#Eyebrow threading Staten Island
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Percy Jackson meets a Landlord, a Tax Accountant, and a Tree Growing in Brooklyn
âGolduck, use hydro pump!â Percy whispered. He moved Golduck so he hit Batman on the chest, and then hit Batman a few more times for good measure. âDie, landlord!â
âArenât you a little old to be playing with toys?â
Percy almost fell out of his chair.Â
He twisted his torso around, looking behind him with wide eyes. But the only person there was a white girl, no older than him. She was wearing a really severe expression to match her tight little blonde ponytail, and she was carrying a clipboard in both hands. There was a piece of string tacked to the clipboard, with a pen tied around one end. She looked like she asked the school librarian if she could help shelve books.Â
Percy decided instantly that she hated him, so he decided to hate her back.Â
âArenât you a little young to be doing your taxes?â Percy sneered. âBuzz off.â
That made her mad. The girlâs angelic little chubby face twisted in rage, and her grip on the clipboard turned threatening. âIâm accounting the chores! And I could do taxes if I wanted!â
âYeah?â Percy asked, unimpressed. âName one tax.â
âSales tax,â the girl said instantly.Â
Damn. She got that one.��Â
Short fic that I am considering extending into a much, much longer fic. Thank you Ami for the translation of the card (I would definitely translate it yourself, itâs important). The entire backstory and premise of the AU isnât immediately apparent, but if I extend the fic itâll be more explained (spoiler: Luke Castellan, age 14, said fuck Olympus and moved all of Camp Half-Blood into Brooklyn to live in a child-run utopia). I havenât reread Percy Jackson since I was 10, I barely remember anything that happens or any of the characters, so donât expect much - but arenât the best childrenâs novels the childrenâs novels that live in our head, anyway?
Rest under the cut.Â
2005
180 Olive Apartments was a dump. Batman said so.
Batman felt very strongly about this, and as a result Percy did too. It was not Percyâs own, private, personal opinion. Batman informed Percy that the apartment complex was shabby, gross, not in Staten island, and smelled weird. Batman made a very convincing argument that they should live in Staten Island instead, which Percy had done his best to relay to Mom. Mom hadnât been impressed.Â
âThis is the best place for us, Percy,â Mom had said, with that pinched look on her face. It was the âPercyâs Making My Life Really Hardâ face. Percy had been seeing that face a lot lately. âLetâs just try to make this work, please?â
There was no âbest placeâ for them, and Percy and Batman knew that. But that was another thing Mom didnât want to hear.Â
So Percy had suffered in stoic silence as Mom dragged him out of the motel, made him miss the new episode of Pokemon, and forced him to ride the subway forty minutes into smelly Brooklyn so he could sit in this smelly chair outside of some smelly office in a smelly apartment. From inside the office, Percy could hear the faint rise and fall of voices: Momâs, light and lyrical and very polite to people who were not Percy; and some landlord guy. His voice was really light and high too, but he was probably a real jerk.
Percy was so bored he could die. He sat up on his knees, turning around so he could prop his elbows against the dusty windowsill with grimy frosted glass. He plopped Batman down on the dirty windowsill, smearing his chipped feet through the tracks of dust. Parkour. He unzipped his pocket and grabbed his slightly dusty Golduck rubber toy, putting it in front of Batman. Golduck was from McDonaldâs, so it had a bad attitude.Â
Percy waggled Batman. You have a bad attitude, Golduck. You canât live in my house anymore, because you get water all over the tile and you make the wood go bad.Â
Golduck jiggled when Percy shook him. It wasnât Golduckâs fault that the water went everywhere! Water just goes places sometimes. Golduck was a water type, so water followed him around and got into wood and made the wood go bad and made other people mad at him. Itâs not Golduckâs fault, so donât make him move!
I donât want to hear it, Batman said. Iâm going to make you live in a crummy motel and make your Mom go on a lot of boring websites looking for new places to live. The motelâs bananas are going to taste weird. Momâs going to cry a lot. And itâll be all your fault because youâre a bad kid.Â
âGolduck, use hydro pump!â Percy whispered. He moved Golduck so he hit Batman on the chest, and then hit Batman a few more times for good measure. âDie, landlord!â
âArenât you a little old to be playing with toys?â
Percy almost fell out of his chair.Â
He twisted his torso around, looking behind him with wide eyes. But the only person there was a white girl, no older than him. She was wearing a really severe expression to match her tight little blonde ponytail, and she was carrying a clipboard in both hands. There was a piece of string tacked to the clipboard, with a pen tied around one end. She looked like she asked the school librarian if she could help shelve books.Â
Percy decided instantly that she hated him, so he decided to hate her back.Â
âArenât you a little young to be doing your taxes?â Percy sneered. âBuzz off.â
That made her mad. The girlâs angelic little chubby face twisted in rage, and her grip on the clipboard turned threatening. âIâm accounting the chores! And I could do taxes if I wanted!â
âYeah?â Percy asked, unimpressed. âName one tax.â
âSales tax,â the girl said instantly.Â
Damn. She got that one. Percy just rolled his eyes instead, sitting back down on his seat and stuffing his toys in his cargo pocket. He couldnât help but feel a little embarrassed, even if he knew that he wasnât too old to play with Batman and Golduck. What did tax accountants know, anyway.Â
The girl sniffed, and made a show of inspecting the grimy windowsill and carefully making a note on her clipboard. Her pen had a pom-pom at the end. Percy bet she made hearts over the top of her âiâs.Â
âNickâs been slacking,â the girl muttered threateningly. âIâm surrounded by incompetents.â
âWhy is it Nickâs job to clean the leasing office?â Percy asked, unimpressed. âDonât you have a janitor for that?â Was Nick the janitor? If this pinched-face little girl was harassing cleaning staff then Percy was going to file a complaint.
But the girl just looked surprised, as if the idea of having a janitor was foreign and strange. âNo janitor would even make it through the doors.â But then her eyes narrowed, as if a thought just occurred to her. âWait. How did youâŚâ
However Percy did what, he would never know. The door to the leasing office cracked open, and Percy scrambled off his seat in excitement. The girl stood stiffly at attention, clipboard on her hip, as Mom stepped out of the office. She looked very tired, but weirdly relieved.
There was a man right behind her, just as white and blonde as the girl. Percy wasnât surprised: he could pick out a real âdaughter-of-the-managerâ type right away. The man didnât look like every other landlord Percy had ever seen - no moustache, for one - and he didnât look old enough for the part anyway. He wasnât old, but he definitely wasnât an elementary schooler. He had a broad, honest face, but he was too muscular and strong looking and landlordey to be trustworthy.Â
 Percy decided the weird landlord, with a mop of yellow hair like golden thread and a scary eyebrow with one long scar cutting straight through, was twenty five years old. Clearly the result of nepotism in the landlord industry.
