Chapter Text
IMPATIENCE I
The wait
is a cage
I keep throwing myself against—
metal rattling,
breath hot,
a growl climbing my throat.
If the moment doesn’t come soon,
I will hunt it down
myself.
IMPATIENCE II
Impatience is the beast
I fed once
and now cannot leash—
restless on the edge
of every breath,
tongue tasting the wind
for the thing
I should already have.
Percy had been kidnapped, nearly smuggled, semi-adopted by a pirate, lightly drowned by a sea prince, and—just for spice—almost killed himself with wine.
But somehow, the most overwhelming part of his week was hearing his mom say, “Hi, baby.”
Sue him—he hadn’t heard his mom’s voice in days, which, given recent events, translated emotionally to about a year and a half.
All he wanted was to hear her laugh. Just once. So he could pretend, just for one second, none of it had happened.
Instead, he heard sirens.
Through the phone.
He blinked. “Why are there sirens?”
A pause. Just one beat.
Then Mom: “Oh, just traffic, probably. Nothing serious.”
Wrong tone. That was her don’t-worry-but-actually-worry voice.
And then—
BAM BAM BAM.
Percy jolted. “Mom?”
“Mabel!” she called—not to him. Her voice shifted, distant now. “Just a sec, sweetie, someone’s at the—”
“Montauk Police. Open the door.”
His heart dropped straight through the floorboards.
“Mom? Mom, what’s happening?”
“Wait—officer, please—there’s no need to—”
“Put the phone down.”
“Mom?”
“No! Percy, listen to me, I—”
“Now.”
Scuffling. Muffled voices. A thud.
Then her breath, fast and shaky.
‟Percy, it’s okay, I—”
Gone.
“MOM?!”
He froze, phone pressed so tight to his ear it hurt. His lungs locked. The world didn’t make sense. The ship didn’t exist. The air felt wrong—too light, too still. Unreal.
His brain exploded into vivid flashes—awful ones.
His mom on the ground, face bleeding. Crying. Screaming for him. Reaching for a phone someone had already kicked away.
He should’ve been there.
Should’ve done something.
Instead, he was sitting on a ship in the middle of the ocean like an idiot, doing absolutely NOTHING!
He was cold.
No—hot.
Both.
Neither.
His heartbeat was everywhere—in his hands, in his ribs, in his teeth.
He wanted to scream. To throw himself into the sea and tear apart the world to find her. He wanted—
“Hello? Young Percy?”
The voice was wrong.
Soft. Crackly. Not hers.
NOT. HERS.
His stomach flipped. His brain stalled.
He stared at the phone like it had betrayed him. Like it had eaten her voice and coughed up a stranger on purpose.
“Is this Sally’s boy?” the voice asked again, gently. “Sweetheart, it’s alright. It’s alright—don’t panic—your mama’s—”
But Percy wasn’t listening.
Couldn’t.
His jaw locked. His shoulders trembled.
The voice kept talking. The phone stayed in his hand. But his mom wasn’t on the line.
Everything inside him was twisting inward, lighting up like wildfire trapped in a bottle.
He curled tighter.
Smaller.
Like if he folded in far enough, maybe the fear wouldn’t find him. Maybe the silence would spit her voice back out. Maybe the world would undo itself, just a little.
“Guppy?”
Percy didn’t react.
Couldn’t.
His body buzzed and went numb at the same time. His throat felt scraped raw. His chest wouldn’t move.
“Hey, guppy.”
Closer now. Lower. Still calm—but not smooth. Edges were fraying.
Then—
A hand.
Warm. Steady. Landing between his shoulder blades.
And suddenly—air.
Percy sucked in a breath so fast it shuddered through him. His lungs burned like they’d forgotten how to do this. Like they’d been waiting.
He didn’t look up. But the heat of Chrysaor’s palm spread through his spine like something cracking open. Like a door unlocking.
The arms came next. One under his knees, the other pulling him in—tight, but not crushing. No words. No questions. Just there.
And for the first time since the sirens, Percy felt not alone.
His hands unclenched. His body slumped against the armor.
Chrysaor had him.
Not just physically. Not like a catch.
Like an answer.
And maybe the world was still broken.
Maybe Mom was still gone.
Maybe everything hurt so much he could barely think.
But Percy didn’t have to hold it up by himself anymore.
He pressed his forehead to Chrysaor’s collar.
Let out a shaky breath.
And let someone else carry the weight.
That’s when the tears came—pearls sliding down his cheeks like his body had finally decided to let go.
They rolled down the golden plate and pooled in the crook of Chrysaor’s elbow, each one perfect and whole and betraying everything Percy couldn’t say out loud.
