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thefanficmonster · 7 months

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Reader being jealous of Carmen and Sydney

Oooh I love that idea, dear! Hope you enjoy 💕

Pairing: Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Smoking, Swearing, Minor SPOILERS for The Bear (S2)

Genre: Fluff, Humor, Romance

The regular hustle and bustle of people making their way home from work has taken over Chicago now that the clock has passed 3 PM. Although sounds of chaos have been rattling the establishment since the hollow ungodly hours of the morning. Shouting bouncing off the walls, shit breaking, Fak and Richie being Fak and Richie. And all you've been trying to do is difuse the situation.

Sugar needs a break, as she very clearly told you with a single glance from across the room. You gave her a nod and let her close herself off in her office to take a breather while you took over keeping the circus in a somewhat straight line.

Currently, you're on your hands and knees, scraping all the debris and dirt that's gotten on the new tiles while the rest of the repairs were still taking place. You warned Carmy the tiles would look far from new if they were the first thing he chose to replace but he still stubbornly put his foot down on the matter. And now he realizes he shot himself in that same foot, giving you an apologetic look from where he's standing.

"Quit staring, Berzatto. Do your job." You scoff, continuing your task with a newfound aggression that threatens to take out the whole tile not just the stain.

You've been blowing him off and avoiding him all day - quite the abnormality since arguing with him is to you what a cup of coffee is to other people. A day for you ain't right unless it starts with a disagreement with him. To be fair, it still is a fight, just a silent one. It all but guarantees you a win when he can't even defend himself, oblivious to how he could've pissed you off in the first place.

"Why are you being mean?" It irritates you, that tone of amusement to his voice. He's entertained, he's fucking enjoying himself.

"I'm always mean." You reply without even sparing him a glance. Your point is accentuated when you hit Richie's knee with your free hand just as he starts getting rowdy with Fak. He yelps, scowling down at you before lifting his arms up in surrender. "See?"

Looking up, you see Carmy is no longer in his previous spot. Instead, he's knelt down a couple feet away from you, a scraping tool of his own in hand. "Oh I see just fine, Chef."

Your skin flushes with heat as you try to curb your annoyance - how is the fucker winning an argument he doesn't even know he's entered. "Not well enough as it would seem." You tap the stain he'd scraped at once or twice before moving on to the next, "This doesn't look clean to me, Chef." The amount of bitterness and sass compacted into that single word is almost palpable in the air between you two.

"Alright, that's it." He says, exasperated, dropping the tool and getting to his feet. He dusts his knees before offering you a hand, "Cigarette, now."

You don't budge, still at the stain you've been struggling with for the past five minutes, "I'm busy. Ask Syd."

At that, Carmen has the audacity to straight up laugh. That's' what pushes you to reach your boiling point. You look up to tell him the fuck off just to have the tool swiftly stolen from your grasp, "Hey!"

"Cigarette, Chef. Now." His eyebrows are raised, giving you an earnest look that is meant to pull at the strings of your apperhension. He's not dumb, he can see you're particularly ticked off today. He can also take an accurate guess as to why. But he sure as hell isn't about to have that talk in front of Dumb and Dumber. Not that they'd pay you two much mind considering they've entered another screaming match but still - they have a tendency of paying attention when one would least want them to.

You feel like a child being scolded for throwing a tantrum. The only reason you oblige and stand up is to preserve your own pride. You make a point of not taking the offered hand, getting to your feet yourself and dusting off the pants of your overalls that have now been decorated with a lot of dust.

Contant is still established when Carmy grabs your hand, leading you to the back door and out in the alleyway. To be frank, here, it's not like you tried to wiggle free from his grasp but that's semantics at this point.

He plucks a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, taking two out. He traps one between his lips before extending the other to you.

You're not a regular smoker but you also don't turn it down when you're offered one. Especially not when you're stressed. With that taken into consideration, despite Carmen being the root of your stress at the moment, you still accept the offer and reach up for the cigarette.

Much to your annoyance, however, he snatches it away before you can take it.