Mom smiled when she saw Percy, who quickly pasted on his most innocent expression. Her eyes caught on the girl, who was glaring daggers at him. The landlordâs eyes caught on Percyâs own wrinkled nose. âPercy, good! Are you making friends?â
It was not an innocent question. It was a âplease donât ruin this for me too, Percyâ question. It was a âIâm very tired and I need you not to make things hardâ question. Percy was well acquainted with them. But maybe the girl was too, because when the landlord looked at the girl she also abruptly quailed. âI hope youâre being a good host, Annabeth.â
The unfortunately named Annabeth and Percy glanced at each other in silent and instant understanding.Â
âYeah, Annabethâs really fun!â Percy said instantly. He was not going to ruin this for Mom again. Or, at least, he would try to hold off ruining it for her as long as possible. Even if this stupid apartment wasnât in Staten island. âShe was telling me about -â
âTaxes!â Annabeth said smoothly, a much better liar than Percy. âAnd Percy was telling me about Batman.â
They both looked very cute and very low matinence on command, the perfect picture of children who did not make their moms live in motels.Â
Percy was rewarded when Mom smiled in relief. She put a hand on Percyâs shoulder, squeezing tightly. âIâm so glad. Percy, this is Mr. Castellan. Why donât you say hi?â
âHi Mr. Castellan,â Percy said obediently. âMy nameâs Percy Jackson, Iâm in third grade.â
The landlord smiled at him with closed and tight lips, but it was Annabeth who spoke in interest. âPercy like Percival, King Arthurâs knight who searched for the Holy Grail?â
Uh, whatever? âPercy like the Greek hero Perseus,â Percy said shortly. âBut Iâm not Greek. My Grandma was from Guadalajara.â
Annabethâs eyes widened. She glanced at the landlord, whose expression was impossible to read. âAre you sure?â
âI know where my own grandmother is from!â
âShe didnât say that you didnât, sweetie,â Mom said, and Percy guiltily shut up. âPercy, why donât you and Mr. Castellan talk in his office for a little while? I have to fill out some paperwork, and I think you two have a lot to talk about.â
Percy looked up at her with wide eyes. Mom never left him alone with strangers. And paperwork already? âAre we moving in today?â
âYou two talk for a bit,â Mom said firmly. âIâll be right back.â
When Percy was pushed into Mr. Castellanâs office it felt more like he was a Roman Christian being tossed into the lionâs den in punishment for heresy. And when Mom settled him into an uncomfortable and weird-smelling chair in front of the teetering desk and kissed him on the temple before leaving the office, he abruptly felt like he had jumped into Grandmaâs book of Bible Stories.Â
Mr. Landlordâs office was as dirty and run-down as the rest of the complex. The big box AC rattled with clinks and whirrs as it shuddered against the sticky summer heat, and the landlordâs desk was covered in thick stacks of paper and chewed-up pencils. When he sat back down behind the stained wood, the chair seemed just a little too big for him. He sunk strangely in it, the vinyl flaking off and floating into the ground. There were a lot of crayon drawings taped to the wall, and there was a light dusting of crumpled post-it notes on the ground.Â
Mr. Landlord tried to smile at Percy. Tried being the operative word: when he smiled it was too thin and without teeth, more pained than reassuring. It didnât reach his watery blue eyes.Â
Percy hunched on the rickety chair. This guy set off every alarm bell he had, which was plenty. And no, it wasnât just because he was a guy, Ms. Brown. For added security and self defense, Percy casually slid a capped ballpoint pen on the old desk in front of him into his sleeve. Batman was always prepared, and Percy was too. He can hack up any creepy guy and protect Mom any day of the week.Â
The landlord smiled wider, even worse. âSorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My nameâs Luke Castellan, and Iâm the supervisor here. Running into Annabeth first thingâs pretty bad luck, huh?â At Percyâs unimpressed eyebrow, he quickly added, âAnnabeth keeps the whole place running, really. Sheâs...pretty convinced that this complex rests on her eight year old back, so sheâs a little stressed out all the time. If she gets frustrated at you, donât take it personally, okay?â
So she does help shelve books. Percy was a keen judge of character. âWhy does she do it? You canât make her be the superintendent. Thatâs child labor.â
Luke Castellan stared at Percy unblinkingly. He blinked about as often as a snake, but five times as quickly: as if he didnât want to let you out of his sight for even a second. Finally, he said, âIâm fifteen.â
Percy gave Mr. Luke the stink-eye, clearly communicating that he did not trust even fifteen year olds (who were high schoolers, and even less trustworthy than adult-adults) as far as he could throw them. Especially fifteen year olds like Luke: who were too tall, with too-mature eyes and a particularly unhappy expression. Percy communicated perfectly that there was nothing trustworthy about this family of juvenile landlords, but he was just too polite to say so.Â
But that just made Mr. Luke sigh, as if he was tired instead of angry. âAnnabethâs my...ward, I guess. I just look after her. But she doesnât like being looked after, so she makes up for it by looking after everyone else. Iâm not saying I do a good job.â
Heâs a landlord and he has a ward? Percy finally perked up. âSo youâre like Batman?â
Mr. Luke stared at him unblinkingly, before finally saying, âYes, except Batman doesnât have superpowers.â
Percy had the sense he was being made fun of. âYou donât have super powers,â he accused, crossing his arms. âNobody has super powers.â
Mr. Luke smiled, wan and weak. âNot even you, Percy?â
Percy froze.Â
Five seconds too late, Percy made himself laugh stupidly. People were quick to believe that Percy was stupid, and sometimes Percy helped them think that. It got him out of trouble sometimes - not always, but enough that it was useful. âIf I had superpowers, Iâd run super fast everywhere just like the Flash!â
But Mr. Luke just hummed, and flipped through some of the papers in a folder in front of him. Percy abruptly began sweating. Mom had given him those papers. They were records. This was like every time a principal had drawn up âproofâ against him in a court of law. âYour mom said that you both had to move out of your Queens apartment because it flooded.â
âI didnât unscrew the taps,â Percy said reflexively. âThey just came loose! I didnât even touch them! I didnât touch the boiler either!â
âThe boiler?â Mr. Luke flipped back a few pages. âOh, right. Your school.â
Percy slouched in his seat and folded his arms across his chest, stewing. He always sounded guiltiest when he denied it. He should go back to playing dumb. Pretend that he had no idea what water was. He had gotten away with it when he was six during that one birthday party at the aquarium, but something about being a third grader meant that people expected that you have basic observational skills.Â
It was stupid. There was no way to win. If he said that he didnât do it then he sounded guilty. If he tried to point out how it was impossible for him to break the boiler and destroy the gym or whatever, using facts and logic and a rhetorical argument like the Youtube videos taught him, then they just told him he was making excuses. Sometimes Percy had the impression that everybody just wanted him to supervillain cackle like the Joker and brag about how terrible he was. Maybe heâd give that a shot once he entered middle school. It seemed like an evil teenage thing to do.Â
Percy Jackson was a liar, a thief, a cheat, a menace, and a bad kid. There was nothing more to be: not for someone like Percy.Â
But Mr. Luke didnât threaten him, or give him âone last chanceâ or anything. He just leaned forward, hands folded on the desk. His thumb was worrying at a small starburst scar on his hand, betraying a strange nervousness.Â
âPercy, can I talk to you man-to-man?â
Percy, who did not like men, squinted at Mr. Luke suspiciously. âWhy.â
âBecause this isnât a topic for a kid. Itâs a topic that...kills children, and turns them into little adults. I wish I didnât have to broach it with you. But I think that you havenât been a kid for a long time, Percy, and I donât want to insult you by pretending otherwise.â Mr. Luke frowned, and Percy found himself involuntarily straightening. What was he talking about? âYou were right. There was no way for you to have flooded your apartment, much less twice. There was no way for you to ruin your gym, or damage that aquarium. Much less...everything else in your file. No kid is that much of a miniature hurricane when he isnât even trying. It sucks. Itâs not your fault. And now your Momâs credit score is so bad that she canât afford another apartment. If it wasnât for the fact that she saw our really generous listing in the paper, she would have had to move you two away from her home.â
She was thinking of moving them both to New Jersey. Percyâs lips tightened, and he knew that Mr. Luke saw it.Â
âThis is an apartment building that provides shelter to a lot of special cases, just like you. Itâs...full of kids who break things when they donât mean to. Kids with a parent couldnât handle them, or who couldnât protect them. We have a lot of ways to keep families like yours safe, and to give you a home.â
Percy stared at Mr. Luke. He seemed deadly serious, as serious as anybody had ever been to Percy, despite the crazy stuff he was saying. Safe? Safe from what?
