. Expectation.
The cavern pulsed with the hush of ancient breath, the walls whispering in a language older than gods, older than mortal tongues. The Fates’ presence tightened around him, unseen but undeniable, woven into the very air. Each footstep echoed, swallowed instantly by the vastness of the chamber, as though the space refused to give back his sound. He was not meant to disturb this place. He was meant to endure it.
Then the light shifted. Not dimming, but deepening—intensifying—as though recognizing him more fully, pressing into his skin, his bones, his very soul. His breaths grew shallower, not from fear but from the certainty that something was being decided in this moment. Every choice that had led him here lined up like soldiers in his mind. Every step, every hesitation, every silent plea.
A soft hum drifted from the depths of the cave, distant at first, then rising—not a song, not a voice, but something like the trembling of fate itself. The jacket Aphrodite had given him clung to his shoulders as though it, too, felt the weight of this moment.
They do not belong to time. They are time—older than the first star, older than the whispered prayers of creation. They sit where shadow curls into stone, indistinct yet undeniable, figures draped in a presence so immense it threatens to crush the breath from Bucky’s lungs.
The cave does not contain them. It bows to them.
They do not move, but the world bends around them, warping as though reality itself acknowledges their will. Their forms shift between sharp and blurred, as if perception itself struggles to define them—ageless, without origin, neither fully seen nor entirely hidden. The air around them thickens, weighty with centuries, with destinies spun and cut, with every thread of life they have ever touched.
Behind them, the tapestry sprawls, not a thing woven but a thing grown, tangled and endless, its strands like veins pulsing with quiet power. Each thread writhes, twisting over itself, tightening, unraveling, forming a chaotic masterpiece of fate—spindled pathways of what was, what is, what will be. Some shine with violent brilliance, others are faded, frayed, thin as breath. The strands do not simply stretch outward; they seem to know, shifting like living things, reacting to unseen choices, unseen whispers.
And in that moment, Bucky can feel it—the hum, the weight, the inexorable truth of their domain.
The Fates do not watch. They judge. They decide. And when they speak, it is not a voice but a knowing, a presence pressing against his very existence, inscribing him into the vast expanse of their tapestry. He has been seen. He has been measured. And the threads behind them tighten. They are choosing. They always choose.
“James Buchanan Barnes.”
His name does not simply echo—it reverberates, folding over itself in impossible layers, twisting through the cavern like something alive. Three voices speak, but within them, there are many, a chorus of countless fates woven into syllables that scrape against his skull and settle, heavy, deep within his bones. The weight of those voices makes his skin prickle, makes his breath hitch—makes the air itself grow heavier with something not quite spoken but unmistakably known.
“Welcome.”
The word slithers through the cavern, a mockery of hospitality, colder than the air around him, colder than the stone underfoot. The Fates do not offer warmth. They do not offer mercy. They acknowledge, and that alone is enough to make Bucky feel small, insignificant against the sheer force of their knowing.
He swallows. The jacket Aphrodite had given him feels thinner now, like the weight of this moment has unraveled its magic just enough to let the cold sink through.
“Ladies Fate.” His voice is steady, though uncertain. The title feels fragile in his mouth, as if addressing them wrong might unravel him entirely. “I am in search of Apollo’s golden Lyre.”
The darkness does not shift, but something within it stirs.
Threads tighten, twisting through the cavern unseen, shifting in patterns too intricate for mortal understanding. The weight of destiny presses harder against his ribs, anticipation building, thick and suffocating. And then—
The Lyre.
It flares into existence, appearing with an eerie suddenness, caught between six ancient hands that should not be able to hold something so radiant. Those fingers are old—wrinkled beyond age, beyond time itself, worn from the endless work of weaving and severing the fragile filaments of existence. Yet, despite their decay, despite their near-skeletal thinness, they grip the Lyre with quiet ease, as if it has never been beyond their grasp, as if every song it has ever played has been heard here first.
The gold burns against the oppressive dark, a stark contrast to the shadows that coil greedily around it, drinking in its brilliance but failing to dim it. It shifts between their grasp, not handed off but moving—as though it exists not as an object, but as an idea, a truth that bends to their will. The strings hum, though they are not plucked, vibrating under unseen forces, whispering melodies too distant to hear but too close to ignore.
The Fates speak in perfect unison, their voices not merely heard but felt, reverberating through the cavern walls, pressing against Bucky’s ribs like an unseen force.
“We care nothing of Apollo’s needs.”
The words drip with mockery, laced with an indifference so absolute it borders on cruel amusement. The air itself seems to shrink in response, as if recoiling from their declaration.
Bucky takes a risk.
“I don’t care about his needs either,” he says, voice steady despite the weight of their presence. “I’m not here for him. I’m here as a means to an end. I need the Lyre so I can get Percy the medicine he needs. He hasn’t slept—he’s dying.”
A pause. Not silence, because silence implies absence, and the Fates are never absent. The space between breaths is alive with the shifting of unseen threads, the tightening of fate’s loom as they weigh his words, his intent, his truth.
“You wish to stop his death?”
The words lash against him like a blade, sharp with certainty, colder than the cavern’s breath. Their tone does not ask—it states, final and unyielding.
“Death is inevitable, child.”
It is not reassurance. It is law.
“It is every mortal’s fate.”
The air shudders, the unseen tapestry behind them shifting, curling, tightening as if responding to the weight of existence itself. Bucky’s jaw tightens, but he does not fight the truth of their words. He knows. He has lived with death, with its permanence, with its relentless grasp.
“Not stop,” he says, wincing at the weight of the admission. “Delay.”
The word hangs, fragile but honest.
“He can’t die now. I can’t let that happen.”
Something shifts. Not a sound, but a knowing, a pressure in the space between moments, as if the very fabric of fate is considering him. Measuring his plea, testing the weight of his desperation against the laws they have upheld since the dawn of creation. The Lyre hums in their grasp.
“How far are you willing to go for him?”
The voices coil into one, seamlessly woven together, reverberating through the cavern walls with a force that isn’t heard so much as felt. Their question is not curiosity, nor concern—it is judgment, the cold weight of inevitability pressing into his skin, curling around his ribs like invisible wire.
“What are you willing to lose?”
Bucky doesn’t hesitate. There is no need.
“Anything—everything,” he says, the words spilling from his lips before he can catch them, before he can soften them, before he can even fully process them. And the moment they are spoken, he knows—knows—how deeply true they are.
Not once, in all his years, had he ever thought to measure the lengths he would go. There was no need. Because when it came to Percy, when it came to him, the question had never been how far—it had only ever been what wouldn’t he do?
Percy.
The person who had done so much for him, who had carried more than anyone should, who had given and given and given—and still looked at him like he mattered. Like he was worth saving. The person Bucky cared for in a way that went beyond words, beyond reason. He loved Percy.
And the realization doesn’t strike him like a lightning bolt or some grand revelation—it settles, warm, steady, right. It has always been there, resting quietly within him, a truth waiting to be acknowledged, waiting for this moment, here, at the edge of fate’s loom.
The Fates smile, their expressions unreadable yet knowing, lips curling in the way of creatures who do not need to ask—but enjoy watching mortals understand. Their unseen hands pull at the threads of destiny itself, twisting, tightening, securing the choice he has made.
“Good.”
And then—
They unravel.
Not as bodies shifting into mist, not as figures fading into nothing—but as strings, countless, endless, breaking apart into fine golden filaments that dissolve into dust. The cavern exhales. The weight pressing against him lightens—but does not leave entirely. Their decision is made, but fate is never truly absent.
