Chapters ref: 14, 21, 33, 36,

Beckendorf — Fun

Beckendorf (17) — Travis (15) — Connor (14)

August 2008

Post Battle of the Labyrinth

Better to not have than to lose and regret. Better to not experience than to miss and reminisce. Better to not bond than to mourn and grieve.

They all knew it was coming. Dying young. Horrifically. Painfully. A life unfulfilled. A life unlived. They were never meant to live long. They all have acknowledged that. They understand it. They accepted it. It's the camp's unspoken fact of life.

But none of that accepting and knowing and understanding makes it easier.

Beckendorf lights his brother's shroud aflame and stands back as the fire spreads and consumes the fabric, a baby blue cotton embroidered with painstaking details of Woody and Buzz Lightyear.

It had taken a long time. They had to rush a bit towards the end. The imperfections feel like a slap to the face. It should have been better. Their fallen brother deserved the best. But Beckendorf should consider him lucky their cabin only had one casualty.

He stares at the flames for a moment longer, before turning around and beelining for the forgery. Making something will distract him. Doing something with his hands will keep his mind from wandering.

Don't think about it. Don't hear any of it. Don't feel anything.

He passes Travis and Connor, one talking to empty space while the other fishes around in a backpack. He passes by Michael, yelling at his father before being dragged away by a seething Annabeth. Clarisse, cursing and screaming and punching at a straw-filled dummy. Katie, alone with a knee curled to her chest, purple violets growing where she sits on the grassy field, face blank as she stares up at the smoke-filled, night sky.

She's muttering under her breath. But they're far away enough from the burning shrouds that he hears it loud and clear.

There's a spy.

It's not unknown amongst the counselors that there is a spy in their midst. People had thrown out guesses. Whispered behind each other's backs. Little tests of loyalty here and there by the bolder campers. The rightfully hurt, angry reactions were met with an 'I'm just joking, jeez. Why are you taking this so hard? Kind of weird and suspicious if you ask me.'

Beckendorf had never seen a need to participate, never saw a point. He trusts them all. They're supposed to be a team, a united front, and what is a team without trust? He'd known most since his first day and they're all genuinely good people despite all the hardships. He trusted them. He believed in them.

But Luke deflected. Chris left. Castor was killed. And there's a spy.

He shouldn't, but they're at war.

They're his friends, but so were the many that deflected years ago, the many that died today.

It's not right, but more people may die if he doesn't.

He can't. But he has to.

He shouldn't. He should.

"Stop sign," Connor nonchalantly points out from the back seat.

Beckendorf stomps on the brakes and just barely stops in time behind the line, all three of them bouncing forward then back in their seats of Lee's car. In the trunk, he hears the hard case of the trumpet tumble around. Lee would be rolling in his grave if he ever found out how they're treating his precious instrument. Travis rubs his neck and complains about seatbelt burn as Connor leans forward in the space between the front seats.

"Are you sure you're okay to drive? You're not normally this distracted."

"I'm fine," Beckendorf lies, drumming his fingers at the wheel. He looks both ways then continues the drive to Michael's apartment. "Put your seatbelt back on, Connor."

His device burns red hot where it's hidden in his pocket, the weight alone renews the overwhelming guilt during the sketch, design, and creation process.

Connor hums in thought as he stares blatantly at him. Travis too, though it's more frequent sideway glances as he fiddles with his backpack and talks about winning some contest.

The drive continues in silence until they get to Michael's apartment. He goes through the motions with robotic emotions and responses, just saying what he should say without much thought.

And as sits in the car, watching Travis race his way up to the third story with impossible fluidity, Michael and Connor going at a slower but still admirable pace, he debates it more and more.

He should. He shouldn't.

He can. He won't.

Not to them. But they're the most likely, aren't they?

He can know for real if he commits to the act. But if they ever find out what he did, they'll hate him forever.

But if it means not a single more friend has to die, Beckendorf will gladly do any detestable act.

So do it.

Do it.

What is he doing just standing there? Why is he hesitating? Why can't he do it? What's stopping him?

Alone in the empty Hermes Cabin, in front of the bunk bed belonging to the two co-counselors, staring down at the two faded, generic, blue blankets crumpled in a heap on the bed, Beckendorf can't find it in him to plant the bug. If you're not going to do it, then get the fuck out of there, his voice of reason screams at him. But he can't even make himself move. Even when the front door slams open and two people enter, all he can do is curl his hand over his gadget to hide it from view.

