All roads lead in one direction: Percy Jackson/One Direction Cross over


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5. Creation of Louis

Jay is nineteen years old, beautiful, and stuffing a designer scarf down her bra in the changing room at Harrods. She’s been ditched by her boyfriend (the lout); she deserves something nice. If she wants to feel like Diana for a day, then well. She’s just going to make that happen, now isn’t she.

She leaves the changing room cool as you please with her hands still and dry at her sides and her head held high. She heads right back into the fray of the shop to browse a bit, because there’s nothing more suspicious than leaving straight off after the changing rooms. 

She’s looking at a jacquard jacket when a warm, solid body fills the space beside her, crowding a bit. The scent of cinnamon and leather creeps over her shoulder as a mouth tips to her ear.

“I saw that.” Amusement. “Clever to come in already wearing a padded bra.”

Jay flushes and turns to see a beautiful man with sly eyes and a riot of black curls, just barely touched with salt-and-pepper gray at his temples. He looks young, though, and fit, and his blue suit makes him look tall and trim. But he’s wearing bright gold trainers and carrying an ebony cane, and Jay wonders briefly if he might be a pimp.

The man leans a little closer, and Jay thinks that she should push him away… but she doesn’t really want to, and besides, if she makes a scene, she’ll get caught. “Security will be around in a minute. You might want to mosey towards the exit.”

He’s American. Jay hasn’t ever actually met an American before. She’s barely been out of Doncaster; London was supposed to be romantic and special and then – well. The lout. She doesn’t need him anyway.

Jay raises an eyebrow, but gives the man a smile. “Thanks…”

He doesn’t follow her, but when Jay gets back outside into the gray London April, he’s standing there waiting for her, leaning up against the side of a Bugatti and tapping his cane idly against the side of his shoe.

Jay narrows her eyes, but smiles. “Alright, then. Thank you and all. Now fuck off.”

When he grins, his cheek dimples and it makes him look younger. “Sorry you got ditched today, Jay. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

That stops her in her tracks. 

“Really, now, fuck off,” she says, feeling her cheeks burn. “I don’t know how he told you, but – it’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere. “It isn’t funny. But he didn’t tell me anything, Jay, and… you don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Jay turns slowly. “You didn’t – he’s not hurt, is he?”

“No,” the man assures her. “He’s not hurt.”

There’s a long pause. A double-decker bus full of tourists goes rumbling down the street and there’s a flutter of camera flashes as the gaggle of Americans and Germans and Japanese take photos of Harrods and Knightsbridge. The gray sky sags and it begins to spit rain that’s neither warm nor cool, just… London in April.

“Are you interested in dining at The Square?” 

Jay’s head snaps up to look at the man. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”

“Okay,” says the man easily. He taps his cane against the side of his gold shoe again. “Are you interested in dining at The Square?” He grins again and there are those dimples. “The kedgeree is kind of dynamite.”

Logically, Jay knows that she should say no – and probably get as far away from this strange man as quickly as she can; duck into another shop, maybe. But there’s something magnetic about him that’s more than just his confidence… something maybe about the cheeky, sly look in his eyes, like even though he’s grown he could still get up to some banter, and that intrigues her more than it discomfits her and so she says,

“Sure. But I’m still not sleeping with you.”

They go to The Square and somehow, this American knows the chef and tells him it’s Jay’s birthday (it isn’t) and she gets a surprise dessert, chocolate pavé with French cherries soaked in kirsch that makes her a little dizzy. The soufflé towers like something magical and if you had told Jay that morning that by evening she would be sitting in a fancy restaurant like a proper lady eating foie gras and caviar – she decides she likes the first, but not the second – then well, she’d have laughed in your face. 

The American is all banter and so, so charming. He runs marathons, he tells her, and he lives in New York City but travels often to Los Angeles. She asks what he does there but all he says is that he’s a bit of a messenger and an inventor and he’s working on something he tells her he calls ‘the internet,’ something to do with computers and it sounds sort of daft, really, but the way his eyes light when he talks about it makes it seem like it could make sense, someday.

They drink a 1989 Beaucastel Châteauneuf-du-Pape and an ’87 Cabernet Sauvignon and they don’t taste anything like the thin, turpentine wines that Jay gets drunk on back in Doncaster with the lout and his footie mates; this tastes like plums and herbs and blackberries and California and so does the American’s mouth when she kisses him in the Bugatti.

She does sleep with him. And the next night.

And then he goes back to New York City, and a few weeks later, Jay is nineteen years old and beautiful and pregnant.

Louis is born Christmas Eve. She doesn’t have a name for the birth certificate, so he’s just Louis Tomlinson.

On New Year’s, she hears a sound from the bedroom just as they’re counting down on television and she runs in to see the American standing beside the bassinet with Louis in his arms. The baby’s awake and staring at his father with a little wrinkle in his brow, like he’s trying to decide whether to start howling.

“How’d you get in here?” Jay asks with a knot in her stomach. It grows into a hot flash of betrayal and anger and it’s all well and good that he can jet around the world dicking with computers and gold trainers and drinking Châteauneuf-du-Pape and eating foie gras when now she’s fucking stuck in Doncaster with a baby (and she loves Louis, she does; more than she ever thought she could love anything) but Doncaster and baby and a stolen designer scarf are all she has now. “The fuck are you doing here? Put my baby down!”

Hermes kisses Louis’ crinkled brow and settles him back into the bassinet. He looks old when he stands again and regards Jay. Ancient. “There’s something you need to know about Louis.”

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