In their absence, the golden Lyre remains—cradled in Bucky’s hands, resting there as if it has always belonged. The metal thrums beneath his fingertips, alive, pulsing with something deeper than magic, something that knows its purpose.
Bucky exhales, adjusting his grip.
His right hand lingers for a moment—then slowly withdraws.
He holds it only in his left.
Bucky had always felt weird about fate. It was too big. Too intangible. Too unknowable. And yet—it had always followed him. Even before this quest, even before the gods and the monsters, even before he knew what it meant to be part of something greater, fate had lingered, curling around the edges of his existence in ways he could never quite explain. It was there when he had survived things that should have killed him. It was there when he had met the right people at the right moments. It was there every time his life had been changed, reshaped by forces beyond his control.
Now, standing in the ruins of the cave, clutching the golden lyre gifted by the Fates themselves, Bucky felt it again. Heavy. Present. Thick in his bones. He had gone to them seeking help, seeking a cure for Percy—but something had happened in their presence. Something else. He could feel it—but he didn’t understand it. The way the air shifted, the way the lyre felt too warm, the way his skin pricked like something unseen had brushed against it.
But he ignored it.
Because there were more important things to focus on.
He had a quest to finish.
And whatever had changed—whatever had been woven into him when the Fates looked upon him and smiled—he wouldn’t know it. Not yet.
But fate had already decided.
~~~
Bucky moves through the streets of Greece with a lightness he hasn’t felt in years—maybe ever.
Apollo’s Lyre is his now, cradled safely in his grasp, pulsing with something that feels almost alive, as if it knows it has finally reached hands that mean to use it. Every step forward feels lighter, freer, even as the weight of exhaustion clings to his bones. He doesn’t care. The end is so damn close, close enough to taste, close enough that for the first time since stepping into this mess, he lets himself believe.
Percy is going to be okay.
It’s a thought that radiates through him, chasing off every lingering doubt. He grips the Lyre tighter, weaving through the bustling streets, through sun-warmed stone and echoes of old gods, through a land that has long since stopped marveling at the impossible but still hums with power beneath its skin. The smell of the sea hits him before he sees it, salt and brine rushing to greet him, filling his lungs with something fresh and real. The Piraeus docks stretch before him, boats bobbing lazily in the water, their sails crisp against the afternoon breeze.
And then—
Reality crashes down. His boat is gone.
Bucky stops dead, blinking, waiting for his mind to catch up, to make sense of what he’s seeing—or, rather, not seeing. The vessel that brought him here, the only ticket he had back, has simply ceased to exist, swallowed by the waves with the same eerie finality that stole it the first time.
“Oh, fucking hell,” He exhales, rubbing a hand down his face, and it’s only now—only now—that he realizes the inevitable truth.
He has finally become future Bucky.
And future Bucky has a problem.
The triumph thrumming in his chest stutters, but doesn’t disappear. No, he’s come too far for this to ruin anything. He will figure it out—he has to. But for now, he stands there, staring at the empty stretch of sea, adjusting his grip on the Lyre, and wonders, how the hell is he getting out of this one?
Bucky stares, unmoving, utterly and profoundly done with the universe. The empty stretch of water mocks him, the gentle lapping of waves against the dock an infuriating contrast to the chaos running circles in his exhausted brain. He tries—really tries—to think, to strategize, to pull together a plan that isn’t completely ridiculous, but all that comes is static.
He is too tired for this. His muscles ache in that deep, bone-heavy way that tells him he’s been running on fumes for far too long. The adrenaline that had carried him here has started to crash, leaving nothing but sluggish thoughts and a growing awareness that his body is really, really unhappy with him.
A sharp sigh escapes him, more resignation than frustration. He could sit here and contemplate the philosophical implications of future Bucky suffering the consequences of past Bucky’s recklessness. Or—he could stop being an idiot and actually find a way back.
His hand fumbles for his phone, thumb sluggish as he pulls up a search. Nearest airport.
The signal is spotty, the loading wheel taunting him, and for a brief moment, he entertains the possibility that the gods themselves are enjoying his misery a little too much. The Lyre remains steady in his grasp, humming faintly against his palm, and he hopes—really hopes—that divine relics don’t come with some sort of ancient traveler’s curse. Didn’t Hermes bless him for travel of some shit?
The screen finally loads. Athens International Airport pops up at the top of the list, a beacon of salvation in the midst of his growing existential crisis.
Right.
That was doable.
He could get a cab. Find a flight. Avoid any more divine interventions for at least the next twelve hours.
Should be simple.
Bucky exhales, squaring his shoulders, letting the weight of the Lyre remind him that this is worth it. Percy is waiting. The end is so close. And Bucky is getting home, one way or another. Even if he has to beg, steal, or barter with a goddamn airline attendant to do it.
He stuffs his phone into his pocket just as he nearly collides with a woman suddenly appearing right in front of him. The moment stretches—the breath hitching in Bucky’s throat, the weightless flicker of fabric brushing his skin—before he staggers back, barely catching himself before he crashes to the ground.
She stands unmoving, watching him with sharp, piercing blue eyes that shimmer like the heart of the ocean, their depths carrying an undeniable weight—a force that yanks at something primal inside him. Her scowl is a tempest, fierce and unrelenting, as though his mere presence has disrupted the equilibrium of the air around her.
A crown of coral and pearls graces her head, nestled in the wild, untamed waves of her ink-black hair. The strands move with an eerie fluidity, as though they exist in a world apart from gravity, floating behind her in rippling motion. Scattered throughout, pearls glint like captured moonlight, woven between delicate shells that glisten with a muted iridescence.
Her skin, golden beneath the blazing sunlight, gradually gives way to shimmering scales that gleam with the hues of a storm-churned sea—deep blues, rich teals, and flashes of green that ripple across her exposed arms and run in sleek, elegant lines down her legs. They catch the light, glistening with each subtle shift, marking her as something not merely royal, but ancient, powerful.
She is draped in the attire of an era lost to time—the deep blue and white of ancient Greece cascading around her, fluid as water, the fabric whispering as it moves with the air. It lends her an ethereal quality, like she’s stepped from legend itself, untouched by the modern world. And she is watching him—assessing him, perhaps weighing the worth of his intrusion.
Lady Amphitrite, Queen of Atlantis. It had to be.
The realization settled in Bucky’s bones like the pressure of deep water, heavy and undeniable. He could see Percy in her—in the untamed glint of her eyes, sharp as sea-glass catching sunlight, in the restless, perpetual movement of her impossibly black hair, floating behind her as though stirred by unseen currents. It was wild, storm-born, adorned with pearls that gleamed like captured stars, woven between glistening shells that whispered of the deep.
And then, there were the scales—rippling across her skin like the shifting surface of the ocean, iridescent blues and greens refracting light in mesmerizing patterns. They weren’t merely decorative; they moved, alive in a way that set his pulse stuttering, as if her very being was an extension of the tides themselves.
He understood Poseidon’s warning now. Amphitrite was terrifying. Not in the way of brute force or towering power, but in something far more primal—the raw, ancient wildness of the ocean incarnate. She wasn’t a queen because of a throne. She was a force. Untamed in a way that set Bucky’s teeth on edge, like the electric charge before a storm, the moment before the wave swallowed everything whole.
The silence between them stretches, a taut, unrelenting thing. Amphitrite watches him with the sharp, assessing gaze of a predator that knows time is on its side.