"What are you doing here?" a familiar voice says with curiosity.

"Yeah, what are you doing here?" the second voice with suspicion.

"I… I was—" Beckendorf turns to face Travis and Connor, scrambling for an easy lie, not daring to look them in the eye in case he starts confessing the truth out of sheer guilt. "I was looking for my … for my …"

Then like the gods decided to take pity on him, one of the brothers holds up his jacket he's been missing for several days now with an apologetic smile. "For this? Whoops. Totally forgot to give it back, haha. Sorry."

And Beckendorf snatches onto the lifeline, grabbing his jacket back with relief. He says it without much thought, the response automatic and ingrained after years and years of the same line over and over.

"Yeah, that. Don't break into my stuff, Connor. There's a lock for a reason."

"Actually, I'm Travis."

Beckendorf turns to the other brother. But Connor shrugs and shakes his head before he could get a word in, side-eyeing him with wariness. "I didn't take it."

"I did," Travis admits, scratching the back of his head and looking away sheepishly.

"You did?" Beckendorf doesn't know why he finds it hard to believe.

"Yeah, because someone—" Beckendorf doesn't think the hard nudge Travis gives Connor could be anymore obvious. "Couldn't take it a bit more easy on Chris's welcome party. Don't worry, Beckendorf. I washed the jacket. There's no itching powder on it."

Oh. Beckendorf heard about that. The whole camp knows about it. But Connor doesn't respond to that, doesn't even react to what Travis says, doesn't even take his eyes off him.

"I have better things to do than play around," Connor states matter-of-factly, eyes narrowing and arms crossing. "So that's all you're here for? The jacket? Nothing else? Nothing more?"

"Nothing else, nothing more," Beckendorf repeats, sliding past the brothers.

"You sure?" Connor asks, still watching him closely but with this weird tinge of desperation in his voice.

"Yes." Beckendorf inches towards the door.

"Are you really sure? Cause if there's more, we won't get mad. Promise." Travis says, almost pleadingly.

He should tell the truth. Some part of him (Instinct? Morals? Common sense?) is telling him not to lie anymore. Looking back, Beckendorf wishes he picked up on those hints from the brothers and himself. He wishes he hadn't just continued lying. He wishes he never had those thoughts to begin with.

"I'm really sure. So if you excuse me…"

Beckendorf turns around and heads for the door. He makes it to the threshold before Travis stops him by the arm and presses something into his hand. His device, crumpled and crushed, delicate wires twisted out of place, the plastic outing broken and in pieces. Beckendorf spins to face the brothers, ready to make excuses, to lie his way out but the words don't come when he sees the hurt in their eyes.

I'm sorry. I made a mistake, he tries to say but they're stuck in his throats too.

Travis loses his smile. Connor puts up a mask. He could feel their years-long friendship shattering and splintering into pieces as Connor pushes him hard on the chest until he's out of their cabin completely.

"You're a horrible liar, Beckendorf," Connor says with an unnerving lack of emotion and slams the door in his face.

Like all the deeply traumatized demigods around here do, Beckendorf solves his problems by not thinking about it and tinkering with his gadgets alone in the forge. And like all those demigods would say, it's not working. Beckendorf can't focus, not without seeing Connor's disappointment and Travis's hurt.

I have better things to do than play around is what Connor said.

Beckendorf can't remember the last time Connor had come into his cabin to solve another one of his locks. Was it a couple of months ago? Last year? When the war started? Or was it when he was made counselor last summer after Rose abandoned them? Was it gradual or did Connor stop coming by one day and he just hadn't noticed anything? At least Travis was still the same, asking him to come along on his adventures and just taking him regardless of what Beckendorf says. Though that's going to stop now, huh? He should be happy. Chiron and Mr. D are always on his case about hanging with a better crowd and now he got it. But what he's feeling isn't happiness. Far from it.

His brooding is cut short with Travis popping in front of him with Mrs. O'Leary beside him, apparently becoming the camp's resident pet hellhound.

"Hey, Beckendorf. There you are," Travis exclaims, happy for whatever reason, and sits down on the metal bench next to him, Mrs. O'Leary plopping half her body on the bench and the other half on Travis's lap. "What are you doing here all by yourself?"