Your hand balls up in a fist as you glare daggers and any other sharp objects at his smug expression. With a shake of his head and a fucking chuckle he offers it again, hoping you got the memo this time around.

The only reason you cave is just so you can put an end to this back-and-forth. So, despite your better judgement you bite the bullet and lean in, taking the cigarette between your lips.

It brings a smile to his face that you happily smack off had you not been at work at the moment. Instead, you focus your gaze on the flame he flicks on and inches closer to the cherry of your cigarette.

You take a long drag, inhaling the smoke with relief. It doesn't last long though since Carmen just has to open his mouth again.

"I'll ask you again - why are you being mean?" He lets out a cloud of smoke in the air, once more exhibiting exasperation you believe he has no right to feel.

Your jaw is set and so are your narrowed eyes as you follow suit - releasing the nicotine from your lungs, "And I'll tell you again - I'm always mean. I'll do you one better - why are you wasting time? We've got a lot of shit to do and we gotta do it in a very short fucking time and you're here taking smoke breaks! Sugar is losing her mind, Fak and Richie are gonna kill each other, Cicero is breathing down our necks, Syd is counting on you..."

"And you're not?" He cuts you off, the smugness now long gone from his features.

One hand rests on your hip while the other brings the cigarette back to your lips, "That doesn't matter."

You're almost satisfied to see the irritation you've been feeling all day now take hold of him, "Like hell it fucking doesn't."

Rolling your eyes, you flick your wrist to check your watch, "You should get going. Don't you have a menu consultation with Syd?" You mumble around the tobacco stick in your mouth, avoiding his gaze entirely now that you've lost all sense of subtlety to your anger.

If he were to ask you point blank if you are jealous of his close partnership with Syd, you'd laugh. And it is indeed laughable when you factor in the knoledge of how disinterested she is in terms of Carmy outside of a work setting. But still there's that nagging little piece of shit voice in your head...

Before you know it, Carmy has discarded his cigarette and has closed the space between the two of you. One set of fingers tilt up your chin while the other plucks the cigarette from your mouth. You're given no time to argue before his lips crash into yours.

You kiss him back instinctively, your brain momentarily short-circuting and conveniently wiping all the anger from your system. It returns only briefly when Carmy pulls awat from you. "It can wait."

You reestablish your sass a second later, grounding yourself into the annoyed act once more, "Nope, none of that." You shake your head, taking a step back, "I can handle you being corny but not inefficient and irresponsible." You steal back your cigarette before waving him off, "Go on, shoo."

His bright blue eyes twinkle with amusement, crinkles appearing at their corners as his face is lit up by a smile, "Alright, alright." He mutters in defeat. Still, he manages to sneak a kiss at the corner of your lips before reentering the restaurant-to-be. He stops in the dorrway, turning around to face you, "We're doing a movie night tonight. For real, this time."

A small chuckle escapes you as you attempt to feign nonchalance with a shrug, "You said the same fucking thing last time."

He points a finger at you, giving you his word, in a way, "You'll see." With that, he disappears inside, leaving you to finish your cigarette alone and with the dorkiest smile adorning your face.

It turns into a full blown laugh at the thought of how offended Syd would be if she knew of that little spark of jealousy within you. Truthfully, you owe her an apology.

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justtileit · 8 days

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poorlittlegreenie13 · 23 days

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Deleted scene from 'Rules For (fake) Dating an Italian' to keep you busy while AO3 is down:

(Sydney & Carmy babysit for Richie, set in between chapters four & five — I wrote it & then decided to scrap it, I don't even know why lol it just wasn't working. & I didn't edit it, so it might have mistakes. But anyway, you guys can have it as a treat.)

Richie runs out the front door, pulling his jacket on.

“Carmen,” he says, walking up to Carmy and, much to Sydney’s surprise, taking Carmy’s face in both hands and pressing a firm kiss to the top of Carmy’s head. “Thank you so much. I owe you, brother.”

“It’s fine,” Carmy mutters.

“Sydney,” Richie says, pulling away from Carmy to look at her.

“I don’t need a kiss,” Sydney says quickly, “just a verbal thank you is more than enough.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Richie says. “Carmy explained the situation, right?”