“You’re a fragile thing,” she says, cutting through the quiet like the slice of a wave against stone. “Unremarkable. You have no claim to him.”
Bucky clenches his fists at his sides, resisting the instinct to retreat. “I’m not claiming anything,” he says, measured, careful. “He’s—he’s his own person.”
A sharp, mirthless laugh. “How generous of you to state the obvious,” she sneers. Then she steps forward, closing the space between them by half, and the weight of her presence makes the air feel thinner.
“Do you know what happens when men think they own the sea?” Her voice is low, sharp, testing. “When they grasp at something beyond their understanding?”
Bucky exhales slowly. He knows what happens. He has seen it, lived it. But he lets her say it anyway.
“They drown.”
The words carry the force of the tide, steady and inevitable.
“If you hurt him, I will end you,” Amphitrite says, and it isn’t a warning. It’s a promise, as certain as the waves that carve cliffs into jagged edges.
“I’m not going to hurt him.” There is no plea in his tone, no desperate insistence—just truth. The only truth he knows how to stand on.
Amphitrite’s eyes narrow slightly, as if weighing his answer. A beat passes, and then she tilts her head, considering him in full for the first time.
“You care for him,” she observes. It isn’t a question, but the way she lets the words linger—like bait, like a tide pulling him toward some unseen depth—makes it clear she expects him to answer anyway.
Bucky holds her gaze. “I do.”
Something shifts. Not in her stance, not in her expression—but in the air, in the ocean itself. As if some unseen current has turned in his favor.
“You fear me,” she continues, testing the edges of him. “But you do not cower. Why?”
Bucky exhales slowly. He could lie, offer up some well-manicured answer—but he doesn’t think that’s what she wants. So, he speaks plainly.
“I’ve been afraid of worse,” he says. “I’ve faced worse. But fear doesn’t stop me from standing where I need to stand.”
The salt-heavy air thickens between them, though Bucky isn’t sure if it’s the weight of the ocean or simply the weight of her judgment pressing down on him. Amphitrite does not move, but her presence fills the space around them as if it alone could swallow him whole.
“You stand where you need to stand,” she repeats, slow, deliberate. Her eyes narrow, watching him, testing whether the words truly belong to him or if he’s merely borrowing them for survival. “But tell me, mortal—what do you think that means? To stand beside my son?”
Bucky knows this isn’t just about Percy. It’s about her—the Queen of the Sea—measuring whether he is strong enough to hold his ground in a world that does not bend for fragile things.
He exhales, steadying himself. “It means being there, even when it’s hard. Even when I’m afraid. Even when it costs me.”
Amphitrite tilts her head, considering. “And if he falls?”
Bucky swallows, but his answer doesn’t waver. “Then I help him stand again.”
For the first time, something flickers across her expression—not approval, not yet, but something that suggests she’s found his response worthy of thought. She lets the words settle between them, lets the tide roll out and return again before she speaks.
“So, you would endure the storm for him.”
Bucky doesn’t hesitate. “Without question.”
Another beat of silence, this one different—less sharp, less suffocating. Then Amphitrite exhales, long and measured, like she’s come to some inevitable decision.
“Good.”
She does not embellish the word, does not offer him any grand confirmation of his worthiness. Amphitrite’s gaze lingers on him, scrutinizing. Then, without ceremony, without any indication that she is relenting, she flicks her hand. A set of plane tickets materialize in her grasp. She presses them against his chest with enough force to make him stagger back a step. And then, in an instant, Bucky is no longer standing before the Queen of the Sea. He is standing in the middle of an airport terminal, past security, gripping his tickets like they’re proof that the past few minutes were real.
The salt lingers on his skin.
The fluorescent hum of the airport presses against him in waves—bright, static-filled, relentlessly ordinary. It’s too normal, too structured, after what just happened.
Bucky inhales deeply, the lingering scent of salt clinging to his skin like the memory of Amphitrite’s scrutiny. He loosens his grip on the plane tickets, as if by holding them too tightly, they might dissolve in his hands, leaving no proof that the last few minutes weren’t some fever dream. Around him, travelers move with careless ease—tugging suitcases, clutching coffee cups, muttering into phones. No one looks at him twice. No one sees the way his hands shake slightly, the way his pulse still echoes the rhythm of crashing waves.
He exhales. Forces himself to focus.
Right. He’s past security. He has a ticket.
The absurdity of it almost makes him laugh—almost—but there’s still the weight of Amphitrite’s presence pressing against his mind, lingering like the undertow before the next wave crashes. He glances at the ticket in his hand, tracing the embossed letters, the flight details spelled out in crisp ink. It’s real.
He runs a hand through his hair, shaking off the feeling of being somewhere he wasn’t a second ago. Of standing on solid ground after facing something far older, far wilder, than anything this place could comprehend.
And then—he breathes.
Because this isn’t just about what just happened. It’s about what’s ahead. About Percy.
Amphitrite approved. That thought alone settles something deep in his chest.
He takes another breath, steadier now, and moves toward his gate.
Bucky moves through the terminal with measured steps, the weight of the past few minutes settling into his bones, not quite ready to be shaken off. He catches glimpses of his reflection in glass panes and polished floors—still him, still solid, but undeniably different. The normalcy of the airport presses in around him. A kid tugs at his parent’s sleeve, whining about snacks. Someone rushes past, late for their flight, muttering apologies that barely register. It’s like the world is unaware that he was standing before something divine moments ago, facing a force as ancient as the ocean itself.
He exhales. The salty tang still clings to his skin, faint but undeniable, like he’s carrying the sea with him even here.
Finding his gate doesn’t take long. The familiarity of routine is grounding—check the flight number, scan the departure time, find a chair that doesn’t feel too exposed. He lowers himself into the seat, exhales slowly, and glances at the tickets Amphitrite had pressed into his chest. The choice of destination isn’t random. Percy’s waiting. The thought steadies him in a way nothing else has. He turns the ticket over in his fingers, tracing the edges, feeling the weight of what it represents—not just approval, but trust. He passed whatever test the Queen of the Sea threw at him, and he’s walking away intact.
Mostly.
~~~
The plane ride was calm—calmer than Bucky had expected, calmer than he’d felt in days.
There was an ease to it, something effortless in the way the plane cut through the sky, steady and unshaken by the wind. No sudden jerks, no biting chill of sea spray against his skin, no constant battle against the restless currents. It was nothing like his little boat—the one where he always had to brace himself, where the ocean never let him forget how small he was in comparison.
Here, the air was smooth, uninterrupted, carrying them forward in a way that felt almost indulgent. The sky stretched endlessly beyond the window, a canvas of soft blues and lazy clouds, nothing at all like the unpredictable, shifting moods of the sea. Below, the land sprawled out in delicate patterns, rivers and roads threading through it like veins, distant enough to feel unreal.
And, by some miracle, Bucky had an entire row to himself. No elbows knocking against his side, no strangers shifting too close, just space—precious, undisturbed space. He stretched his legs out, leaned back against the headrest, and let himself sink into the quiet.
It was nice. For once, he didn’t have to be on guard, didn’t have to adjust for the unexpected. The plane carried him forward, steady and certain, and all he had to do was let it. It was strange, in its own way.
The plane touches down with a soft, practiced ease, the kind that should feel unremarkable but, for Bucky, carries the weight of something final—like the closing of a chapter he hadn’t even realized he was writing.
The overhead lights flicker, the seatbelt sign clicks off, and the restless shuffle of passengers fills the cabin. He exhales, stretching slightly before grabbing his bag, letting the motions ground him, steady him for whatever comes next.
