The Pirate And His Sea

Chapter 2 : How Fury Met Him

(This is not my chapter and the credit of the characters goes to their respective authors)

The day Nick Fury met Perseus Jackson was an odd one. The director of SHIELD had decided to tag along on the recruitment of the man Jon Folosky. They found themselves approaching him in a bar Folosky visited on occasion, the Golden Fleece. He had never been to it himself, because of its remote location in the easy-going, slightly removed corner district of New York. Folosky would be an excellent addition to SHIELD if they could convince (or threaten) him to join, with his ex-marine status and experience in the field.

When they entered the Golden Fleece(he wasn't sure if that was a sissy name or not) Folosky was seated at a table in the corner, next to the bar. He was blonde haired and blue eyed with a sturdy build, and was nursing a tall glass of what he supposed was beer. He and Coulson – who he had personally chosen to accompany him – walked over silently and took a seat across from him.

Folosky glanced up, considered them, then looked back at his glass. Raising it, he paused before taking a sip and said softly, "Be on your way, gentlemen. I'm not interested in whatever the government has to offer."

Coulson glanced around them as he relaxed into the chair with practiced ease, the picture of an easy going friend visiting another. "Are you sure? We might have a proposal that will peak your curiosity."

Neither Fury nor Coulson bothered to deny the fact that they were from the government; Folosky would recognize the lie.

Folosky slammed his glass down abruptly and glared at them, blue eyes churning furiously. "I'm not interested," he said flatly, and stood from the table in a rush. Something in his gaze made Fury sigh – he knew that look. Folosky was done with the war and combat because it had broken him long ago, and he had no urge to fix it. It was rare for SHIELD to be able to recruit those kinds of people, and he knew that Folosky wouldn't give. Normally he would not give up so easily, but Folosky wasn't particularly necessary, and he didn't need broken people.

"Don't bother trying with him again," a voice said, and caused both SHIELD director and agent to turn to the bar. A young man with black hair and eyes the color of a churning green sea leveled an easy-going smile at them, cleaning out a glass absentmindedly. He was obviously the bartender of the place, and couldn't be more than 27, but Fury was a little more concerned about how he had not heard the man come around the bar. He hadn't been there when they walked in, and he would notice any person shuffling about seven feet away.

"Folosky's done with all things government and combat related," the unnamed man continued, walking around the bar with two bottles in hand and approaching their table. Coulson and Fury stiffened a bit, wary of both his words and any threatening movement, but the man just rolled his eyes and set the bottles down on the table. Taking Folosky's empty glass he strolled back to the bar and gave them an easy grin. "Don't worry, I won't say anything. There's enough odd things around here that everyone knows not to talk. I mean, our resident Spider-man beat down vulture and all that a while ago, a little chat between feds in my bar is nothing."

Nick Fury didn't trust easily, but something about the man made them blinked and for some reason not shoot him down. He disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving the two slightly miffed agents with two bottles of excellent scotch.
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It took Fury three days and the Avengers demolishing a three-story laboratory to open the bottle of scotch he'd received from the strange bartender. It was a strange bottle - the sleeve was grey with an owl with eerie yellow eyes on it. The curling letters above spelled out: Ambrosia Brewery, and below was what he guessed was the batch of alcohol, The Wise Man's words mean Nothing. It was odd, but after cracking it open and going through his paranoid ritual of testing it for every poison and drug known to man, he took a hesitant sip. It was fantastic. It burned its way down his throat and brought a taste to the tissue of his mouth that he'd never felt before - it felt ancient and strong, like something a war general would drink. But it had a hint of something, of some intrigue that made him feel curious and thirsting for more, and it gave the scotch a quality of refined wisdom, if that was possible.

Fury drank a quarter of the bottle that night, and tucked it away into his cabinet for some other day. Not that he'd ever admit it, but the taste lingered in his mouth for hours after, and he believed - however illogically - that the scotch had something to do with its mystical namesake, ambrosia, the food of the gods.
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It took Fury a week and a half and an explosion in the chemistry wing to send him off to the same bar as before, the Golden Fleece. He slipped past the front door and hoped, for some reason, that the same bartender wouldn't be on duty.

He was. Oh well. Maybe he'd learn his name. Striding forward purposefully and ignoring the eyebrow the bartender raised his way, he said, "Something strong. Now."

The bartender wasn't offended by his rudeness and just rolled his eyes. He went to the beverage cabinet and reached for a bottle set off to the side with a dozen others of the same make. He considered it, then shrugged and went back over to Fury. Eyeing the bottle that was put down as the bartender went to get a glass, he saw it was different than the bottle he had at home. This one's sleeve was a golden yellow, and had a golden-manned horse pulling a chariot decorated in gold suns. The same brand was there - the Ambrosia Brewery - but there was a different label to go with the image; Festivities of the Sun. It was yet again an odd label, but if the last bottle was good, and he had asked for something even stronger, then this one should not disappoint.

When the bartender poured him a glass, he silently marveled at the colour - it looked like someone had taken the sun and put it through a liquefier, with small bubbles lazily rising through the alcohol. He grabbed the glass and swallowed half of it, a second too fast for the bartender to say whatever he was going to. Immediately his throat constricted as his mouth exploded and his gorge clenched. It was liquid fire roaring through his veins, and damn did it feel good after a crazy day.

"Ah," the bartender said ruefully as he watched him hold in a faint cough, "I was going to warn you about that. The Festivities has that affect for the first few swallows."

"Only the first few?" Fury managed to regain his metaphorical feet and raised his single eyebrow sarcastically.

The bartender gave him a sheepish grin. It made his green eyes sparkle, Fury mused, like dew on fresh coastal grass - wait, what? The man continued on without noticing Fury's sudden mental yelp. "Well, most people can only handle three glasses before passing out, and a lot are completely buzzed after one and a bit. " His grin turned a bit mischievous.
"Surprisingly it doesn't have too bad of a hangover - for some people. For others they wake up and it's hell's pub party in their head. It's gotten a lot of couples together too." His face turned thoughtful. "One night stands lasting longer and all that."

Hmm. One night stands, that was a thought he wouldn't mind, not with that man standing across from him. But was a one night stand too short?... Did he really just think that? Shoot me now, he thought, mortified. Nick Fury hadn't been unsure of his sexuality since he was seventeen, where several flings quickly confirmed the fact that yes, he was gay. He had accepted it, and could enjoy a fine view as well as the next person, but it had never been like this. Well, maybe it had, but he hadn't really felt the burning desire to wrap this man up in his arms, drag him home, offer a beer and dinner and keep him. Like he did right now, with the man that he had only just met.

Damn. Maybe the alcohol really was getting to him.

But despite his doubts, he continued to return to the bar, and it became his every Tuesday evening haunt.
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It was on his fourth visit that he even bothered to ask the man's name. It was an interesting interaction.

"So," Fury said while nursing his second bottle of Festivities (he was rather fond of the brew), "what's your name? I can't just call you the bartender can I?"

The black-haired man shot him an indulgent smile that said he knew exactly what he was going at but answered anyway. "Percy Jackson."

"Nick," Fury responded. He was interested in this strange bartender named Percy Jackson, but not enough that he would tell him his last name. "Well, I would buy you a drink, Percy, but..." He waved a hand to the other man's position behind the bar.

Percy - he liked that name - raised an eyebrow and settled down on a stool across the bar, a bottle in hand. "Are you asking me out, Nick?"

"Of course," he said with a straight face, brown eye staring into swirling green eyes.

Percy smirked. "I close early tomorrow, at five. You can pick me up here."

And the rest was history.