Chrysaor shifted—just enough to cup one calloused hand beneath Percy’s cheek, catching the next that fell before it could bounce away.
Percy didn’t look. Couldn’t.
But he felt it. The way Chrysaor kept holding him. Kept steady. Kept close.
And slowly—so slowly—he kept breathing.
Chrysaor didn’t move right away. Didn’t rush him. His hand stayed firm between Percy’s shoulders, anchoring him—like if the world tried to pull Percy away again, it would have to go through him.
Then, gently, he shifted his grip.
One arm stayed locked around Percy’s back, pulling him closer. The other reached for the phone, still clutched in Percy’s fingers.
“Let me,” he said, low.
Percy let go.
Chrysaor brought the phone to his ear, careful, quiet. Like anything louder might shatter what little of Percy was left.
“Hello,” he said, voice calm but lined with steel. “This is Chrysaor. I’m with Percy. Who am I speaking to?”
Percy barely registered the words.
He just stayed curled in tight against Chrysaor’s chest, listening to the rumble of his voice through armor and bone.
There was a pause on the line.
Then, softly: “This is Mabel. I— I’m a friend of Sally’s. She’s okay....she’s been arrested but she’s okay. This is a misunderstanding.”
“Why was she arrested?”
Another pause.
“They think she—” Mabel’s voice cracked, then steadied. “They think she’s connected to a murder.”
For a heartbeat, Percy didn’t process the words.
Murder?
Murder didn’t belong in the same sentence as Mom. It sounded like a bad translation, like the Mabel lady had meant muffins, or mulch, or literally anything else.
Then it hit.
He gripped Chrysaor’s shoulder.
For anchor.
Because rage was slamming back into his system like a tide.
His whole body vibrated. Literally. A low tremor under his skin, like his bones were charging up for a fight no one had asked him to join.
His jaw locked. His teeth bared.
At no one.
There was no one to bite. Just the phone and that awful word—
Murder.
They thought his mom was a murderer.
His mom. The woman who apologized to trees when she bumped into them. The woman who fed stray cats even when she barely had enough to eat herself. The woman who still gave him THE LOOK if he used “crap” in a sentence.
Yeah. Sure. Real bloodthirsty.
He could barely breathe around the fury. It buzzed in his chest, hot and stupid and loud.
If he didn’t get something to throw in the next five minutes, he'd start punching furniture. Or a wall. Or the concept of police.
“I swear,” he muttered, voice low and feral, “if they even looked at her wrong—”
Percy didn’t care how he sounded. He wasn’t being dramatic.
He was being right.
They’d arrested his mom.
They were going to regret that.
Every last one of them.
Percy didn’t register the end of the call. Didn’t hear Chrysaor hang up. Didn’t hear whatever the Mabel lady said last. Didn’t care.
He was already building the escape plan in his head.
Get to shore. Break into the precinct. Get Mom out. Burn it down if he had to.
Anyone who tried to stop him?
Too bad.
After Eurybatus and his henchmen, a couple of cops were nothing.
His legs shifted.
Tensed.
He was two seconds from launching off the desk and trusting raw determination to carry him the rest of the way.
And then—an arm. Gold warmth. Across his chest.
“Where are you going?”
He blinked. Looked up.
Chrysaor.
Blocking him.
Holding him.
Percy bared his teeth—like a furious chihuahua with a vendetta.
Chrysaor stared at him, deadpan behind the gold mask. Unimpressed.
“Down, guppy!”
Percy didn’t answer.
His jaw twitched. Teeth still bared. Growl loading.
Chrysaor sighed and gently pushed Percy’s mouth closed with two fingers.
Click.
“Save the bitey face for someone who deserves it,” he said.
Percy made a noise—somewhere between a snarl and an incredulous wheeze.
“What exactly was the plan, guppy? Swim all the way to Montauk?”
Yes.
Chrysaor stared at him. “Do you even know where we are?”
Percy narrowed his eyes. “Eighty-three nautical miles off the Florida coast. Between Jacksonville and Savannah. Bearing north-by-northeast. Current speed, lazy as hell.”
Chrysaor exhaled through his nose like a man confronting the living embodiment of his bad karma.
“Right. Well, good news, Guppy—we’re already headed that way. So unless you’re planning to dog-paddle faster than a trireme, we’ll get to Montauk sooner if you stay on the damn ship.”
Percy scowled.
“I’m just saying,” Chrysaor added, deadpan.
Percy huffed like an angry teakettle and sagged back against Chrysaor’s chest.
He wasn’t done being mad.
Not even close.
But fine.
Whatever. He’d wait. On the ship. Like a reasonable, very patient person. Who absolutely wasn’t still planning at least four jailbreak scenarios in his head.