Safe from those weird, giant dogs that chased Percy and tore off half his jeans? Safe from that old lady in the deli with the slobbering bag and beady eyes? Safe from broken water pipes, from ruined floors and busted walls, from Percy himself?Â
Finally, all Percy could think to ask was, âHow do you know that Iâm a special case?â
âBecause not just anyone could see that listing,â Mr. Luke said. âAnd - uh, no offense - but you are one of the most obviously inhuman children Iâve met in my life.â
Percyâs jaw dropped in complete, unadulterated rage, and without even stopping to think through his actions he withdrew the ballpoint pen from his pocket. He uncapped it, fully intending on doing something dramatically yet harmlessly violent with it, but he didnât get the chance.Â
The ballpoint pen turned into a gleaming bronze and silver sword. Percy screamed. Percy fell out of his chair. Percy did not get the opportunity to look cool and dangerous at all.
****
And now Percy had Greek god stuff to worry about!
Didnât Percy have enough problems? He couldnât stay in a school, they couldnât keep an apartment, their new landlord didnât blink enough, and now he was the kid of a Greek god? Apparently he had been spending his entire life running from monsters and he just hadnât noticed? That explained the stupid scary dog!
Percy knew much more about Greek gods than the average kid, since Mom was a huge fan. Yeah, Mom! Apparently you were a big fan! Jesus, Mom!
Whatâs this dumb stuff about Poseidon! That had freaked out Mr. Luke, and made him ask a lot of questions like âare you sureâ and âthereâs a lot of minor gods who like to pass themself off as someone more impressive to mortalsâ. Then Annabeth, who had been listening at the door like a sneak and who ran in all heroically when he almost accidentally stabbed Mr. Luke, freaked out and called his mom a liar. His mom!
Then Percy tried to stab her with his new sword. Mom made Percy apologize for trying to stab Annabeth. Mr. Luke made Annabeth apologize for insulting Percyâs mother. Percy was beginning to worry that he and Annabeth may be mortal enemies.Â
Mr. Luke had tried explaining a bunch of stuff about monsters and âthe Sightâ and why Percyâs life was terrible to him, but Percy already knew his life was terrible and he wasnât interested. Percy ended up furiously swinging his new sword at a tree outside as Mom signed a bunch of forms and talked with Mr. Luke some more, but she hustled him home pretty quickly afterwards.Â
Percy didnât give the sword back. Mr. Luke, wisely, did not ask for it back.
Mom kept on making a face on the subway back to the motel like she had been waiting her entire life for Percy to ask all of these questions, and she was preparing herself for it. She kept on glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, watching Percy kick his feet against the hard plastic seat. It was obvious. But Percy didnât have anything to say to her. They spent the rest of the day in silence, just focusing on packing up and getting everything ready to move. Jacksons were practical, Mom said.Â
Jacksons were practical. Percy was practical, too. It was only in the deep pits of night, as Percy lay in bed holding up his sword and watching it reflect the soft lamplight above the creaky wooden table where Mom was doing work, that he asked.Â
âWhy didnât you tell me?â
The sword was really cool. It was pure bronze, with the middle gleaming pure silver. There was some Greek writing inscribed down the center that Percy had no idea how to read, although he had spent an hour scouring the internet looking for a translation. The handle was tough white cord, stiff and starchy but fraying a little at the edges.Â
Mr. Luke said it was named something, but Percy forgot what it was. He had been a bit busy almost impaling the guy.Â
Momâs fingers froze over the keyboard. Her back was turned to him, so he couldnât see her face, but her spine was stiff and rigid.Â
Finally, after a long silence, she said, âI didnât want you to think that there was anything different about you.â
âSo what?â Percy asked, his eyes pricking rebelliously. Stupid water. âYou let me think that I was a bad person who ruined your life?â
âPercy, no!â Mom turned around, expression crumpled. The dim light showed the heavy bags under Momâs eyes in sharp relief. âYouâre the best thing thatâs ever happened to me, baby. None of this is your fault, you understand? Thatâs what this business with your father means: that none of it was your fault. Thatâs all it means.â
If that was true, Percy thought, then why couldnât she have told him before?
But Percy was afraid that if he said that, then he would start crying, and Percy was way too old to cry. Only weak little babies cried.Â
âIâm sorry my dadâs a loser who ruined your life, Mom,â Percy said.
âPercyâŚâ
But Percy refused to answer her, putting his sword down next to him and pretending to go to sleep. He kept it next to him in bed all night, gripping its hilt tight, and the firm and cool pressure of the steel in his hand soothed him when the thought of a father didnât.Â
***
They moved in the next day.
The next day! Percy was livid. He barely had any time to pack up his toys into his backpack, and Mom didnât even have time to help him back up his blue Spider-man suitcase. He had to do it all by himself, and then Mom came in and told him he was folding everything up wrong and that he had to redo it. If she had so many problems with it, she should have helped him and gave him more than one day to move out of their dumb motel!Â
When people moved on TV there were always moving vans and buff dudes in baseball caps. But Percy was much better at moving then any of those idiots: all it took was a suitcase (of clothes and toiletries and stuff) and a backpack (of toys and school supplies and stuff).Â
Percyâs backpack had the Power Rangers on it, in glossy plastic. Its contents were always the same, through every move: Batman, Golduck, Bulbasaur, Blue Eyes White Dragon, Raphael, a stegosaurus with a missing tail named Hedward, and a little book full of pictures of him and his mom and some cards and stuff. There was a picture of him and Grandma in the apartment in Staten Island that he lived in until he was six, and a 5th birthday card she had given him six months before she died. Written inside, in her looping and faded script, was a sentence Percy had read over and over and over again. âTu angel de la guarda trabaja horas extra por tĂ. AsĂ que acuĂŠrdate de decirle gracias ÂżSĂ, mi niĂąo?'â
Percy was inclined to agree with her. God should pay his guardian angel overtime. That, or pay one to go to Olympus and collect child support.
The image was funny to Percy - the idea of his angel with her wings and halos showing up at Poseidonâs door and tapping her watch as she held out her hat. It was so funny, it was the first thing he told Mr. Luke when they met him at the gates to the apartment complex. Mom was huffing behind him with her two suitcases, while Percy was busy juggling his own backpack, suitcase, and sword.Â
Mr. Luke looked alarmed to see the both of them, although Mom had called ahead and arranged to meet him here. Worse, Annabeth was next to him, still holding a clipboard. She didnât look alarmed, just mad.Â
âDid you bring Riptide onto public transportation?â Annabeth squawked. âYou have no sense of discretion!â
Was Riptide the name of the sword? Whatever. Percy would have named it Hurricane. âI know words you donât know too, you donât have to brag,â Percy said flatly.Â
âYeah, the gods are filthy little child support evaders,â Mr. Luke said easily, instantly endearing himself to Percy. Mom rolled her eyes as she put her suitcases down, but she was clearly fighting a smile. âDonât worry, I dragged them to court. Sued them for all theyâre worth.â
âHow on earth did you do that?â Mom asked, interested.Â
âTrickery and rhetoric,â Annabeth said proudly.
âSwords,â Mr. Luke said.Â
âWhat did you squeeze them for?â Percy asked, excited.Â
Mr. Luke winked. And he still didnât ask for his sword back. Maybe he wasnât all bad.Â
The apartment complex itself wasnât nearly as big as a lot of Brooklyn complexes, looking more like the little apartment complexes in Queens that Percy was used to. It was three separate three-story buildings arranged in a square, with one side holding the small leasing office and a parking lot. It was open-air, with the apartment doors opening directly outside. There was a really big courtyard in the center, and despite himself Percy got a little excited.
It was awesome. There was a huge, sprawling tree right in the center of the courtyard. It was gigantic, bigger than any tree Percy had ever seen in his life. It seemed like it didnât even belong in New York, like it was a transplant from the California Redwoods or Canada or something. Its leaves were waving in a nonexistent breeze, and something about it just seemed so magical and otherworldly to Percy.Â
But that was only half of the awesome things. The other awesome thing was that there were kids everywhere.