“I told her what you told me,” Carmy says.

“Because I never miss a weekend with her,” Richie says, “I mean, I have literally never missed a single minute of a weekend with her before, but if I don’t go to the DMV today, it’s like six months till I can get another appointment, and I really need to get my license renewed.”

“It’s fine,” Sydney says, not dwelling too much on the thought of how much Richie has been driving her around with an expired license so far. “We’re happy to look after her.”

“I’ll be back in two hours,” Richie says. “She has her iPod, and all her Barbies. There are Uncrustables in the fridge, or you can cook with whatever’s in there, and she likes watching Unicorn Academy, she can put it on herself.”

“We’ll be fine, cousin. Don’t be late to your appointment,” Carmy says, with a somber expression that looks less like someone taking on babysitting duties, and more like a soldier awaiting command.

Carmy called Syd that morning, saying Richie was freaking out about needing a babysitter. Granted, Carmy was also freaking out about being a babysitter.

"Nat’s busy, Tina’s busy, everyone’s fucking busy, can you please come with me? I’m not good with kids."

Sydney isn’t particularly good with kids either, but she didn’t tell him that.

She would’ve taken any excuse to see Carmy. Because she’s a masochist. And because the fact that he asked her to come not because it would help trick Richie, but because he wanted her help, made her feel kind of hot in the face.

When he picked her up, she slid into his passenger’s seat with an almost-practiced ease, and he just sat there looking at her for a minute.

“Your hair,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, touching the end of one freshly-done braid, “yeah, microbraids, like I told you.”

“They look nice,” he said, and she blushed, despite the stiffness of the complement.

He always seems to rehearse his words to her in his head before he says them; they come out practiced and overly formal, and it frustrates her, how measured they seem, though it shouldn’t.

She’s pretty sure that’s just Carmy’s way. He’s careful with everything, not just compliments. She’s learning that about him.

She’s been learning other things about him, too.

Like the fact that he seems to go quiet in crowds, and gravitate toward walls. He flinches if anybody moves toward him too suddenly. Sometimes, not often, but enough to notice, he stutters when he speaks.

She wants to know everything about him. She wishes his life story was a book she could read, so she could just catch up to where he is now, and understand everything about him. She wants to know the right things to say, to do, how to put him at ease. She wants to know what he’s thinking when he looks at her.

Now, she watches Carmy walk into Richie’s house, stooping to pet Zanzibar as the puppy runs excitedly up to them, letting out high-pitched barks and tapping his little claws against the tiles of Richie’s entrance foyer.

In the doorframe of the kitchen across from them, a tiny girl with blonde hair and Richie’s facial features peeks out at them.

“Hi,” Sydney says, giving her a little wave.

“Uncle Carmy?” the girl asks.

Carmy looks up at her, unmistakable anxiety crossing his face.

“Uh, hi,” he says. “Richie’ll be back soon, don’t worry.”

“She doesn’t call her dad Richie, does she?” Sydney whispers.

“She knows who I mean,” Carmy whispers back.

Eva looks between the two of them.

“Dad said you would make me lunch,” she says.

Sydney smiles. “We will,” she says, looking at Carmy expectantly.

He nods seriously, walking ahead into the kitchen and beginning to look through Richie’s cabinets. Sydney follows Eva into the room, watching the little girl take a seat at one of the kitchen chairs, pulling her knees up into her chest and looking at Sydney with huge eyes she hasn’t totally grown into yet.

“Are you Uncle Carmy’s girlfriend?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Sydney says, glancing over at Carm.

He’s holding a box of Mac & Cheese, and holds it up for Eva to see, raising an eyebrow.

“This good?” he asks.

“That’s good,” Eva says, crossing her arms and deepening her voice slightly to mock Carmy as she says it. He cracks a smile, filling a pot with water and setting it on the stove.

Michelin starred chef cooking boxed Mac & Cheese in a tee shirt three feet away from Sydney. Her life is a joke.

“Why are you his girlfriend?” Eva asks.

Sydney laughs softly, considering this.