He steps off the plane, the artificial chill of the airport pressing against him—and Apollo is waiting.
The god leans casually against a pillar near the windows, the golden evening light catching in his hair, turning him into something almost too bright for the world around him. He looks effortlessly at home in his modern attire—well-tailored, expensive—but there’s something in his posture, in the way his eyes track Bucky’s movements, that suggests an unspoken depth beneath the amusement.
“You did well,” Apollo says, voice calm, unhurried, his gaze flicking to the lyre still secured in Bucky’s grasp.
There is no hesitation, no ceremony—just the exchange. Bucky hands it over, fingers lingering for only a moment before the weight of it leaves his grip.
Apollo turns it over in his hands, eyes scanning the delicate strings, the craftsmanship of something older than time itself. He hums, seemingly satisfied, before his attention shifts fully back to Bucky.
“And?” Bucky asks, straight to the point.
Apollo grins, something lazy about it, but his eyes are sharp beneath the surface. He reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a generic pill bottle—unassuming in appearance, but when he presses it into Bucky’s palm, it feels different. Not power in the way Olympus tends to radiate it—grand, overwhelming, unquestionable—but something gentler, more deliberate. Almost merciful.
Bucky turns it over in his hand, studying the soft glow that catches in the glass. “This is it?”
Apollo inclines his head. “I don’t make empty promises.”
Bucky exhales through his nose. He hadn’t expected Apollo to go back on his word, but it’s still—strange, this moment. Strange to be standing here, holding something meant for Percy, something meant to help in ways Bucky himself hasn’t been able to.
Apollo watches him, the amusement in his gaze thinning into something quieter. “You think it won’t be enough.”
Bucky’s fingers tighten around the bottle. He doesn’t answer immediately—just stares down at the thing in his palm, at what it represents.
“He deserves to rest,” is what he finally says, quiet, measured.
Apollo studies him. Then, after a beat, he gestures toward the vial. “This will help. But rest—true rest—comes from more than what the gods can offer.”
Bucky looks at him, brow furrowing slightly. “That supposed to be wisdom?”
Apollo smirks. “It’s supposed to be the truth.”
Bucky exhales, rolling his shoulders, pushing past the weight of thoughts he doesn’t have time to unpack right now. He tucks the vial carefully into his pocket, securing it, making sure it’s safe.
Apollo claps him lightly on the shoulder, his touch brief, but not dismissive. “You did well,” he repeats.
Bucky nods. “Yeah. Hope so.”
Apollo gives him one last lingering look, something unreadable flickering through his expression—then, as easily as he had appeared, he’s gone.
And Bucky, gripping the weight of the bottle in his pocket, prepares to move forward.
~~~
The road back to Camp Half-Blood feels different this time. Not in the way the air shifts—warm with late afternoon sun, cicadas humming their relentless song—but in the way something deep inside him has settled. Not fully, not permanently, but enough to make the weight in his chest feel less suffocating.
The lyre is gone. That piece of the journey is over. But Percy’s future might not be. And that—that matters more than anything. Bucky tightens his grip around his jacket, where the bottle rests safely in his pocket. His strides lengthen as he nears the border, the familiar scent of pine mixing with the salty remnants of Amphitrite’s lingering presence.
Dionysus is waiting for him. The god doesn’t look surprised to see him, doesn’t look particularly interested, either—just flicks his eyes over Bucky with the kind of absent curiosity one might grant a stray cat that keeps turning up at their doorstep. He exhales loudly, adjusting his leopard-print camp chair like this entire ordeal has interrupted his very important routine of doing absolutely nothing.
“Well,” Dionysus finally says, gaze flicking lazily toward Bucky’s pocket. “I suppose you didn’t die.”
“Suppose not,” Bucky replies, tone dry but not sharp. He’s too tired for anything else.
Dionysus stretches out one leg, crossing the other over it. “Good. I didn’t feel like filling out paperwork.”
Bucky huffs, shaking his head as he steps past him, heading toward the familiar paths of camp. Dionysus doesn’t stop him—but he does speak one more time, just as Bucky moves out of earshot.
“Good job, Barnes.”
Bucky pauses, but he doesn’t turn around. The words settle deep, anchoring something in him that’s been drifting for too long. He breathes, nods once, and walks forward, towards where he knew Percy would be.
Notes:
Bucky is such a simp if his thoughts constantly circling back to Percy are anything to go off of.
This is about as long as I expected it to be. I didn’t want to break Bucky’s quest up into two parts, so you get a very long update.
A sea goddess giving Bucky plane tickets? weird yes. But I did that cause I wanted to show that Zues, may have sent those storm spirits, but he doesn't want Bucky to fail. None of the gods want him to fail. Hence why so many help and any challenges he faces aren't super hard to overcome.
Also, I just wanted to say Amphitrite's hair floats but Poseidon's doesn't. Because they are the sea in different ways.
I genuinely struggled with this so much. Like when I go to Bucky getting that stupid golden Lyre in his hands, I cheered. I was overjoyed that this chapter was almost over. Because it took forever to get to a place where I at least kind of liked it. So sorry if it’s a little weird at times. Or the logic seems weird. I tried my best.
The whole chat with Fates is important in the future! :)
Next chapter is Bucky and Percy reuniting! Then the epilogue! Then we get to goof of for a bit before we get to infinity war and endgame angst! But don't worry, before that is genuinely pure fluff and crack.
If you have any ideas, art or story wise, let me know!!
Chapter 6: Chapter five: How long, baby, have I been away?
Notes:
Chapter title from Meet Me in the Woods by Lord Huron.
Little WARNING this is the second update. Go read the chap before this before continuing, if you haven't already.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Bucky stands at the edge of the waves, the salty breeze curling through his hair, tugging at the edges of his jacket like a gentle but persistent hand. The ocean stretches before him, endless and restless, its surface kissed by the fading sunlight, golden reflections flickering between each rolling crest. The sky is a masterpiece—bold strokes of pink and orange melting into softer hues, the clouds splashed in dramatic bursts of violet and crimson. It is the kind of sunset that feels alive, moving, shifting, telling a story only the ocean understands.
The wind presses against him, cool but not biting, a steady force that carries the scent of salt and something older, something familiar. It whispers against his skin, but he doesn’t pull his jacket tighter, doesn’t resist its pull. Instead, he steps forward. The first rush of water meets his boots, soaking into the fabric, but he doesn’t hesitate. He wades deeper, uncaring as the waves lick higher, curling around his calves, tugging at his clothes, pulling him into their rhythm.
The ocean has always been like this—never indifferent, never truly still. It acknowledges him, meets him where he stands, rolls forward and then back, a wordless conversation that doesn’t need translation. He lets himself sink into it—not far, not deep, just enough to feel the movement of the tide, the way it weaves against him, as if recognizing him, as if remembering.
He takes a deep breath, the salty air filling his lungs as he steps forward, letting the ocean pull him in. The water rises against him, creeping higher with each stride—ankles, knees, waist—until the tide sways against his ribs, pressing cool and insistent.
He exhales slowly, murmuring a quiet offering to Poseidon, not really expecting an answer, but hoping the god is feeling merciful enough not to let him drown. The wind tugs at his hair, playful in contrast to the weight of the sea. It’s gentle for a moment—just a breath, just a pause—before the ocean decides it has waited long enough. A wave rushes at him from behind, striking hard, shoving him forward with a force that defies logic. He barely has time to register the wrongness of the current, the way it defies the natural rhythm, before the water swallows him whole.