The tree provided shade to a couple scattered gangs of kids, sitting around and laughing. There was a rusty set of monkey bars, which some kids were playing on, and there was a big dirt rectangle where other kids were hitting each other on the head with wooden plastic swords. There were groups of girls eating lunch, and a gang of boys playing soccer in the corner that made Percy immediately want to jump in and play too. Percy dominated at soccer.Â
âThe East and South buildings are where we all live,â Annabeth informed Mom. âThe West building is where the training rooms and storage rooms and administrative rooms - thatâs my office - and everything is. It also has guest units for the local spirits that like to visit. We just had ten Bacchae stay for a week. They were backpacking to Woodstock. We have very good inter-community relationships here.â
âThatâs amazing,â Mom said faintly. Mr. Luke was smiling faintly, eyes fixed on the big tree. Percy found himself staring at Mr. Luke, watching with interest the soft but firm pride in his eyes. âLuke said that this propertyâs safe fromâŚâÂ
She glanced at Percy quickly, cutting herself off. But Annabeth just huffed.Â
âI almost got eaten by monsters twenty times when I was seven,â Annabeth informed Mom imperiously. âWeâre not babies. Connor Stoll says if youâre old enough to get eaten by monsters then youâre old enough to know that they exist.â
Percy decided immediately that he liked Connor Stoll, and maybe even Annabeth too.Â
âThe tree protects us,â Luke said. âWherever the tree is, weâre safe. Not even the gods date step foot beyond the leasing office here.â
âBecause of the tree?â Mom asked.Â
Luke smiled - sharp, piercing, and strange. âSure, letâs say that.â
But Mom just frowned. She looked over the courtyard of kids - some of whom were already starting to whisper and stare. Annabeth waved at a gaggle of identically blonde children, and for the first time Percy wondered who she was the daughter of. Probably the bossiest god. Maybe Athena. Or, like, Hephaestus. Definitely Hephaestus.Â
âYou said that thereâs nobody over eighteen here,â Mom said to Luke. âLuke, thereâs a six year old on those monkey bars.â
âIf youâre under thirteen, you live with someone over thirteen,â Luke said to her. Annabeth was still frowning in disapproval at Percyâs sword. He stuck his tongue out at her. âTwo people to a unit, we try to pair the oldest with the youngest. Lucy lives with Henrique, heâs seventeen. Itâs the best we can do.â
âSurely there has to be someoneâŚ?â
âAdults have never helped us. They never will.â Luke looked away sharply. âWeâve been in Brooklyn a year. Youâre the first adult whoâs made her way here. Most other parents with a kid as powerful as Percy would have -â
He cut himself off sharply, glancing at Percy, and Percy scowled up at him. He thought that Luke was being honest. Maybe he was just another old guy afraid to say what everybody else knew.Â
âIâll help Ms. Jackson settle in,â Annabeth said suddenly. She held out her hands to Percy, who reflexively hugged his luggage to his chest. âYou guys are in unit 5. Itâs on the bottom floor. If you flood it, then we can fix it okay. Give me your luggage, Iâll put it in your unit.â
Percy stared at her, overwhelmed with that simple signal of care. No threats about if he flooded it, no warnings or sickly sweet faux-concern. Just understanding, and acceptance.Â
He silently gave her his bags.Â
She seemed surprised when she felt how light they were. Percy shrugged awkwardly at her face, crossing his arms tightly around her chest. âDonât touch my stuff, okay?â
âSure,â Annabeth said, before pausing a beat. âWe have a TV in our place. #1. Do you want to come over tonight and watch Winx Club?â
âYeah,â Percy said, overwhelmed. âSure.â
Mr. Luke put a hand on Percyâs back as Annabeth guided Mom to a corner unit. Percy couldnât help but notice that the door to the unit was already propped open. Wait - there were people going in and out!
There was a tall, buff teenager, carrying two chairs underneath each arm. There was another group of three teenage girls, carrying a table between them. Two other younger kids were carrying boxes and laughing. They were bringing everything into the unit, and other younger kids were running in and out with cleaning supplies.Â
From a distance, Percy saw Mom stop in her tracks. Annabeth tugged at her shirt and got her to bend down, whispering something in her ear. A boy with sandy brown hair ran up, taking Momâs suitcases from her and bringing them into the unit.Â
âYour Mom mentioned that you were missing some furniture,â Mr. Luke said. âThe Hermes and Aphrodite kids all pitched in to get your home looking like a home. I hope youâll like it.â
Percy clutched his sword to his chest, speechless.Â
Mr. Luke smiled down at him, that same wan and weak smile, and put a hand on his back. He gently pushed Percy forward, towards the tree. âCome with me for a minute?â
They silently approached the sprawling, ancient tree. As they came closer, Percy could see that its bark was gnarled and knotted, with perfect handholds for climbing and perfect boughs for resting in the summer sun. He could already see a few kids resting in high boughs, taking a nap in the humid and sticky sun.Â
âPercy, Iâd like to introduce you to someone.â Mr. Lukeâs voice was quiet, like he was in church. He looked up at the tree, peering far into the leaves as if he was trying to find something hidden within them. âThis is Thalia. Thalia, this is Percy. Heâs the newest member of the family. Heâs also your cousin.â
Cousin? Percy looked up at Mr. Luke, eyes wide. âIâm related to a tree?â
Tilted up at the tree, Percy couldnât see Mr. Lukeâs expression. Maybe that was on purpose. âThaliaâs a kid, just like us. Daughter of Zeus. I used to think that she was the closest thing to an adult I knew, but...Iâm as old as she is, now. I guess one day soon Iâll be older than she ever got to be.âÂ
Oh. The tree was, like, from the ashes of some dead girl. Awkward. Percy stared at the thick and arching roots of the tree, feeling weird.
âThalia, please protect Percy. I can already tell that heâs going to grow up to be very strong and brave. Please help us make sure that Percy never has to be strong. That heâs never brave. I can already tell heâs going to need a lot of your help.â He looked down at Percy for the first time, and for the first time Percy could see just a little warmth in those icy blue eyes. âYouâre going to have to work overtime for him. So make sure to say thank you, Percy. Okay?â
âThank you, Thalia,â Percy said obediently. He bowed awkwardly, uncertain what to do. The sword scraped awkwardly against his thigh. âThanks for letting me into your home.â
âWelcome home, Percy,â Mr. Luke said, and for the first time Percy almost believed it.Â
#pjo#percy jackson and the olympians#percy jackson#annabeth chase#luke castellan#pjo fanfic#percy jackson fanfic#I'm bouncing between a lot of different projects right now and trying to decide which one to dedicate time to#I promise I DID take a break and I will CONTINUE TO DO SO because work's been exhausting#but sometimes that means just writing low-effort self-indulgent stuff#anyway my friend had to sit down and explain the worldbuilding of pjo to me and I was like WOW THATS FUCKED so I wrote this#I also dislike some of the ways that pjo handled percy's backstory so that's being addressed#my writing#I FORGOT THE CUT LOL
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It all kind of happens in slow motion.
One second, Emma hears the crack of the bat and the requisite roar of the crowd, and the next her eyes have widened to a size most scientists would likely advise against. Because, standing at home plate, that same home plate multiple baseball players are sprinting toward, is her kid. More or less waiting to be run over. That is, of course, until Killian Jones.
âââ
Word Count: 4.1K Rating: Flufffy fluff fluff of the fluffiest variety AN: Writing has been something of a legitimate challenge for me in the last few weeks, but earlier this week @ohmightydevviepuu sent a link to this tweet, tagged me, and said what I basically took as an unspoken prompt. Like, youâre going to send me video of a bat boy getting scooped up at home by a player in the middle of the game and then think I wonât write about it? Not possible. Even with the aforementioned writing challenges. Nothing stands a chance against my love of baseball. Hereâs hoping the Yankees turn it around in the second half. Neither Aaron Judge or I deserve the season weâve had so far.
