( birthday cake. vanilla. so she wins in the game of refreshments.
and subsequently loses in the game of casual conversation, considering how any trace of good nature leaks from krouse's smile and an unsettling emptiness bleeds into his eyes. clarke watches the darkening of his face with the attention she owes, having been the one to set him on this descent with a partial question. her expression doesn't change much, or at least she tells herself that as a measure to keep her own composure in check — there is the flex in the muscle of her cheek when back molars press together, and a rapid increase in blinking, like she could tap out in morse code sorry for ruining this. and then in answer to his pronouncement, she doesn't even bother trying to clear her throat of all the gummy sentiment, just rumbles with agreement dragged over gravel: )
Always.
( and what follows is a lapsing, miserable sort of silence. quiet understanding which sets them both apart from the soft bump of vaguely 90's music and the scent of baked goods intermingled with coffee grounds.
clarke's glassy gaze settles over krouse's shoulder on the coffee bar and she wonders exactly how many people find this setting so familiar and comfortable that they'll deceive themselves into thinking this place is safe. back on earth they'd all weathered the same extremes and even if a conflict left different scars on their psyche, no one ever walked away unchanged. on the serena eterna had been different; some woke up after being murdered in horrific ways and brushed it off immediately, perfectly fine whereas her bruises only deepened and darkened. by the end it'd been a task to even try to convince other passengers that their captor was their captor and not a friend. she doesn't know if she's got the energy to undertake that task again, but...
at least she has her friends here. they get it.
and seated directly across from her, francis krouse with that serrated set to his eyes. he gets it. she's just too tired, despite having tried to rest, to start off on another rant about hypothetical worst case scenarios this time. also too sober, and this place is too crowded. but it doesn't feel like she needs to speak aloud to properly communicate that this moment feels like a breath before being plunged back into the swell; the calm in the eye of the artificial storm, a manufactured space of time for them to recuperate before being tasked with something even more terrible — and if it's too early to call it an observed pattern, consider it a gut instinct — within the next few weeks. and here she was, one of but not the first to make it out of the labyrinth, now with absolutely no leverage to try and make the next time easier.
but at the end of the day, given how that'd played out for amy and dean, maybe it was for the best. clarke still makes bad choices. like opening her mouth again without truly knowing the boy across from her well enough to properly gauge just how deep the war within him runs.
gingerly, as carefully as she had cradled his arm before digging a needle into exposed flesh, clarke venture to ask, )
Do you... want to talk about it? ( hmmm, not it, but — ) Them? Whoever it was you saw.
no subject
and subsequently loses in the game of casual conversation, considering how any trace of good nature leaks from krouse's smile and an unsettling emptiness bleeds into his eyes. clarke watches the darkening of his face with the attention she owes, having been the one to set him on this descent with a partial question. her expression doesn't change much, or at least she tells herself that as a measure to keep her own composure in check — there is the flex in the muscle of her cheek when back molars press together, and a rapid increase in blinking, like she could tap out in morse code sorry for ruining this. and then in answer to his pronouncement, she doesn't even bother trying to clear her throat of all the gummy sentiment, just rumbles with agreement dragged over gravel: )
Always.
( and what follows is a lapsing, miserable sort of silence. quiet understanding which sets them both apart from the soft bump of vaguely 90's music and the scent of baked goods intermingled with coffee grounds.
clarke's glassy gaze settles over krouse's shoulder on the coffee bar and she wonders exactly how many people find this setting so familiar and comfortable that they'll deceive themselves into thinking this place is safe. back on earth they'd all weathered the same extremes and even if a conflict left different scars on their psyche, no one ever walked away unchanged. on the serena eterna had been different; some woke up after being murdered in horrific ways and brushed it off immediately, perfectly fine whereas her bruises only deepened and darkened. by the end it'd been a task to even try to convince other passengers that their captor was their captor and not a friend. she doesn't know if she's got the energy to undertake that task again, but...
at least she has her friends here. they get it.
and seated directly across from her, francis krouse with that serrated set to his eyes. he gets it. she's just too tired, despite having tried to rest, to start off on another rant about hypothetical worst case scenarios this time. also too sober, and this place is too crowded. but it doesn't feel like she needs to speak aloud to properly communicate that this moment feels like a breath before being plunged back into the swell; the calm in the eye of the artificial storm, a manufactured space of time for them to recuperate before being tasked with something even more terrible — and if it's too early to call it an observed pattern, consider it a gut instinct — within the next few weeks. and here she was, one of but not the first to make it out of the labyrinth, now with absolutely no leverage to try and make the next time easier.
but at the end of the day, given how that'd played out for amy and dean, maybe it was for the best. clarke still makes bad choices. like opening her mouth again without truly knowing the boy across from her well enough to properly gauge just how deep the war within him runs.
gingerly, as carefully as she had cradled his arm before digging a needle into exposed flesh, clarke venture to ask, )
Do you... want to talk about it? ( hmmm, not it, but — ) Them? Whoever it was you saw.