His body plunges beneath the surface, salt stinging his eyes as he tumbles into the depths. He exhales a short, amused breath, bubbles spiraling upward, carried away in the rushing tide. “Thanks,” he mutters, though whether the gratitude is genuine or sarcastic is up for debate.
He kicks forward, moving deeper, taking hesitant breaths as the pressure shifts around him. The water is thick, heavy, but it doesn’t fight him the way it should. It cradles him, steady and unyielding, as if knowing exactly where to take him. And then—he sees him. Percy. Settled at the bottom of the sea, waiting. Poseidon hadn’t wasted time with unnecessary detours. He had taken Bucky exactly where he needed to be.
Percy sat hunched on a rock, his posture heavy, weighed down by an exhaustion that ran deeper than anything sleep alone could fix. His skin was too pale, as if the ocean itself had drained him, leaving behind only the fragile remnants of someone who had once burned so brightly. His eyes, usually fierce and full of mischief, were dull—clouded, unfocused, distant. The water around him felt wrong. Stagnant, sluggish, lacking the movement and life it should have carried. As if it, too, had taken on his weariness, mirroring the unnatural stillness pressing against his frame.
Even his hair—once vibrant, dyed in shades meant to defy the dullness of the world—had lost its luster. The colors were faded, washed out, unable to hold onto their usual brightness. Stark white roots shone through, a quiet testament to the time slipping past, to the struggle chipping away at him.
He looked nothing like the man who had once dragged Bucky into the waves all those months ago, laughing, electric, alive in a way that had been infectious. That version of Percy had been untouchable, radiant with a power that had felt effortless, undeniable. Now, he was dimmed. And the sight of him—this hollowed-out version—settled a deep, aching pit in Bucky’s stomach.
Above them, the sky was stubbornly shut off from any warmth. Thick clouds hung low over the sea, casting heavy shadows, locking out the light as if reflecting the demigod’s silent defiance. The sun was there—it had to be—but Percy refused it, refused to let it touch him, and the world obeyed.
Bucky swallowed hard, forcing down the tightness in his throat.
The room is quiet—too quiet. The water presses against the space around them, a muted weight, thick with unspoken words. Bucky steps forward slowly, hesitantly, his boots barely disturbing the gentle sway of the current.
“Percy?” His voice is steady but soft, carrying just enough weight to cut through the heavy stillness.
Percy tenses instantly. His spine straightens, the faint flicker of power crackling around him, stirring the water in a way it hasn’t moved since Bucky arrived.
And then—just as quickly—it fades.
The moment recognition settles in, the tension in Percy’s frame unwinds, unraveling like a taut string finally given slack. The familiar presence of Bucky’s voice, his presence, sinks into him, steadies him. Without hesitation, he pushes forward, closing the distance in uneven, desperate strides.
When he reaches Bucky, his knees buckle.
He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t try to catch himself. He falls straight into Bucky’s arms, shaking hands clutching at the fabric of his jacket, gripping hard as if afraid he’ll disappear. The tremor in his fingers is undeniable, weak, exhausted, spent in a way that sends a sharp pang through Bucky’s chest.
Bucky holds him tightly, solid, grounding, an anchor against the current threatening to pull Percy under. He doesn’t say anything—not yet—just lets his arms secure around him, lets his presence remind Percy that he’s here, that he’s not alone in whatever this is.
“You idiot,” Percy hisses, voice rough, but not unkind. He doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t loosen his grip on Bucky’s jacket. “Why would you agree to a quest?”
Bucky exhales, threading his fingers through Percy’s curls. They float, weightless, catching around his fingers in the gentle sway of the water, twisting softly between them like they belong there.
“For you,” he murmurs.
Percy shakes his head against Bucky’s shoulder, a sharp, tired movement. “I’m—I’m not worth something like that.”
Bucky tightens his hold just slightly, firm but careful, deliberate in the way he keeps Percy steady against him.
“You’re worth even more than that,” he insists, voice quiet but unshakable.
Percy doesn’t argue—not immediately.
Just exhales, shuddering, his grip on Bucky’s jacket still holding tight.
“I’ve got something for you,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low, steady, meant only for the space between them.
His breath stirs Percy’s curls as he speaks, the weight of him still pressed against Bucky’s chest, grounding, anchoring. He tightens his hold just slightly, fingers tracing the edges of the fabric bunched between Percy’s trembling fists, before carefully reaching into his jacket. His fingers find the small bottle easily—the plastic cool against his skin, smooth but undeniably significant in its presence. He curls his hand around it, drawing it out with measured care, as if acknowledging the weight of what it means.
“A little something Apollo cooked up,” he continues, shifting just enough to press the bottle into Percy’s palm. “To help you get some sleep.”
The vial is small, unassuming, but the moment Percy touches it, something shifts—just barely, just enough. Bucky watches him, watches the way his fingers tighten around it as if testing its reality, as if something in him refuses to believe it could be this simple. The water stirs softly around them, pulling in the tension, carrying it outward in slow, careful ripples.
And for the first time in too long, there is the possibility of rest. Real rest. Not just the absence of exhaustion, but something deeper—something softer, something earned. Bucky doesn’t say anything else. He just stays there, holding Percy close, waiting for the weight of it to settle. Waiting for Percy to believe it.
Bucky tightens his hold, steady and unwavering, grounding Percy against the quiet pull of exhaustion threatening to consume him. The water shifts lazily around them, sluggish, like it too is worn thin by the weight pressing into Percy’s frame.
“I think it’s time you stop wasting away, don’t you?” Bucky murmurs, his voice a low warmth against Percy’s temple, barely above the gentle hush of the tide.
He presses a kiss there—soft, careful, barely a brush of lips, but enough to anchor something deep inside Percy. Enough to remind him that he is still here. Still held. Bucky shifts back just slightly, enough to meet Percy’s gaze, enough to catch the way his eyes shine with unshed tears, glassy and raw, his exhaustion laid bare between them.
“Why don’t we go home and get you to sleep?” Bucky suggests, quiet but sure, the words carrying more than just an offer. More than just the simple promise of rest.
Percy swallows hard. His grip tightens in the fabric of Bucky’s jacket, fingers curling like he’s afraid letting go would unravel something, pull him too far into the tide, into the depth of himself that he doesn’t have the strength to navigate. He exhales, shaky, breath hitching in his throat, and then—
“Yeah,” he whispers, voice cracking at the edges. “Please…”
It isn’t desperate, not in the way pleading often is—it’s something softer, something vulnerable, something surrendered. And Bucky hears it, understands it, doesn’t press further. He just nods, securing his grip around Percy’s waist, guiding him toward the surface, toward air, toward home. And for the first time in too long, the water moves with them—alive, shifting, carrying them forward instead of holding them still.
The journey from the water to dry land is slow—Bucky keeps his grip firm, guiding Percy with careful movements, feeling the way his exhaustion weighs against him, makes his limbs heavier than they should be. By the time they reach the house, Percy is barely holding himself upright. His grip on Bucky hasn’t loosened, hasn’t eased even a little, fingers still curled into the fabric of his jacket like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.
Bucky doesn’t rush him. He helps him sit first, lets Percy breathe, lets him blink through the haze of exhaustion pressing against his ribs. The room is dim, comfortably familiar, the kind of space meant for warmth—not the cold, hollow quiet Percy’s been drowning in. Bucky kneels in front of him, pulling the laces of Percy’s shoes loose, sliding them off one by one with quiet care. He works efficiently but gently, a steadying presence even in the silence. Percy watches him—still slow, still quiet—but when Bucky stands again, reaching for the blankets, Percy’s grip tightens.