âââ
Biologically speaking, Emma Swan is perfectly aware that the current positioning of her heart is more or less impossible.Â
Stuck somewhere between the back of her throat and the pit of her stomach, it makes her all too aware of the now-empty chasm in her chest, stretching out toward her arms and threatening the structural integrity of her lungs, neither of which appear all that intent on working properly. Oxygen is a luxury not currently afforded to her capillaries. Instead, nerves mix with anxiety and the telltale flush of adrenaline that probably also makes her look relatively crazy because her pupils are definitely dilated and she does not know nearly enough about science to be making any of these claims.Â
Whatever, really.Â
It feels like that ooze from that movie. FernGully, Emma thinks. With the fairies. She thinks they were fairies. Sheâs not entirely certain they were fairies.Â
And the ooze was definitely oil, obviously. There was a message involved in that movie. Not one that she appreciated when she was seven and Tim Curryâs animated-oil voice sort of freaked her out. But, like, she gets it now. The environment, and everything. With or without fairies. With Robin Williams, though.Â
Sheâs positive about that, at least.Â
Robin Williams was definitely in that movie.Â
Less positive about the ability of her heart to actually split itself in half, as it seems wont to do at the moment. So, as to make it easier when it inevitably soars out of her mouth and falls onto the scuffed-up clubhouse floor beneath her feet. Naturally, this will happen simultaneously. For maximum effect.Â
Much like the fireworks currently exploding over the left-field bleachers.Â
Sheâs not sure if fireworks do explode, actually. That seems dangerous. Likely to lead to injuries and sounds that donât resemble the oohs and ahhs a ballpark generally inspires. Explode probably isnât the right word. Maybe something more likeâŚdetonate.Â
No, thatâs worse. Way worse. Sheâs got to learn more words. Find a thesaurus or a dictionary orâa fireworks expert would be ideal, honestly.
Someone who could give her a detailed description of the inner-workings of a Yankee Stadium pyrotechnics display on a Tuesday in July, enough words that Emmaâs mind would still for a few moments, allowing her to catch her breath and reestablish a consistent heart rate, and both of those problems could also likely be solved by sitting down, but the chair to her left looks a little wobbly, and her legs appear to have minds of their own because science is rather quickly becoming a lie andâ
âIs he alright?â She spins. Nearly falls over. Her knees are also awfully wobbly, thatâs why.Â
Despite all of that, and the overall circumference of her pupils, the voice doesnât retreat. Doesnât even flinch. Shows absolutely no signs of imminent stumbling. And thatâs probably because the voice is a man, one who is in possession of world-class instinctual reactions, and his hair is still damp from his post-game shower and it absolutely makes her something of an atrocious mother to acknowledge that last thing as quickly as she does.Â
His shirt sleeves are noticeably sticking to his biceps, so that helps too.Â
Opening her mouth, Emma is going to say words that are both vaguely intelligent and passably accurate, absolving this Major League Baseball player of any of the guilt he so obviously feels. Which is just patently stupid, really. None of this was his fault. None of it was anyoneâs fault, really.Â
Except maybe the idiot who left his bat at that particular angle across home plate, but Emmaâs an adrenaline expert these days and walk-offs are understandably exciting. First walk-offs more so.Â
Sheâs happy for Scarlet, really.Â
They won the game.Â
Everything is fine. Great, even. She nearly jumps twenty-six feet in the air at the next boom of fireworks.Â
The pinch between the Major League Baseball playerâs eyebrows getsâ
Pinchier.Â
The little roll of skin draws Emmaâs attention, effectively robbing her of the ability to respond like an almost-sane person, but sheâs also still trying to rationalize why she can remember the words to several FernGully songs while also being unable to recall what flavor PopTart she had for breakfast earlier this week and she figures watching her kid nearly get run over by professional athletes approximately forty-two minutes before gives her a fairly reasonable excuse.Â
For opening and closing her mouth no less than eight consecutive times.Â
Like a goddamn fish. There were no fish in FernGully. Least not so far as she remembers.Â
Itâs entirely possible she squeaks on attempt number five.Â
The Major League Baseball playerâs eyebrows do not move. Itâs equal parts frustrating and incredible to behold.Â
âI should probably thank you, right?â Emma asks, not quite regretting the words immediately, but itâs awfully close. That gets her some movement. Of the eyebrow variety. One eyebrow, specifically. Arching up, it somehow still manages to pull her attention directly toward eyes that should be the star of their own marketing campaign. Not quite Yankee blue, but distractingly blue, and it takes everything in her not to huff as dramatically as she wants to. Once the athletic trainer is done with Henry, Emma is going to make him examine her lungs. Rationality rules the day.Â
Major League Baseball player shakes his head. Itâs dumb to call him that. She knows his name. Knows at least some of his history. Is still staring obnoxiously at his freakishly attractive face.Â
Freakishly is kind of mean, too. As far as descriptions go.Â
âUnnecessary,â he says, an undercurrent of worry still clear in the letters. Ducking his head, he takes a cautious step forward, almost as if heâs wary of what Emma will do, and she supposes thatâs fair. What with the impressive vertical sheâs in possession of these days. âAnyone would do that.â âIâm not sure they could, actually.â
At some point in this otherwise shitty experience of a night, Emma is vaguely confident something will go the way she wants it to. Aside from winning. Sheâs glad they won. Seriously.Â
âNo?â âNo,â she echoes, and itâs not like she can feel him. A few feet of space separates them, so whatever heat appears to be wafting off the Major League Baseball player in front of her, with his damp hair, and stupid, stupid, stupid eyes is as impossible as any of the various impossibilities currently taking place within her person.Â
And yet.Â
He sticks his hand out.Â
Itâs disarmingly earnest.Â
âKillian Jones,â he says, confidence replacing the nerves, and Emma begins to see why there are so many stories. And Twitter threads. Regarding his face and the potential for that face to date a variety of other attractive faces across at least four of the five boroughs. Somehow Emma doesnât think Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, is schlepping out to Staten Island for a date.Â
Nor does she believe that Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, has ever once let the word schlep pass through his conscious mind.Â
She takes his hand.Â
It isâ
Surprisingly warm. And...not quite soft, thatâd be impossible with the job he performs almost nightly. But the calluses on the pads of his fingers arenât as rough as Emma expects, which also suggests sheâs managed to ponder the overall texture of Killian Jonesâs fingers in the last twelve point six seconds, and thatâs not entirely true. What is true is that Ruby thinks Killian Jones is real good-looking and has determined that the phrase quite a catch is the pinnacle of humor, so, sure, Emma has possibly considered the possibility of paths crossing and intersecting, and her hand looks minuscule wrapped up in his. So, thatâs something to think about later.Â
Their arms move. Bob up and down as society dictates they should, and heâs smiling at her, and sheâs trying not to look like a serial killer, straining to hear the voices behind the door, and it does not work.Â
âWhy do you think people are so consistently fascinated by fireworks?â If heâs surprised by her absolutely inane question, he doesnât show it. Thatâs points. For what, Emma hasnât totally decided yet, but itâs something, and itâs probably good, and theyâre going to play that clip on loop for weeks. Longer, probably.Â
Every goddamn day if the Yankees make the postseason.Â
When the Yankees make the postseason.Â
Her dad wouldnât appreciate the buffer. Leaves room for loss, and that is not the Nolan way. Not when there are championships to win, and this was supposed to be the best possible time. Smack dab in the middle of the season, with the All-Star break looming, Henry would get to suit up as batboy for one game that didnât mean much and wouldnât draw too strong of a spotlight, no murmurs about nepotism by internet trolls who couldnât possibly define the word with any sort of accuracy, but also like to shout about canceling and culture with an almost alarming sense of self-righteousness, so, of course, the whole thing was now blowing up in their face.Â
Much like the goddamn fireworks.Â
It wasnât Will Scarletâs fault.Â
Wasnât Henryâs fault, either.Â
His job was to get the bats out of the field of play. Doing it while the field of play was still active was a mistake any kid could have made. Just so happens that itâs Emmaâs kid, and the grandkid of the Yankeesâ hitting coach, and that means something to the New York media and the New York fans, and if Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman with an arm that can make cross-field throws with ease, wasnât also so quick-thinking and sure-footed, scooping Henry up as he crossed home plate and avoiding the ensuing swarm of players at home plate, all intent on celebrating Will Scarletâs first-ever career walk-off, Emma can only imagine what would have happened.Â
Trampled. Stepped on. Broken bones. Concussions.Â
Theyâre checking Henry for a concussion now. He absolutely does not have a concussion. He was laughing while he was carried off the field. Like he hit the walk-off.Â
Front office is absolutely petrified sheâs going to sue them.Â
The thought hadnât even once crossed Emmaâs mind. Plus, sheâs sort of busy. Holding Killian Jonesâs hand. His stupid, warm hand.Â
âBright colors,â he says, responding to a question Emmaâs nearly forgotten about. Jumping is more challenging when his fingers tighten ever so slightly. âFlash, boom. Taps into baser instincts, I think.â âYou think peopleâs base instinct is to enjoy explosions.â âPhrasing that as a statement makes me think you donât agree with me.â âYou didnât want me to thank you,â Emma points out.