Chrysaor carried him out of the cabin like an irate koala. He strode straight into the sunlit chaos of the deck, voice rising with steel-edged clarity.
“To stations!”
Rowers snapped to attention. Sailors leapt into the rigging. Nymphs blinked up from their sunbathing like someone had kicked a glittery beehive.
“You heard me!” Chrysaor barked. “Oars down, weight forward. Rhythm doubled! No, tripled! We move like we’re being chased by a hurricane!”
Bakkhe appeared in the crow’s nest mid-laugh and shouted something gleefully obscene. Chrysaor didn’t even glance up.
Weapons clattered against the deck as dolphin-headed rowers scrambled to formation. Fins twitched. Hands flew. Someone yanked the drumline awake—literally, by the ankle—and the beat slammed into motion like a war march.
Chrysaor kept barking orders.
“If you’ve got breath to complain, you’ve got breath to row!”
Ropes hissed through pulleys. Sails unfurled with a snap like thunder. The whole ship groaned as if shaking off sleep.
He stalked forward, voice rolling like a drumbeat.
“Kry̱sis, wake up and give me everything you’ve got.”
“Finally,” Krysis purred. “Permission to misbehave.”
The figurehead flared to life—wood creaking with pleasure. A smile spread across her painted face, like she had just remembered she used to hunt krakens for breakfast.
Water exploded beneath them. Wind howled past. The Golden Gorgon surged like a beast unleashed.
Percy felt the urge to whoop. Any other time, he would have thrown his fists in the air and screamed with giddy, wave-chasing joy.
If his mom weren’t in a cell somewhere.
If he weren’t terrified down to the marrow for her.
The sound never made it past his teeth.
He just held on tighter. Eyes wide. Chest tight. Watching the ocean fly by beneath them like it couldn’t get out of the way fast enough.
Chrysaor strode across the deck, cutting through the chaos—still carrying Percy, who clung to him like an emotionally compromised barnacle.
He got distracted as they passed the cluster of nymphs basking midship.
They were doing it again. Ugh.
They'd been half-asleep seconds ago — just sunbathing and minding their own glowy, nymphy business — and then Chrysaor walked by, and boom! Spines straight. Lashes fluttering. Suddenly, it was a perfume commercial.
Glikis and Hortensia stood up, flanking them like synchronised groupies, arms outstretched like they were auditioning to cradle Simba.
“I’ll take him,” Glikis cooed, all sparkling eyes and fluttering wisteria curls. She leaned in like Percy was a prop and not a cranky, semi-conscious demigod.
“Please,” said Hortensia, tone soaked in offended elegance. She turned slightly, baring one shoulder where her petal-skin shimmered like dewy hydrangeas at dawn. “The poor child needs softness.”
Neither of them looked at Percy.
Both were very much making moon-eyes at Chrysaor.
“For the child,” Glikis added, breathy, stepping aggressively closer. “Let us take him. You need your arms free.”
“Yes,” Hortensia said quickly, surging in and giving Glikis a not-so-accidental hip bump that knocked her a step back.
In the motion, her neckline shifted — more petals, more shimmer, more everything — and suddenly Percy was eye-level with way too much botanical décolletage.
He slapped a hand over his face.
His. Poor. Eyes.
“You mustn’t strain yourself, captain,” she purred, gloating Glikis’ way like this was a reality show and she’d just stolen the final rose.
Still curled up like a feral backpack, Percy cracked his fingers open just wide enough to glare at the flouncy nymphs.
Pirate virtue was under siege, and he was the last line of defence.
Before he could declare himself official chaperone, Kyma arrived like divine intervention — arms crossed, eyes full of judgement, and absolutely done.
“Back off,” she said, flat.
The groupies wilted on the spot. Glikis tried to salvage some dignity by pretending to adjust her braid. Hortensia sighed like someone had canceled spring.
Chrysaor handed Percy over before he could yell, “Objection, your honor — they’re salivating.”
Kyma’s arms were strong and cool, and — thank the gods — entirely non-thirsty. Percy slumped into her hold like a melting feral cat, still sizzling with secondhand indignation.
“You could’ve let them fight,” he muttered. “I would’ve bit the winner. Teach her to keep her thirsty eyeballs off my brother.”
Kyma didn’t say anything — but he felt the tremble of her silent laughter shaking through both of them.
Chrysaor gave his shoulder one last squeeze.
“We’ll reach Montauk by sundown,” he promised. Low. Sure. Like the tide.
Then he turned and stalked toward the helm like he was about to wring Montauk from the earth by its foundations.
Percy sighed.
His brother was just so cool.