Bucky moves with quiet purpose, crossing the room to grab a bottle of water. The plastic crinkles under his grip, cool against his palm as he twists off the cap. He turns back toward the bed, watching as Percy sits up slowly, the weariness in his limbs making the movement sluggish, careful. Percy doesn’t speak—not yet. His fingers tighten around the pill Bucky had fought tooth and nail to get, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger as if testing its weight, feeling the gravity of what it represents.
Bucky doesn’t rush him. He just hands over the water, steady, patient. Percy exhales, quiet, pressing the pill against his tongue and swallowing it down with a long sip. The motion is simple, unremarkable in any other context—but here, now, it feels heavier. Feels like something final, something significant. Bucky watches the shift in Percy’s shoulders, the way he takes a slow, deliberate breath after drinking, as if letting everything settle—his exhaustion, his body, the promise of rest.
“Stay,” Percy whispers, voice fragile at the edges.
Bucky doesn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, threading his fingers through Percy’s still damp curls. “I’ll stay.”
He helps Percy under the blankets, sliding in beside him, pressing close—not too tight, not suffocating, but there, solid, warm. Percy melts against him almost immediately, shifting closer, tucking his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder, his breath steady but worn. Bucky exhales slowly, adjusting so he can hold him properly, settling into the familiar rhythm of Percy's presence.
The room hums with soft quiet, the blankets warm around them, the scent of saltwater lingering but not oppressive.
The room settles into quiet, the only movement the slow rise and fall of Percy’s breathing.
Bucky stays where he is, propped on one elbow, watching the steady rhythm of Percy’s chest, the way his curls rest against the pillow, still floating slightly in the soft sway of water. The tension that had gripped him for weeks—months, really—has finally started to fade, leaving something peaceful in its wake.
He watches, waiting, making sure the divine medicine does what it’s supposed to do. That no nightmares come. That Percy actually sleeps. And he does. It’s deep, undisturbed, free of the restless stirring that had plagued him for so long. The exhaustion weighing him down has finally given way to something gentler, something that doesn’t fight him.
Bucky exhales slowly, letting himself relax, letting the quiet sink in, letting the knowledge settle—he did this. He fought for this. And for the first time in too long, something eases inside him, something proud and steady and wholly content. He shifts, pulling Percy closer, securing his grip as he lets his own eyes fall shut.
Sleep claims him easily.
And for the first time in too long, neither of them are chasing it.
~~~
Percy sleeps for nearly three days, his body surrendering to rest in a way that feels both necessary and unsettling.
Bucky watches over him, the quiet hum of their house filling the space between each deep, unbroken breath Percy takes. The rise and fall of his chest is steady, his expression slack with exhaustion, lost in the kind of sleep that consumes rather than refreshes. It’s unnerving—not because Percy sleeps, but because he sleeps so completely. Because when Bucky nudges his shoulder, calls his name softly, it takes several beats before there’s even the slightest flicker of awareness.
When Percy does wake, it’s never fully. Just enough for Bucky to coax him into drinking water, eating whatever Bucky manages to place in his hands. His grip is loose around the cup, around the food, fingers sluggish, movements barely controlled. He’s there, technically, eyes half-lidded, blinking slow and dazed, but his mind is too fogged with exhaustion to offer much else.
It’s almost like trying to keep someone from slipping beneath the waves entirely—keeping him tethered just enough to ensure he doesn’t vanish into something unreachable. Bucky guides him back to bed each time, steady and patient, supporting more of Percy’s weight than he probably should have to. He eases him down, adjusts the blankets, watches the way Percy sinks into them, too pliant, too absent in his exhaustion.
The only thing that makes it bearable is the fact that Bucky can wake him. That each time he speaks Percy’s name, each time he presses careful fingers against Percy’s shoulder, the demigod eventually stirs—slow, sluggish, but present enough to murmur something incoherent before fading out again. That fact alone keeps Bucky from worrying himself sick.
He lets himself breathe, lets the weight of his own exhaustion settle just enough to remind himself that this is okay. That Percy is recovering. And each time Percy drifts off again, Bucky stays close, the quiet vigilance of his presence a steady anchor in the long, unbroken hours.
The hours stretch, slipping from day into night and back again, the cycle repeating as Percy sleeps on, uninterrupted except for the moments Bucky forces him awake.
Bucky keeps track of the time, of the changing light filtering through the cabin windows, of the way the world moves while Percy remains still. He watches the slight shifts in Percy’s breathing, the way his body seems to loosen with each passing hour, shedding the tension that had weighed him down for so long.
The ocean, too, has begun to move again—softly, rhythmically—no longer the stagnant weight it had been when Bucky first arrived. It breathes with Percy now, matching the slow, steady cadence of his rest.
Bucky lets himself hope.
On the third evening, as the sun sinks low, casting warm gold and deep violet across the sky, Percy stirs differently. Not just the sluggish, half-conscious movement of exhaustion, but something more—something aware. Bucky straightens immediately, watching as Percy’s brows furrow, his fingers twitch against the blankets. A slow inhale, deeper than before. Then, a blink—slow, heavy, but deliberate.
Bucky leans forward, voice steady but careful. “Cy-cy?”
Percy’s eyes shift toward him, still unfocused, but present—really present. For the first time in days, Percy’s powers settle over him completely.
Bucky exhales slowly, letting a small, relieved smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”
Percy blinks again, sluggish, processing, before his lips part, voice rough but unmistakably warm. “Shut up.”
Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, the tight knot in his chest loosening just a bit more.
Percy’s waking up.
Finally.
The improvement comes faster than Bucky expected. After a week, Percy is no longer a quiet, slumped figure trapped in the haze of exhaustion—he’s a force of energy, flitting around the house with all the enthusiasm of someone who has been given a second wind and refuses to waste it. The air is different now—lighter, warmer. The ocean itself seems to breathe easier, its rhythms no longer stagnant but steady, matching Percy’s renewed sense of movement.
He’s everywhere, all at once. One moment, he’s in the kitchen, humming some ridiculous tune under his breath as he kneads dough, flour dusting his fingertips, smudging against his cheek where he absentmindedly wiped at an itch. The next, he’s bouncing around the living room, rearranging things with absolutely no real plan, just movement, just action—just life.
Mrs. O’Leary is thrilled, shadowing Percy with wide, gleaming eyes, absorbing every ounce of his energy like she’s been starved of it. She follows him into the kitchen, watching as he grabs at stray ingredients dancing around the large hellhound as he goes through the movements of making dinner. Alpine, less frantic but equally affectionate, watches with lazy amusement from the back of the couch, twitching her tail each time Percy whirls past.
Bucky, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, just takes it all in. It’s loud, chaotic, alive. It’s everything Percy had lost, everything Bucky had fought to get back for him. Percy grins over his shoulder at him, eyes bright, full, the weight that had once dulled them completely gone.
She barrels through the rooms with joyful abandon, paws thudding against the floor in heavy, delighted stomps, her massive tail sending objects flying with each enthusiastic wag. Despite her imposing size, she’s impossibly gentle where it counts—nudging Percy with her snout, careful not to knock him over when she eagerly butts her head against his side.