âWell, no,â he says, and the precise way his eyes drop does something specific to all of her instincts. Leaves her flush with a heat that reminds her of Fourth of July sparklers rather than any sort of massive explosion, and thatâs not bad, per se, although itâs admittedly a little surprising. As is the slight uptick of precisely one side of his mouth. It takes her a moment to realize heâs smirking at her. And another for her subconscious to admit that itâs working as intended. Her shoulders drop half an inch. While Emma pulls her hand back to her side. âThanking me suggests I did anything to warrant the thanks.â âBig words.â âFor a dumb athlete, you mean.â âThat wasnât a question, either.â âNo,â Killian repeats, âit wasnât.â âIâd really like to thank you. IâDad told him when to come out of the dugout, so he definitely knew the rules, but I think he was super worried about you tripping over the bat.â
The smirk becomes a full-blown smile. Which is no less than forty-seven thousand times more powerful. Equivalent to staring directly into a solar eclipse or gazing upon the dark side of the moon, and Emma should at least do some research before coming up with these internal examples. Basic Google searches would provide her with the necessary information.Â
âThatâs more or less what he told me, yeah.â Emmaâs nose creases. âTalked your ear off after your daring rescue, huh?â âKeep complimenting me like this, and my ego wonât know what to do with it.â
She hopes sheâs not blushing as much as it feels like she is. The state of Killianâs eyebrows and the precise curl of his lips make that seem unlikely. âYour reflexes are unparalleled.â âSomething about big bucks and why I get paid them.��� âOh,â Emma laughs, unable to stop herself, and she doesnât remember deciding to stop pacing, only that her knees appreciate it once she has, âyou think youâre real funny, donât you?â âI think Iâm moderately funny, not the hero youâre suggesting I amââ âOh, I never used the word hero.â ââAnd you never actually told me your name.â
âBecause you donât know who I am.â Itâs not a question, either. Neither one of them mention that.Â
âI do,â Killian concedes, âHenry was also fairly quick to mention exactly who he was and where his mother was sitting.â Emmaâs nose is going to freeze in this position. âBut I gave you my name, which makes it only fair that weâre all square and whatnot.â âWhatnot, huh?â âYup.â He pops his lips on the letter. Which is also unfair. In, like, the grand scheme of the world. The black ooze that is not actually oil when used in this particular metaphor recedes. Leaves Emma with a chest cavity that is partially full of butterfly wings and the growing sense of anticipation that isnât quite as nerve-wracking as it should be. Like sheâs about to step into the batterâs box with two outs and runners in scoring position. Sheâs totally going to hit against the shift. Fluttering her fingers at her side, Emma doesnât lift her hand. It doesnât matter.Â
Killianâs eyes drop. To the movement. And her. And part of her shies away from that because part of her has spent a lifetime tucked into a shadow that didnât belong to her and doesnât belong to Henry, but now thereâs some joke about Peter Pan to be made because they live in an internet-age and Killian Jones has a very good face. So. Viral video, enter stage right. Starring Henry Swan, Killian Jones, and the inevitably uneven pitter-patter of Emmaâs traitorous heart.Â
âEmma Swan.â âI think you should sit down.â
âWhy is that, exactly?â âIâm worried about your legs.â
Whatever noise she makes canât quite be classified as a scoff. It hurts her throat too much. And itâs not a laugh, either. Even as the butterflies threaten to rise up in mutiny of Emmaâs more rational feelings, and she gets the distinct impression that Killian is reading her mind. Trying very hard, at least.Â
âSounds like a line.â âMight be a line,â he admits, which draws another wholly inhuman sound out of Emmaâs barely-functioning lungs.Â
âDid he kick you on the lift?â Killian hums. âYouâd kick too if you were just hauled off your feet, so I understand the reaction. What Iâm more worried about is the inevitable bruise on my foot from the bat landing there.â âAh shit, really?â âIâve had worse.â âBut not in 4K video that people will play on loop for the rest of the news cycle. If not longer.â Narrowing his eyes, Killian doesnât immediately respond. Mind reading requires a modicum of focus, Emma assumes. Instead, he rests a hand on her shoulder, directing her toward the chair and ignoring the soft crack her left knee as it bends. âThatâs what youâre worried about.â âStop sounding so confident.â âI can only sound how I am, Swan.â âOh, Iâm not sure weâve reached nickname status yet,â she mumbles, pushing down the soft rush of metaphorical insects doing their beset to soar out of her barely-parted lips. âBut, yeah, IâI mean, donât get me wrong, I was totally terrified in the moment.â
âUnderstandable. Grown men barrelling down the third-base line at your kid are a lot to take in.â She snorts. Itâs not cute. Not dignified. Killian smirks. âShould you be concerned that the Scarlet was making such solid headway behind you? Are you exceedingly slow?â âI am league average.â âHow fast can you get out of the box to first?â âIâve never timed it.â âLiar, liar.â âPlease donât make a crack about my pants,â Killian says, âI wonât be able to cope.â
âOh God, you think youâre charming, too.â âIâve had no complaints.â âTo your face, at least.â
Throwing his head back, the laugh that erupts out of him is not of volcano proportions. Of which there was also one in FernGully if Emmaâs memory is to be trusted. An arm circles his middle, stretching muscle and ensuring that Emma notices just how corded that same muscle is, the slight bend of his wrist leaving her off-kilter. When he meets her gaze, she swears his eyes are brighter. âYeah, yeah, thatâs true,â Killian concedes, âno one has flat out told me I was lacking charm to my face.â âThis thanking you thing is going great.â âAnd I continue to not need thanks. Why are you worried about the video getting out there? Filmed in 4K like you suggest, at least weâll all look great. Sharp pixels and whatnot.â âWhat do you know about pixels?â âYou basically heard the extent just now.â
Sheâs getting better at laughing. The ooze has almost all but disappeared, Emma twirling a strand of hair around fingers that are intent on moving, and itâs an old habit. One Killianâs gaze catches on. Immediately. Quickly. Seriously, Emma needs a thesaurus. âBaseballâs always been my dad,â she says. âAnd thatâsâwell, weâve lived this game, me and my mom, weekend series and West Coast swings, waiting up for him to get home because the flight got delayed, but Henryâs just a kid, getting thrown into this world because of his last name and who his family is? That sucks. Nothing was supposed to happen tonight.â âNothing did happen.â âBecause of you.â âIâd like to believe Scarlet, ridiculously fast as he might be, would not run over a small child,â Killian says. âAnd, uh, for the record and all that, I got a bad jump off first because I didnât know if they were going to catch it in left. No one wants to get caught on the base paths.â âYeah, thatâd be embarrassing.â
He must hear the hitch in her voice because the next thing Emma realizes, her fingers are twisted back up in Killianâs, and sheâs warm and falling and flying, and itâs good and weird, and the door swings open.Â
They both jump.