“Well, uh,” she says, with a little shake of her head. Carmy has his back to her, facing the stove, but he’s standing still, like he’s listening. “He’s great at cooking,” Sydney says. “And I really like spending time with him. He’s good company.”

“My dad said Carmy’s never looked this happy before,” Eva says.

Carmy clears his throat. “I am happy,” he says, though there’s an ironic flatness to it.

“Because of her?” Eva asks.

Sydney bites the inside of her cheek.

But Carmy turns around and looks at Sydney, brow furrowing slightly, eyes soft.

“Yeah. Because of her,” he says.

He says it like it’s true.

Michelin star mac and cheese is about as good as it sounds. Carmy is leaning against Richie’s counter, watching Sydney and Eva eat. Eva’s iPod is set on the table in front of her, playing some Taylor Swift deepcut that Sydney doesn’t recognize. As Sydney swallows her third or fourth spoonful of food, she stands up, turning to Carmy. The heat of the stove has put a slight flush in the tops of his cheeks, and there’s a towel slung over one of his shoulders.

“You’re not eating?” she asks him.

The question seems to take him off guard. His eyes flicker to the pot of food, then back to her.

“No, I made it for you two,” he says.

“There’s plenty, Carm,” Sydney says, grabbing a bowl from Richie’s cabinet and filling it for him from the pot still warming on the stove. When she hands it to him, he just looks at it for a second, before taking a small spoonful and putting it in his mouth, chewing like it’s his first time eating a meal.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Sydney asks him, picking her own bowl back up.

“It’s alright,” he says, taking another, bigger spoonful. He does that sometimes; it’s one of the things she’s noticed. He eats like he’s starving, or he doesn’t eat at all. It gives her this weird urge to take care of him. To text him in the mornings, and at night, and ask him if he ate that day. To show up at his apartment unannounced with bags of groceries and make him sit down for twenty minutes while she meal preps for him.

“It’s good, Carm, it’s better than alright,” she says again, tone light, even though she’s willing him to believe her as hard as she can. Trying to get him to take a compliment is like trying to throw a ball through a brick wall.

He averts his eyes, nodding again. “A little flat, but I guess that’s what you get with boxed mix,” he says, pushing the noodles around with his spoon.

“Ever make it from scratch?” Sydney asks. “Or is that too pedestrian for a fancy New York Chef?”

“I'm gonna pretend I know what pedestrian means in that context,” he says, meeting her eyes with an amused smile. “I made it from scratch one Thanksgiving, years ago. Had no idea what I was doing. My mother passed out at like 3:00pm, and we were all scrambling in the kitchen trying to get dinner together for her so she’d, you know, see it and be happy with us when she woke up. But Sugar burned the turkey, so Mikey had to spend hours trying to calm her down; she got these crazy panic attacks when she made mistakes. And I made mac and cheese.”

“How old were you?” Sydney asks.

He seems surprised at the question, and shrugs. “Twelve, I think? Mikey would’ve been seventeen, Sugar would’ve just turned fourteen.”

“You’re the youngest?”

He nods.

“That figures,” Sydney says.

He scoffs. “Why does that figure?”

“I don’t know, just does.”

His bowl is almost empty. Wordlessly, she takes it from his hands, refilling it.

“So, did your mom like the mac and cheese?” she asks.

Something in his face darkens. He gives a quick shake of his head.

“No, she couldn’t get past Nat burning the turkey. We just, uh, took all the food into Mikey’s room and watched The Peanuts until she stopped yelling and fell asleep.”

“Uncle Carmy,” Eva interrupts, getting up from her chair and walking over to where Carmy is standing, looking up at him expectantly.“Daddy said you would play Barbies with me.”

“I will play Barbies with you,” Carmy says, and then, looking over at Sydney: “Syd, would you like to play Barbies?”

There’s a fond, almost relieved smile on his face, like another minute of talking about his family might’ve pushed him off some cliff’s edge that he wasn’t prepared to crawl back over.

“Obviously I want to play Barbies,” Sydney says, letting Eva lead them into the other room.

"You're such a liar," Sydney murmurs, as they walk behind Eva.