Percy laughs, throwing an arm around her neck, pressing his forehead against her fur for just a moment, as if grounding himself in the warmth of her presence. Lea lets out a pleased rumble, sinking down just enough for him to drape across her comfortably.
Bucky watches from the kitchen, arms crossed, amused as Percy gestures wildly with a whisk in hand, rambling on about some new baking experiment while Lea listens with rapt attention, as if she understands every word.
“You’re spoiling her,” Bucky comments, shaking his head as Percy hands Lea a treat despite the fact that she’s done absolutely nothing to earn one.
“She deserves it,” Percy says, grin wide, eyes impossibly bright.
Bucky huffs, but doesn’t argue. He just steps further into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Percy resumes his baking attempts, Lea sprawled happily on the floor beside him.
~~~
Annabeth hugs him the moment she knows. There is no hesitation, no measured approach, just the sharp pull of arms wrapping tight around his ribs, pressing in, holding him there like she needs him to understand—really understand—what he’s done. She doesn’t let go. Her grip stays firm, unrelenting, warmth pressed against him in a way that anchors more than restrains. The weight of her gratitude isn’t loud, isn’t grand, but it is deeply felt, settling into the space between them with each quiet, murmured “thank you.”
She says it over and over again, barely above a whisper, barely a breath, like it’s the only thing she knows how to say. And maybe it is—maybe there aren’t words big enough, strong enough, real enough to express anything beyond this moment, beyond this simple act of holding on. Bucky lets her. He doesn’t say anything—not yet. He just stands there, lets her grip tighten, lets her presence press against him, lets the quiet speak for itself. When she finally steps back, her hands linger—just briefly, just enough to brush against his arms before retreating entirely.
Then, without ceremony, Nico takes her place. His hug is different—short, swift, sharp in a way that feels like finality rather than desperation. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t murmur quiet reassurances the way Annabeth did. He just grips tight for those few solid seconds—an acknowledgment, an understanding—and then he’s gone, retreating just as quickly as he had stepped forward.
Camp Half-Blood shifts around him in ways Bucky hadn’t expected. It’s subtle at first—greetings that hold more weight, nods that feel less obligatory and more like real acknowledgments. But then, gradually, it becomes something more. The campers, once wary of his presence, begin to see him differently. He catches it in the way conversations linger when he’s nearby, in the way eyes flick toward him with something softer than suspicion. He hears it in the murmured thanks, the quiet understanding that follows in the wake of Percy’s recovery.
They know. They know he’s the reason Percy is whole again, the reason the weight that had been crushing their friend has finally eased. And they respect him for it. But the thing that warms something deep in his chest—that catches him off guard in a way he doesn’t quite know how to process—is the bead. The next addition to their camp necklaces. They don’t ask him about it before they make it, don’t present it with ceremony—they just do it, as if it had been inevitable, as if there was never any question that his quest deserved to be marked in ink and fire.
When they press the finished bead into his hand, he stares at it for a long time. The design is simple but unmistakable—the silhouette of a lyre, its strings fractured but still standing, framed by curling waves. It’s his journey. His fight. For Percy. The significance of it settles in his chest, curling around something long buried, something quiet but undeniably present.
Bucky turns the bead over between his fingers, running his thumb across its surface, feeling the familiar weight of it. He exhales slowly, nods once, and doesn’t fight the warmth that spreads through him. For the first time in a long time, he’s a part of something.
Percy watches him, the soft glow of the Poseidon cabin’s light catching in his eyes, turning them warm—steady. There’s something quiet in the way he looks at Bucky, something knowing, something that doesn’t need words to be understood. His fingers toy idly with the leather cord of his necklace, rubbing against the familiar worn beads, each one holding the weight of a past trial, a past fight, a past victory.
And now—this. Bucky holds the new bead carefully between his fingers, running his thumb across the painted surface, tracing the delicate details. The lyre, the waves—his quest, immortalized in the simplest way Camp Half-Blood knows how.
He exhales slowly, then reaches forward, sliding the bead onto the cord. Percy doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, just lets him, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, small but unmistakably real. The bead settles into place, resting among the others, belonging now as if it had always been there.
Percy lifts a hand, brushing his fingers over the necklace, letting them linger over the newest addition, the proof of what Bucky had done—for him, for both of them. His smile deepens, just slightly, just enough. Bucky doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Percy’s expression says everything for him.
Percy lets the necklace settle against his chest, fingers brushing absently over the newest bead. His expression is soft, something thoughtful lingering behind his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything—just lets the moment breathe, lets it sit between them, unspoken but understood.
Bucky watches him, taking in the quiet gravity of it all, the way Percy’s hands linger over the proof of what they’ve been through, of what they’ve come out of on the other side. Then, after a beat, Percy exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly, like he’s shaking off the weight of everything that came before. He lifts his gaze, meeting Bucky’s with something warm, something steady.
“So,” he says, a little lighter now, a little more like himself. “Am I supposed to do something dramatic now? Like—make a speech? Announce that I owe you my life?”
Bucky snorts, shaking his head. “I think just staying alive is enough.”
Percy grins, the warmth in his expression deepening, and for the first time in too long, it feels easy—natural.
“Okay,” he says, leaning back onto his palms, letting the necklace rest against his collarbone. “Then I guess I’ll do that.”
Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head again, but there’s something deeply settled in his chest now—something good. Something that tells him that, whatever comes next, they’re ready for it.
Notes:
YAY YAY YAY SLEEP
Bucky taking advantage of the water and floating higher than Percy lol. He’s not even that short, Percy’s just a freak and tall as shit.
If you can't tell by how soon this came out, I've had this written long before I finished the last chapter lol.
If you have any ideas, story or art wise, let me know! I love to see them
Chapter 7: Epilogue: Will you meet me by the river, baby
Notes:
Chapter title from Louisa by Lord Huron
WARNING. This is the third update in a row. If you haven't already, go read the past two chapters before this one.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The rain had started as a whisper, a soft murmur against the quiet world around them. It clung to their skin in translucent beads, traced the slope of Percy’s jaw, and blurred the edges of the streetlights in the distance. Bucky barely noticed it. All he could see—truly see—was Percy. Standing in front of him, illuminated by the silver glow of the storm, he looked untouchable, unshaken. A force of nature, something carved from the breath of gods and the fury of oceans. And yet, beneath it all, he was trembling.
The realization struck Bucky harder than any blow ever had. Percy wasn’t just shaking from the cold, wasn’t just lost in thought—he was unraveling. And Bucky knew, with bone-deep certainty, that whatever was in Percy’s head right now was ripping through him with the weight of a thousand storms.
“I should’ve died a long time ago,” Percy murmured, voice barely above the wind.
Bucky exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to close the distance between them completely. “You didn’t.”
Percy’s laugh was hollow, fragile in a way that made something ache inside Bucky’s chest. “No, I didn’t. But I should have.” His fingers curled, clenching into fists at his sides. “I wasn’t supposed to make it past sixteen. Everything after that—every second, every breath—felt like borrowed time. Like I wasn’t supposed to be here, but somehow, I was.”
He tilted his head upward, letting the rain drip down his face, streaking against the tension in his brow. “You ever feel like that? Like maybe the world kept you going out of sheer mistake?”
Bucky let a breath escape him, measured, even. “All the time.”
Percy’s gaze flicked to him then, sharp and knowing. The weight of years rested between them—different lifetimes, different wars—but the same ghost of understanding.
“So what keeps you fighting?” Percy asked.
Bucky looked at him. Really looked at him. And there, in the way Percy stood, in the way his voice carried beneath the storm, in the way his hands trembled just slightly from the cold—Bucky found his answer.
