[ Percy's learned his lesson about singing along to the radio, to whatever mixed CD Clarisse has put in, to whatever song that pops into his head when both fail to produce anything worth listening to. He's incapable of holding a tune, even when given music, so Clarisse smacked it into him fairly early on that no, he can not sing along to music while they drive.

(He has learned that there are certain exceptions to this. Such as: 3am when they've been driving over twenty-four hours, nights where they sleep in the bed of the truck and have four shots of shitty whiskey, and whenever Clarisse is in a deep enough sleep to not wake up. All of these are often enough that Percy gets his fill, but he'd still like to be able to jam out when certain songs come over the speakers. Alas.)

They've only been on the road for a few hours and Clarisse has already propped her feet up on the dashboard, a map spread out across her lap, the GPS of her phone open in her hand. Percy does his best not to look over to see what she's doing at every available opportunity, but it's sort of impossible with her tan legs right in his peripheral. It feels like they've been running into new shit to hunt more often than usual, filling up on ammo at every opportunity, crashing more often in the back of the truck than they are in cheap motels. He doesn't mind though; never has. ]