"I am?" Carmy asks lightly.

"Yeah," Sydney says, "you told me you weren't good with kids."

He smiles, shaking his head ruefully.

"I'm not," he says.

Sydney rolls her eyes.

And they play Barbies, for an hour. Carmy kneeling on carpet, listening attentively as Eva explains which Barbie is which (she has a Taylor Swift box set, it seems, and a Barbie dream home that looks like it cost more than Sydney’s last paycheck). Sydney sits cross legged across from them, watching Carmy delicately hold a Barbie doll in one tattooed hand as Eva brushes out its hair.

Watching him be a good uncle shouldn't be as fucking attractive as it is. It shouldn't be conjuring up vivid images of Carmy holding sleeping babies and cooking family dinners.

God, Sydney is so fucked.

“Speak Now Taylor Barbie is marrying Jacob from Twilight Barbie,” Eva says. “‘Cept I forgot Jacob at Mommy’s house.”

“I see,” Carmy says. Sydney bites back a smile.

“Are you ever gonna get married?” Eva asks, looking up at Carmy.

Sydney’s smile quickly fades.

Carmy’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Me?” he says.

“You and Sydney,” Eva says, looking over at Sydney expectantly.

“Uh, maybe,” Carmy says. He’s looking at Sydney too; an expression she can’t read. “I don’t know. Depends on… lots of things.”

“Like what?” Eva asks.

Carmy clears his throat. “Like… whether Sydney puts up with me for long enough for me to ask her?”

“Oh, shut up,” Sydney says, smiling exasperatedly, shaking her head at him. “He’s kidding, Eva.”

“So you are getting married?”

“No,” Sydney says, “no, not right now.”

“When?”

She looks at them with expectant, innocent eyes. Sydney can’t help but laugh.

“Not for a long time,” Carmy says.

"How long?"

Carmy looks away from Sydney, shaking his head like he doesn't know how to answer.

"I don't know," Sydney says, drawing Eva's attention over to her. "Whenever we decide we want to."

"Don't you want to marry him now?" Eva asks sincerely.

Sydney laughs uncomfortably. When she looks over at Carmy, he's looked back up at her. His brow is furrowed slightly. He should be smiling and laughing. This is funny. Objectively. He's taking it way too seriously.

"Yeah," Sydney says, staring at Carmy, raising a taunting eyebrow at him. "Sure I do. But marriage is really complicated so I think we're probably going to wait and see. Right, Carm?"

"Right," Carmy says, with a stiffness to the word like he's in pain. "Yeah, let's not talk about getting married anymore."

Eva frowns.

"It makes him nervous," Sydney stage-whispers to her.

Eva cheers up at that, smiling and nodding knowingly.

"People get nervous when they love each other," Eva says. "Mommy told me."

Sydney scoffs softly, but when she looks at Carmy he isn't smiling. He's just staring back at her, doing that weird, hyper-focused thing where he gets, like, fixated on her face.

It makes her face feel hot.

It makes her nervous.

Fuck.

#the bear #rules for (fake) dating an italian #sydcarmy

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ameagrice · 10 months

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Capsize

chapter twenty-eight | wide awake

percy jackson x fem! reader

Finney’s screaming echoes up the stairs and through the walls.

Rachel’s yelling doesn’t cease.

Your father’s crass words do not stop, weighing in on your heart at an astonishing amount of kilos.

The Caesars’ Jerk It Out plays so loud you know for sure that either your dad or Rachel will come up the stairs and throw open your door and demand you turn it off, that it’s making Finney upset. You won’t tell them, either of them, that your music is the least of baby Finney’s worries; his screaming parents are the ones hurting his ears.

Usually, you would rush to Finney’s side and pick him up where he’d be crying in his bassinet, desperate to make him stop in his distress. But lately, there is much less a longing to comfort him and more a longing for all of them to shut the hell up. It isn’t fair on Finney, leaving him in tears. But you’re tired of playing parent. You’re tired of playing mom.