“I would die for you.”
It was barely more than a breath, a whisper between them, dissolving into the quiet hum of the world around them. But the words carried a gravity that pressed against the air, making it thick, heavy. Bucky hadn't meant to say them aloud—not fully—but there they were, lingering between them like something living, something real.
As long as he could remember, which was an impossibly long time now, he had fought for his survival with relentless determination. He had clung to life with an iron grip, not just out of instinct, but out of necessity. He knew the value of breath, of heartbeat, of persistence. He had learned it in the trenches, in the ruins of cities, in laboratories where survival had been stripped down to something mechanical—just a function of endurance.
And yet, here he stood, confessing something that defied all of that.
His life had been something to protect, something he refused to lose, something he had sacrificed everything to hold onto. His family, his friends, the long stretch of years that had hollowed out pieces of him one by one—he had kept living through it all, because to live was the only thing he had ever known how to do.
But the thought of losing Percy—the thought of watching the light drain from him, of feeling the unbearable silence that would follow—was a terror so profound that Bucky could hardly breathe through it. It was worse than any battle, worse than any wound, worse than the deep, aching fear of his own mortality. He could live in a world without himself. But not in a world without Percy. That truth settled in his chest like something ancient, something absolute.
His fingers curled slightly, instinctively, like he might hold onto Percy tighter if he dared to move. Like if he pressed his palm against the warmth of Percy’s skin, it would reaffirm the life there, the pulse beneath it. Because losing him wasn’t an option. It never had been.
And so, he said it again—softer, but unshaken.
“I would die for you.”
Percy gripped Bucky’s hand—hard. Hard enough that, had it been anyone else, bones might have creaked beneath the pressure, skin bruising under the force of his grasp. But Bucky was no ordinary man, and Percy knew that. It didn’t stop him from holding on as if Bucky might slip away if he let go for even a second.
“I would live for you.”
The words came raw, splintered with something deeper than just a promise. They were a confession, an admission of something fragile and terrifying in equal measure.
Dying had never been the difficult part for him. Death had always been an inevitability—a certainty etched into the fabric of his being since childhood. He had made peace with the idea of falling before sixteen, had spent years wearing borrowed time like armor, never daring to expect more than what fate had already allowed him. He would die for nearly anyone, whether they deserved it or not, because saving others was simple. Saving others gave his existence meaning. Killing was just another extension of that, another grim necessity for those he loved.
But living—living was different. Living required more than just sacrifice. It required staying, enduring, facing a world that had never felt like it truly belonged to him. It required choosing to exist, not just for himself, but for someone else.
And that realization hit him like a storm crashing against the shore.
He clutched Bucky’s shirt now, hands shaking as the truth took hold, as his body struggled to comprehend what his heart had already decided.
He would live for him.
He would live.
A trembling breath escaped him, sharp and uneven, but before he could collapse beneath the weight of it all, Bucky was there—pulling him close, wrapping strong arms around his shoulders, shielding him from the sheer force of his own revelation. Percy melted into the embrace, pressed against the warmth of him, a grounding presence in the sea of uncertainty. The rough, calloused touch of Bucky’s fingers threaded gently through his hair, reverent as they traced the newly dyed colorful strands before a soft kiss landed on his forehead—light as a whisper, but impossibly steady.
“I’m so glad,” Bucky murmured, voice tender, sincere in a way that left no room for doubt. “And so proud.”
The world had quieted around them, the rain reduced to a gentle mist that clung to their skin like something delicate, something unwilling to interrupt the gravity of the moment. Bucky’s fingers rested against Percy’s jaw, tentative at first—just the ghost of a touch, as if testing whether Percy would pull away. He didn’t. Instead, he leaned into it, eyes half-lidded, breath uneven but steady enough.
There was nothing rushed about it, nothing desperate. Just the slow, deliberate closeness that spoke of something deeper—of understanding, of quiet acceptance, of the realization that this moment, fragile and fleeting as it was, belonged solely to them. Bucky exhaled softly, thumb brushing against Percy’s cheek, and Percy tilted his head ever so slightly—silent permission, quiet invitation.
And when their lips met, it was barely more than a whisper—gentle, careful, the kind of touch that didn’t ask for anything but still meant everything. Percy sighed into it, his hand finding Bucky’s wrist, holding him there like an anchor, like something solid in the shifting tide of everything they had endured. Bucky pressed a little closer, molding into the warmth, into the certainty of Percy’s presence. His other hand slid up, threading into black curls, cradling the back of Percy’s head with reverence.
There was no urgency. Just patience. Just care. Just the quiet, unspoken promise that neither of them had to be alone in this—not anymore. And when they pulled apart, it wasn’t abrupt, wasn’t uncertain. It was deliberate. Steady. Percy swallowed, eyes flickering unseeing over Bucky’s face—soft, thoughtful, something unsaid lingering between them.
Bucky smiled, just barely, just enough. Percy let out a breath, slow and measured, and then pressed his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder—letting himself believe, just for this moment, that he was home.
Bucky didn’t move. Not for a long moment, not when the rain shifted to a light mist, clinging to their clothes, not when the distant hum of the city settled into the background like white noise. He stayed right there—solid, steady, unyielding in the quiet warmth between them. Percy didn’t move either. His forehead remained pressed against Bucky’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—metal and leather, earth and something softer underneath. His fingers curled against the fabric of Bucky’s shirt, loose now, no longer gripping with the desperation of earlier, but still unwilling to fully let go.
Bucky ran a hand down Percy’s back, slow, deliberate, tracing the tension in his muscles, grounding him without words. And when Percy finally lifted his head, his eyes flitted across Bucky’s with something unreadable—something raw, something uncertain, but undeniably there. Bucky didn’t rush him. Didn’t push. just waited. Percy’s gaze flickered, searching, lingering just a second too long on Bucky’s lips before he exhaled, quiet but sure.
And then, with deliberate softness, he leaned in again. This time, the kiss was different. Less hesitant. Still gentle, still careful, but steady now—an acknowledgment, an acceptance, a choice. Bucky met him halfway, lips parting just enough to deepen the contact, his fingers ghosting against Percy’s jaw, thumb brushing the curve of his cheek.
Percy sunk further into it, pressing closer, as if he could pour all the things he didn’t know how to say into the space between them. Bucky understood, and he let him. When they pulled apart, Percy lingered, nose barely brushing against Bucky’s, his breath warm between them.
“You okay?” Bucky asked, voice barely above a whisper, like he didn’t want to disturb the stillness they had built.
Percy swallowed, then nodded, slow, deliberate.
“For the first time in a long time,” he murmured.
Bucky’s fingers tightened slightly against his back, reassuring, unwavering.
“Good,” he said simply.
And he meant it.
Notes:
Remember that little joke about how gay people can't say I love in normal ways. This is my version of that lol.
This is a whole bunch of cheese and let me tell you I love it. It's just so cute. Like I was giggling and kicking my feet as a wrote it.
This is a short one. Just a little closer. Some feels for you.
Also, this was partially written before all the other chapters came out. Hence why it too is out so soon after the other two chapters.
I'm not sure what exactly I want the next installment to be. I have a few ideas. Possible things to do. Tony finding out about the gods. Tony meeting Bucky. But other than those two. I have nothing solid. If there's anything you want to see, let me know!
If you have any ideas, art or story wise, feel free to share! I love to see them!
There is now art for this story!! Check out the art book!
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