So, thatâs something.Â
Rushing out quickly enough that he nearly trips over his own feet, Henryâs head leads the way and finds Emmaâs stomach, a tangle of limbs, and overly-excited words, all of which rival the now-finished fireworks display in volume.Â
It takes Henry about five and a half run-on sentences to notice Killian standing there.Â
His eyes widen. His mouth drops. Killian grins. Emma tries very hard not to die. It only sort of works.Â
She blames the faulty body parts sheâs in possession of.Â
âKillian,â Henry exclaims, clamoring back to his feet and nearly falling again in the process. Hands that belong to both Emma and Killian dart out, steadying Henry while their eyes meet over the top of his head. Killian winks. He tries. Itâs more like a blink than anything. âHi, hi! You did so good tonight! And we won, and I got to go on the field andâand, it was so,â Henry heaves a deep breath, âwe were so good.â
Collective pronouns do something to Emmaâs entire state of being.Â
Flips it on an axis she hadnât been aware previously existed until it almost feels as if this was the path theyâd been directing themselves toward from the start. Her eyes flit toward Killian. Who is already watching her.Â
âWe did,â he nods, âmaybe next time, though, you wait one extra second to grab Scarletâs bat, ok?â Seeing her own nose scrunch reflected back on her kid is not the worst thing thatâs ever happened to Emma. The vibrating phone in her back pocket, might be.Â
Itâs one-hundred percent, Ruby.Â
âThatâs what grandpa said too,â Henry grumbles, digging a toe of the cleats Emmaâs mother bought him last week into the ground, âbut I wanted to make sure you didnât fall.â
Definitely dying, then. A systematic shut down of all necessary internal organs. Itâs not as bad as Emma would have expected.Â
Neither one of Killianâs knees crack when he bends. That seems heavy-handed.Â
âAnd I donât want you to fall either,â he says, âso we agree, right here, right now, not to let the other one fall, huh?â Emma holds her breath. Ignores the pinch in her lungs and the clearly unstable nature of both her mind and her heart, digging her nails into her palms. To ensure she isnât tempted to haul Henry back toward her. Or push that one strand of hair away from Killianâs forehead.Â
Henry nods. âDeal.â
They hook their pinkies together.Â
Itâs adorable and as endearingly charming as everything else Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, has done since he walked into that hallway. Less so when her dad emerges from the office, the athletic trainer on his heels to not-so-quietly inform Killian that he canât just blow off post-game like that, and the second wink is as bad as the first.Â
She does her very best to memorize the movement.Â
And the joy on Henryâs face the next morning when a box arrives on their doorstep, a genuine, game-worn Killian Jones jersey inside. She doesnât notice the note at first, tucked between the cardboard and the tissue paper someone must have bought for him. He canât have bought that tissue paper himself. He justâitâs unfathomable.Â
Emma knows he bought the tissue paper himself.Â
As clearly as she knows that those numbers in that particular order will lead to Killian Jones answering his phone and that her voice likely wonât shake when she replies to the question written in surprisingly loopy script. Which is why, Emma will argue, she does reply. In the affirmative. To several questions over the course of the remaining season, and they donât star in any more viral videos, but there are a few pictures once they clinch the division.Â
Drops of champagne cling to the tips of Emmaâs eyelashes and the ends of Killianâs hair, hands on her waist that blaze a quick path up her back and around her middle, and she has to tilt her head up to get the right angles. Of lips. While they kiss in the middle of the clubhouse, the hat someone forced onto Emmaâs head falling and itâs impossible to hear over the sound of celebratory fireworks, but she can somehow still hear Henryâs laugh ringing out from the general area near Scarletâs locker, and his jersey collection is growing at an impressive rate.Â
No one can withstand the overall cuteness of him.Â
Emma included. Emma, especially.Â
Sometimes she worries sheâs so happy sheâll burst, unable to contain the sort of emotion her body is still acclimating itself to. But then she realizes just how dumb that is and happiness cannot possibly be quantified, and her head is buzzing enough from champagne that she nearly misses Killian when he says, âpeople love the bright spots, Swan.â Itâs not the most romantic thing heâs told her. Doesnât crack the top five, quite frankly. She swoons all the same. With her kid laughing and her team winning and thatâs about all the sentiment sheâs willing to acknowledge before her tongue is in Killianâs mouth. He groans. She grins.Â
And heâd been right about the video. It wasnât the embarrassment Emma worried it could be. Was mostly relegated to the corners of the internet set aside for formerly popular content as soon as the season ended, spoken about only in fond recollection as the other seasons went on and the wins kept coming and all three of them stand on a parade float with the World Series trophy a few dozen feet away, several Novembers after that first game.Â
Itâs a Thursday afternoon, then.Â
And yet Emma never entirely forgets. What the video meant and what it did and sheâs not remotely surprised when it finds its way back to the forefront of the sports zeitgeist on a Wednesday in July. Most mentions come with similar taglines and messages. Something about feeling our age and wanna feel old because that bot boy, David Nolanâs grandson, Killian Jonesâs stepson, heâs getting drafted now.Â
Got drafted, technically.Â
Third round, video of the soon-to-be third baseman for the San Diego Padres makes the internet circuits and garners plenty of interest. Itâs not the most exciting video, though. Henry just hugs his family. Who hug tightly back.Â
What is more exciting is the box that arrives on Emma and Killianâs doorstep. With a note that eventually earns a frame next to the last one and a wholly official, game-worn jersey that has a noticeable streak of dirt across the left sleeve. From sliding head-first into home plate. Â
#cs ff#captain swan#captain swan ff#cs fic#captain swan fic#do not ask me why this is so full of ferngully references#i do not have an answer for you#the google doc title for this was: BaseballCuresWritersBlock#thanks baseball
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04/18/19
Straight from Sri Lanka, woman opens eyebrow threading studio
For 13 years, Aysha Malimage worked in her native Sri Lanka as a teacher and tailor â and later opened a beauty salon â while her husband built a new life for them in America.
Soon after, Aysha Eyebrow Studio opened at the location (Staten Island, NY).