The end of the song comes around too quickly, and you pause, waiting for the sound of footsteps. Drawers slamming echo from the kitchen below your bedroom, telling you they aren’t finished with their argument. Neither one will win—they will go to bed in silence, and wake up the next morning as new people; no apologies; no talking. They will just go. Go on.

It all started over a piece of pizza.

“Anyone else want the last piece?” You’d asked, reaching across the glass table for the last slice.

“No thanks, babe,” Rachel dismissed. The food aeroplane flew to Finney, and he giggled, chubby legs kicking in his high chair. One slipper lay abandoned on the cold tile floor, the other barely hanging in there on his chubby foot.

The night before the Big Move. Pennsylvania to New York City. Everything was packed up in boxes and cushioned with styrofoam and bubble wrap, ready to be transported across the country. New York, your father said, would be a good move for business and the family. The Upper East Side would be like your dream come true, he’d convinced you. You’d love it.

New York, he promised,

would

change

your

life.

In the later years to come, he had been right, not that you’d ever admit that out loud. In many ways, you were very, very grateful for your father’s selfish move. The idea of New York, at the time, was loud and scary, but it brought you to the next chapter of your life, filled in gaps you didn’t know existed yet, and bridged the way to new friends and family. You would forever be grateful to New York for all that it gave you and all that it stood for.

You fell asleep to the sound of a vase smashing, peaceful with violence.

—

Two years later, a summer in Australia once would have seemed like a dream. After a good few weeks at Camp Half-Blood, having made new friends and uncovered the side to you that always felt missing, a summer relaxing in Sydney felt right. Of course, the occasional monster popped up here and there as Travis had warned you they would; when you became aware of who you really were, the monsters became more aware of you, as well.

It was nothing you couldn’t handle, though: small creatures with gills and sharp teeth swimming in your toilet water, and a strange creature digging it’s way up from a beach’s sand to bite you. When they had been eradicated and sent back down to Tartarus, you could enjoy the rest of your days in confidence and peace.

“You should come up some time,” you lay on the floor of your room, on the phone to Travis. “It’s really nice here. My dad’s in a better mood, too these days. Rachel’s kinda moody but—Rachel? My stepmom. And Finney’s just—Finney? He’s my brother…”

At first, it was calm. Your dad seemed in better spirits, and Rachel liked her job. Finney’s first birthday had passed by without you, an occasion you thought would have affected you more than it did.

Your first night home, you slept soundly. Rachel woke you with your favourite pancakes and toppings. You flicked through the tv in your new bedroom and basked in the bright sunshine streaming through your open window. Australian heat was a different kind of heat, but one that was very much welcome, and your days became heaven on earth. Bright blue waters and sunny skies, and white sand so hot it almost burned your skin.

Only one thing spoiled your summer vacation—the moods you had forgotten all about, and ones you’d grown less accustomed to. Your father’s sudden snapping, and razor-sharp tone; his demands and never-ending list of chores.

“Why don’t you ever do the dishes?” You sighed one evening, as the sun began to set. “Or, like, look after Finney?”

“That’s a woman’s job, really,” he’d answered briefly, texting on his phone at the dinner table—something only he was allowed to do. “And the women take care of children. It isn’t much of a man’s job. Haven’t you noticed, yet, hon?”

The more the weeks rolled over, and September was drawing to a close. And things only grew more tense. After a whole day of watching Finney from dusk until dawn, your father also in the house, your striking point came at the sight of dirty dishes piled up in the sink, only straight after you had washed and put away the last ones.

“Oh, come on!” You exclaimed. “Dad, seriously?” You worded your next sentence carefully. “Could you wash up your stuff, please? I’ve got things to do. You’d be helping me out a deal, really.”

Only silence met you in response. From the kitchen table, in the open-plan area, Rachel raised her eyes from the baby to you, a warning.

“Rachel can finish the rest, then.”

Something struck your heart hard, and strangely, anger accompanied the feeling. “Why? They’re your dishes. We’ve finished.”

And, long story short, as per usual, an argument occurred. But this time, it involved smashed porcelain, and cuts across your bare feet.

The next morning, her car was missing.