Beckendorf doesn't panic. Almost though. His hands freeze mid-blow torching two metal pipes together, fire still going. He's going to get his revenge. He's going to throw a pie in my face. He's going to shame my wardrobe. He going to — he's going to — he's going to —

But Travis just sits there waiting for him to speak so Beckendorf turns off the blow torch and removes his welding mask, setting both aside on an empty counter in the empty forge.

"I… just needed some time alone to think," he says carefully, watching Travis's face closely as the son of Hermes breaks out into a wide smile.

"What a happy coincidence! Me too! You know those indestructible toys we asked you to make for Cerberus a couple of years back?"

Is Travis really going to act like nothing's wrong?

"Yeah, of course." Beckendorf still can't believe the brothers can get into the Underworld and back, much less doing it to visit and play with a three-headed guardian dog.

"Great! Awesome! Can you make those for Mrs. O'Leary too? She's been such a good girl lately, helping us clean up the battleground, moving the boulders and clubs they left behind, and also not eating anybody. Especially not eating anybody. You're a very good girl, you know that, Mrs. O'Leary? The very best hellhound I have ever met. I love you so much, you big fluffball," Travis coos.

"That's—" Beckendorf hesitates, wondering if he should be saying anything. But Travis glances at him for a moment and there's no mistaking the look as anything other than curiosity. Travis isn't angry for whatever reason. So Beckendorf swallows the lump in his throat and says with dispassion, "That's the bare minimum, Travis. Not something worth praising over."

"Aww you don't listen to mean ol' Beck over there. You did amazing and deserve a dozen steaks," Travis coos louder, squishing the hellhound's face between his hands and nuzzling against the snout. The cooing devolves to more praise that is absolutely unnecessary, absolutely over the top, and absolutely loved by the hellhound if the wagging tail is anything to judge by.

The normalcy of it all hurts almost.

"Anyway I'm thinking of taking Chris to an ice cream shop out in the town. You know, get some fresh air and all that healing stuff Will talks about all the time. You in? What am I saying? Of course, you're in! You're the only one who can drive us there. Alright! Good talk. I'll see you at Half Blood Hill in thirty minutes. I have to go tell Chris now about our plans."

Travis stands in a hurry. Mrs. O'Leary leaps to her feet after him in excitement and bumps into the table, knocking every tool off their shelves. Even with the ruckus, even with Travis flinching and then laughing and reminding the hellhound to be more aware of her size, Beckendorf didn't miss the shaky sigh of relief Travis tried to hide.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks finally.

"...Huh?" is all Travis says, head tilting to the side like he's actually confused. Still sticking to the act, but Beckendorf can't play along anymore.

"I tried to wiretap your cabin. Why are you acting like we're still friends? Like it's no big deal?"

"Ahh. That's what you're upset about." Travis hums like nothing's wrong, scratching the hellhound behind the ear with a distant, unfocused smile. "It's not a big deal though, is it? I'm not a traitor. Connor's not the traitor. And you're not either. So why are we enemies? After this whole thing with our great-grandfather is over, we can all go back to being friends so why should we be burning bridges? It would make everything so awkward, right?"

Travis says it all while petting Mrs. O'Leary, all with a grin on his face, confident and cheerful, upbeat and positive, hopeful even, like a shining beacon in the night.

Friends again after the war? After what he did in his moment of doubt? When Castor is dead and Chris is an ex-traitor and Pollux wants nothing to do with Hermes and his children? After the many lives Luke changed and taken and ruined? It's a naively foolish idea only an overly optimistic idiot can have.

"Yeah. You're right," Beckendorf says, without really meaning it. There are some things that will never be the same again.

But it hurts less to pretend otherwise and what's wrong with pretending for a little while.

He stands and faces his old friend, removing the protective gloves and apron and tossing them onto the chair.

"Let's do it," Beckendorf says, "You, me, and Chris. Joyride in Lee's car. Just like old times."

The responding grin is beaming and almost blinding.

And fragile.

So very fragile.

Author's Notes: A realllly long time ago (like back when that dog chapter with Annabeth was posted) Soggywaffles commented that Beckendorf should and would make Cerberus toys like he makes Mrs. O Leary toys so I hold onto that headcanon for all that time. I don't think they read this series any more but just in case that they do, thanks Soggywaffles for the idea :D

Also! This will probably be the last of any connected chapters because I'm out of ideas.

Also also! No one read Miranda's part yet. I need to edit some scenes so it fits my headcanons better.

Also also also, thanks for reading! ️