âSome women come in, hug me and cry because they have [bad eyebrows], and then I shape them and they are happy,â she said. âEveryone has a nice natural shape. I always try to follow the natural shape. Thatâs why they are happy with my work.â
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_ Eyebrow piercing by @ipricku using a thread less curve bar with tigers eye setting by @neometaljewelry! _ 607 Forest Ave. Staten Island, NY 10310 347-695-7255 _ #boundforglorytattoo #statenisland #statenislandtattoo #statenislandtattoos #statenislandink #westbrighton #bfg #718 #statenislandpiercing #bodypiercing #safepiercing #appmember #threadlessjewelry #eyebrow #eyebrowpiercing #the90sarecalling #tigerseye #tigerseyestone #neometal #legitbodyjewelry â view on Instagram https://ift.tt/2YLtyDV
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âJersey Shoreâs Vinny gets his brows threaded on Staten Island
âThe Jersey Shoreâ star Vinny Guadagnino isnât what you see on MTV. The social gathering king not too long ago refocused his âhealth club, tan, laundryâ routine to âhealth club, tan, ketoâ â a low-carb eating regimen centered round burning fats. Now often known as âThe Keto Guido,â the 30-year-old makes use of his day off from membership appearances and filming âJersey Shore Household Trip: Half 2â to detox in his Staten Island hometown. Right here, he tells MARISA DELLATTO how he retains calm on the weekends at house. I just about get up, go to the health club. Iâll do a boxing exercise, often. Thereâs a health club known as DeMarcoâs Boxing. Itâs a small, all-about-the-grind boxing health club, itâs not fancy. Or Iâll play basketball at LA Health and get somewhat little bit of a raise in. If youâre Keto or making an attempt to comply with any eating regimen plan, itâs important to revolve your day round meals. In case you donât have a plan, youâre going to mess up. After the health club, Iâve my first meal. Thereâs a spot known as A&C. Itâs an area type of Italian place that we go to round right here within the neighborhood. Thatâs the place I get some meals, and often Iâm [also] making ready my meal for dinner. Iâll go get a steak or a fish [for later], in addition to a shake or a salad [for lunch]. Itâs summertime now, so in my noon Iâll take my canine, Tita, within the pool. Sheâs a pit bull combine, I rescued her from North Shore Animal League on Lengthy Island. She likes to swim. I get to have my second exercise, get some solar and get her train, too. My uncle Angelo owns a hair salon on Staten Island. Itâs known as Salon Gioia. My mother works there. Thereâs at all times household there. Itâs a central spot the place all of us meet up and go out and in of. Iâd go over there and get my eyebrows threaded. As a result of my job is to exit, I do it sparingly in my common time. Iâm not an enormous partier. [If] itâs a enjoyable weekend, [Iâm] in all probability going out in Manhattan to a spot like 1 Oak, certainly one of my favourite golf equipment. Iâd begin at Bounce. Bounce is extra like a sports activities bar and itâs open in the course of the day. I get there at like 10 oâclock. However I at all times find yourself at 1 Oak. Recently, Iâve simply been chilling out. Iâve not drank. Our life can get fairly loopy, and Iâm all about stability. Iâve to seek out my âme timeâ in between the insanity weâre doing proper now. [embedded content] Share this: https://nypost.com/2018/08/24/jersey-shores-vinny-gets-his-brows-threaded-on-staten-island/ The post âJersey Shoreâs Vinny gets his brows threaded on Staten Island appeared first on My style by Kartia. https://www.kartiavelino.com/2018/08/jersey-shores-vinny-gets-his-brows-threaded-on-staten-island.html
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The Ultimate Guide to Beauty and Skin Care : Discover KaraLaserNY's Expert Services
When it comes to looking and feeling your best, having a beauty routine that truly works for you is essential. Whether youâre seeking smooth, hair-free skin, perfectly shaped eyebrows, or a radiant complexion, KaraLaserNY offers a range of services designed to meet your unique needs. From laser hair removal to expert skin care treatments, our clinic is your go-to destination in Staten Island for beauty and wellness.
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In addition to hair removal, KaraLaserNY is also a trusted skin care clinic in Staten Island. We understand that each skin type is different and requires personalized attention. Thatâs why we offer a variety of facial treatments that target specific skin concerns like acne, aging, and dryness. Our goal is to help you achieve a glowing, healthy complexion that boosts your confidence.
Whether you're preparing for a big event or simply want to pamper yourself, our expert estheticians will guide you through a treatment plan thatâs right for your skin. Your skin deserves care thatâs just as unique as you are.
Waxing and Threading : For Those Who Prefer a Different Touch
For those who prefer traditional hair removal methods, KaraLaserNY also offers Brazilian waxing and a full suite of waxing services. As a leading waxing salon in Staten Island, we ensure a hygienic and comfortable environment for all your waxing needs.
Want perfectly shaped brows? Look no further. Our threading salon in Staten Island specializes in eyebrow threading for precise, defined brows that highlight your natural beauty. Whether you're after a bold look or something more natural, our threading experts will help you achieve the perfect shape.
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At KaraLaserNY, weâre more than just a beauty salonweâre here to help you look and feel your best, whether itâs through laser hair removal, skin care treatments, or expert waxing and threading services. We understand that beauty is about feeling good in your own skin, and weâre here to support you on that journey.
Visit KaraLaserNY.com today to learn more about our services and book your appointment. And if youâre a mom on the go, don't forget to check out LittleBum.In for ergonomic baby carriers that simplify daily life. Your time is valuable let us help you make the most of it by providing the beauty care you deserve.
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Expert Eyebrow Threading & Facial Treatment â Threading Salon in Staten Island | KaraLaserNY
Discover professional eyebrow threading at KaraLaserNY, Staten Island's top threading salon. We offer expert facial treatments, laser hair removal, and Brazilian waxing services. Visit our skin care clinic for the best in beauty and wellness, including full body laser hair removal and waxing.
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Kara Laser NY LLC: Staten Islandâs Premier Salon for Threading, Waxing, and Skincare
Discover why Kara Laser NY LLC is Staten Islandâs top choice for expert threading, waxing, and skincare services. From laser hair removal to personalized facial treatments, visit our salon for flawless beauty care today!
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Why Kara Laser NY LLC Is Staten Islandâs Go-To for Threading, Waxing, and Skincare
When it comes to taking care of your skin, hair removal, and beauty needs, not all salons are created equal. In Staten Island, Kara Laser NY LLC has become a trusted name for those seeking high-quality, professional services in threading, waxing, and skincare. Whether itâs achieving flawless skin through laser hair removal or perfecting your brows with expert eyebrow threading, Kara Laser NY LLC is a one-stop solution for all your beauty essentials.
A Comprehensive Approach to Skincare
At Kara Laser NY LLC, we believe in treating skin with the utmost care and precision. Our expert team of skincare professionals provides a wide range of services, including facial treatments in Staten Island, designed to rejuvenate your skin and give you a healthy, radiant glow. Using advanced techniques and high-quality products, we ensure each facial treatment is customized to address individual skincare concerns, whether itâs hydration, anti-aging, or blemish control.
Our skin care clinic in Staten Island offers personalized consultations to help you choose the best treatments for your skin type, ensuring lasting results. Whether youâre preparing for a special occasion or simply seeking regular skincare maintenance, Kara Laser NY LLC is committed to helping you achieve your beauty goals.
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If youâre tired of constant shaving or waxing, our laser hair removal services offer a more permanent solution. Kara Laser NY LLC specializes in full body laser hair removal, using cutting-edge technology to ensure smooth, long-lasting results. Weâre proud to be known for providing the best laser hair removal in Staten Island, with our treatments being both effective and safe for all skin types.
Whether you're looking for facial, leg, or bikini line hair removal, our expert technicians ensure that the process is as comfortable as possible, with minimal downtime. Laser hair removal in Staten Island has never been more accessible and efficient than it is at Kara Laser NY LLC.
Expert Waxing and Threading Services
For those who prefer more traditional hair removal methods, Kara Laser NY LLC is also a renowned waxing salon in Staten Island. Our Brazilian waxing service is particularly popular for those seeking smooth skin without the hassle of daily maintenance. We use high-quality wax and ensure a comfortable environment, making even sensitive treatments like Brazilian waxing a breeze.
When it comes to achieving the perfect brows, our threading salon in Staten Island is unmatched. Whether you're looking for a simple clean-up or a more defined shape, our threading experts can craft the perfect brow to complement your face.
Conclusion
Kara Laser NY LLC has established itself as Staten Islandâs go-to beauty destination, offering everything from laser hair removal to expert eyebrow threading and Brazilian waxing. Visit Kara Laser NY LLCÂ to experience personalized care and beauty treatments designed to make you look and feel your best. Discover why our clients keep coming back for more by booking an appointment today!
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Contact Kara Laser NY LLC for Expert Laser Hair Removal & Skin Care
Get in touch with Kara Laser NY LLC for the best laser hair removal services in Staten Island. Whether you need full body laser hair removal, Brazilian waxing, or eyebrow threading, our skin care clinic offers top-notch treatments tailored to your needs. Reach out today!
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Best Laser Hair Removal & Skin Care Clinic in Staten Island | KaraLaserNY LLC
Discover expert laser hair removal, full body treatments, and skin care services at KaraLaserNY LLC. We offer the best laser hair removal in Staten Island, along with facial treatments, Brazilian waxing, eyebrow threading, and more. Visit our top-rated waxing and threading salon for all your beauty needs.
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Best Laser Hair Removal & Skincare in Staten Island | KaraLaserLLC NY
KaraLaserLLC NY offers top-notch laser hair removal, full body treatments, facial care, Brazilian waxing, and eyebrow threading in Staten Island. Visit our skincare clinic and waxing salon for the best beauty treatments, including threading and advanced skincare services. Book your appointment today!
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