“What’s going on with Rachel’s car?” You asked, standing at the dining table, plucking blueberries from the plastic bowl. Oddly quite was the house, much too early for Finney to be awake, and Rachel who slept beside him every night.

Dad flicked the page of his newspaper. “Head gasket’s gone. The garage said to just scrap the car.”

You nodded along, and walked away, as quietly as possible on the tiles. You couldn’t miss the uneasy feeling in your stomach, though, that something was horribly wrong.

The next weekend, you proposed an idea.

“There’s this thing in town I saw earlier,” you said, hanging around the end of the kitchen counter.

“Oh yeah?” Your dad looked your way, smiling briefly. He flipped over the bacon in the pan, sizzling away.

“Yeah, some pizza place. I thought we could all go out tonight, maybe? It’d be nice to get out for a while.” You watched his face for any changes. There weren’t any. Because he hadn’t been listening.

“Hm?”

You blanched. “What do you mean, huh?” You laughed it off, trying to make light of it. “I just told you!”

“Yeah…go grab the plates for this, will you?”

It didn’t come as a surprise to you when only weeks later, heading into late October, things went too far, and you called Travis Stoll for a bit of advice involving credit cards, plane tickets, and the act of stealing.

Days later, his birthday arrived. Around other family members, he was a changed man. You tried explaining to the one person you felt might believe you.

“He loves you,” your grandma squeezed you. “He’s your dad. All parents love their children.”

Into her shoulder, you mumbled, “‘Has a funny way of showing it.”

“That’s just your dad. He’s such a kind man. Of course he loves you. Don’t doubt it.”

You thought of the smashed window in your bedroom, and the dirty dishes in the sink; your plate of cooked food taken from your hands just because he wanted it—he’d take from his children first. Your thoughts turned to Rachel and her roses trampled into a mashed up mess in her bedroom, and Finney in tears.

“He doesn’t love me,” you shook your head. “That’s not love.”

—

The man in the leopard-print shirt sipping a can of coke looked up, unbothered.

Eyes wide with annoyance, you waved your hands about. “Where’s Chiron?!”

“Hello to you, too,” Mr. D. drawled. He flipped over a couple of cards on the table. Behind you, chaos roared. “How rude. Is that how you say hello to somebody?”

“Hello! We’re going to die! Where’s Chiron?”

Mr. D. considered it, tilting his head side to side. You wanted to scream at him, but that for sure wouldn’t get you anywhere. Dr. Thorn’s monsters were onto you, and you were outnumbered.

“About to die,” he mused. “How exciting. I’m afraid Chiron isn’t here. Would you like me to take a message?”

You looked away, unable to believe it. “We’re done for.”

Thalia, gripping her spear, shook her head. She looked more determined now than she had done the whole journey. “Then we’ll die fighting!”

“How noble,” said Mr. D, stifling a yawn. “So what is the problem, exactly?”

“The problem is that you’re an a—!”

“There’s this thing, the Ophiotaurus,” Percy cut in, literally barging into you to get into the god’s sight. “We think it’s…”

He went on to explain Bessie and his powers, and how you thought he was the creature which needed hunting down and killing, all this time.

You observed Mr. D. observing the cards in his hands. “Hmm. Is that it?”

“You don’t even care!” You screamed. Zoe hushed you. “You’d rather watch us be shot to death!”

“Let’s see; I think I’m in the mood for pizza tonight.”

You’d become so angry you practically buzzed on the spot. Percy pulled you to the side so quickly you almost got whiplash.

You considered channeling your inner-Ares and letting your anger go on the pudgy, old god, but before you could, Percy gasped, pulling you tight to him, back-to-back. You were surrounded by Thorn’s monsters, decreasing the space between them and your friends much too quickly for your liking. The manticore threw off his coat and transformed into his real self, chuckling in such an animal way that it sent chills down your spine.

“Excellent,” he said, eyeing the Iris Message. “Alone. Without any real help.”

“You could ask for help,” Mr. D. mumbled down your ear. Glaring at him from the side, you tried harder than you ever had to contain your anger. “You could say please.”

