[ The last thing Krouse figures anyone needs is further lingering on the apocalypse or apocalypses at hand. He's also just not that interested in following instructions, and 'utilitarian space colony' answers plenty of questions otherwise raised by the placard.
Clarke turns out to give him more than enough to think about as it is. She puts the same gloss on events as he did with his story, breaking them down into almost entertaining anecdotes. Dragons, minotaurs, and zombies reduced to tokens on a game board, near death experiences with flames flipped silver lining side out. He knows the drill.
But two things stand out instantly, both enough to cut through the facade of casualness at right angles. The first is that he knows the name of one of her friends already, and suddenly, with some dismay, thinks he has a very good guess at another. The second is four days of sirens. His face twists in disbelief, then bitterness, his mouth flattening to a hard line of control as he peels the foil top off of his little cup of cream like it requires all of his attention. ]
I hated those fucking things.
[ His voice has the quiet vehemence of bubbling acid. He tips the cream into his mug and watches it drop out of sight to pool unseen at the bottom, a single pale mark left behind on the black surface.
They'd explain the narrow marks on her neck, he thinks. But there's no way of knowing for sure except asking her, and no way to ask her without it seeming condescending at best, weird at worst. She's more than proven she can handle herself, and it's all over anyway. He just hopes she held onto the gun. If she got lucky, maybe she even found more ammunition.
He should've gotten her to take another clip, just in case. ]
But at least there was coffee. [ He looks back up, smiling like he never stopped. ] Angelic coffee. Somehow. I got cake, but who's keeping track?
no subject
Clarke turns out to give him more than enough to think about as it is. She puts the same gloss on events as he did with his story, breaking them down into almost entertaining anecdotes. Dragons, minotaurs, and zombies reduced to tokens on a game board, near death experiences with flames flipped silver lining side out. He knows the drill.
But two things stand out instantly, both enough to cut through the facade of casualness at right angles. The first is that he knows the name of one of her friends already, and suddenly, with some dismay, thinks he has a very good guess at another. The second is four days of sirens. His face twists in disbelief, then bitterness, his mouth flattening to a hard line of control as he peels the foil top off of his little cup of cream like it requires all of his attention. ]
I hated those fucking things.
[ His voice has the quiet vehemence of bubbling acid. He tips the cream into his mug and watches it drop out of sight to pool unseen at the bottom, a single pale mark left behind on the black surface.
They'd explain the narrow marks on her neck, he thinks. But there's no way of knowing for sure except asking her, and no way to ask her without it seeming condescending at best, weird at worst. She's more than proven she can handle herself, and it's all over anyway. He just hopes she held onto the gun. If she got lucky, maybe she even found more ammunition.
He should've gotten her to take another clip, just in case. ]
But at least there was coffee. [ He looks back up, smiling like he never stopped. ] Angelic coffee. Somehow. I got cake, but who's keeping track?