“The day I say please to you will be the day I’m on my deathbed!” You hissed. You felt Percy turn his head, ruffling the back of your hair. “There is absolutely no way in hell I will ever say please to you! Ares would have a better chance of being on the receiving end of my begging!”

Zoe readied her arrows; Thalia raised her spear, and Grover prepared his reed pipes. Percy’s elbow dug uncomfortably into your rib, and you knew then that Percy would not let any of you go down without a fight, without trying to protect you.

Though where the thought and the confidence in your best friend had come from, you could not tell.

Fury burned in your bones, and you were about to wave your hand through the misty air beside you, when you caught sight of Thalia, crying. And it suddenly occurred to you that this had happened before, to her. She had been cornered in life, and driven to her death by ignorance.

And if you were to let it happen again, if you were to let your anger and stubbornness get in the way, you too would die. There would be no saving Annabeth, no making it right with Rachel, and no last look at the best friend who you stood with back-to-back, trusting wholly in one another.

So you inhaled and exhaled quickly, and looked to Mr. D.

“Please,” you ground out, sure that every emotion showed in your eyes. “Please, help us.”

Of course nothing happened.

Your organs plummeted to your feet, and Thorn grinned.

“Seize Zeus’s girl. She will join us soon enough. Kill the rest.”

The men raised their guns, and something strange twisted the air. It was as if the pressure plummeted. Everything tinged purple—the sunlight, the ground, your skin, and everything smelled of expensive wine.

SNAP!

It was the sound of minds breaking at the same time. One of the skeleton men placed his gun between his teeth and ran away on all-fours. Another suddenly dropped to his feet as his bony body fell apart. The others followed suit.

“No!” The manticore roared. “I’ll handle you all myself.”

His tail bristled, but before he could make a move, the wooden planks beneath his paws erupted into grass and grapevines, wrapping around the monster’s body, growing and growing and wrapping until he was completely covered in vines and bright green leaves. The manticore was covered, and suddenly, all noise and movement stopped. And you knew for certain that somewhere in the vines and leaves and mess, the manticore was no more.

In silence, you all turned to Mr. D, rifling through his refrigerator.

“Well, that was fun.”

An eerie feeling had settled pretty quickly in your body. “How—why—how—”

“Such gratitude,” he rolled his eyes. “The mortals will come out of it. Too much explaining to do if I made their condition permanent. I hate writing reports to Father.” His attention turned on Thalia, hardening. “I hope you learned your lesson, girl. It isn’t easy to resist power, is it?”

Thalia blushed as if she were ashamed.

“Mr. D!” Grover was in awe. “You saved us!”

“Mmm. Don’t make me regret it, Satyr! Now get going, Percy Jackson. I’ve bought you a few hours, at least.”

“The Ophiotaurus,” Percy asked desperately. “Can you get it back to camp?”

Everyone waited for Mr. D’s reply, watching for an answer. He rolled his eyes.

“I do not transport livestock. That’s your problem.”

“But…where do we go?” You asked.

He looked at Zoe. “Oh, I think the huntress knows. You must enter at sunset today, you know, or all will be lost. Now goodbye! My pizza is waiting.”

Just as your small gang began to get itself together and get going, Percy spoke one last time.

“Mr. D?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“You called me by my actual name. You called me Percy Jackson.”

“I most certainly did not, Peter Johnson! Now, off with you!”

He waved his hand, and his image disappeared.

All around you, the manticore’s men were still acting insane, and you figured you only had a while before they were after you again.

“What did he mean, ‘you know where to go’?”

Zoe’s face was the colour of fog. She pointed across the bay, past the Golden Gate. In the distance, a single mountain rose up above the cloud layer.

“The garden of my sisters,” she said. “I must go home.”

——

Sorry this one took so long, guys! What do you think of y/n and her dad’s relationship so far? I rewrote that part so many times. I’m interested in how you guys are going to perceive it. There is of course more to come for y/n and her family, and more to show for before her days at camp. There’s also more Percy scenes, more Travis scenes to come, and a whole lot of the sense of feeling like she belongs.

Thanks for reading ! :)

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