Two short words, with the end of one small world inside of them. Krouse isn't looking up yet when Clarke says them, and he's glad he isn't. If he sees too much of himself reflected in her now, there's no telling what he'll do about it.
Bad enough that he almost heaves his pulped heart on the table as it is. That he's already imagining a time when he could talk about this, to anyone, but especially to someone telling him in not so many words that she knows what it's like. There's a thing he can't say, a luminous and awful hook lodged in the roof of his mouth, and he can't unlock his teeth around it.
He makes another tight, almost-laughing noise, buried in the back of his throat, and lifts his head. A watery smile stitches itself in place as he drags the heel of his hand across one eye, then the other, wiping away the start of tears he can't really pretend didn't well up. He tells himself that it's fine. It's going to be fine.
Lexa. It's a nice name. She must have been something, if Clarke cared about her enough for the world to turn her into leverage. ]
Sounds good. [ He rasps, then picks up his still too hot coffee to take a scalding sip. ] Thanks for hanging onto it. And sorry. Again. It's just - guess it brought some things back.
[ Embarrassment chokes him like a vine. He'd prefer Clarke see him mauled a dozen times over instead of seeing this. The insides of his arm aren't as wetly vulnerable as the squirming contents of his chest. But there's nothing he can do about it now except try to mop up some of the mess, and if that isn't the story of his life, he doesn't know what is. ]
And I'm sorry about her.
[ His tongue aches numbly where the coffee scorched it insensible. He doesn't feel the words that slip off of it in quiet, trite condolence, just the thrum of anxious guilt in his pulse. Another of those right things to say that don't seem right when he says them, like he's always missing some crucial piece of the puzzle.
But he can't just say nothing to the look on her face, bottled up and cast out to sea. Or he could, but he won't. Even he's not that selfish. ]
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Two short words, with the end of one small world inside of them. Krouse isn't looking up yet when Clarke says them, and he's glad he isn't. If he sees too much of himself reflected in her now, there's no telling what he'll do about it.
Bad enough that he almost heaves his pulped heart on the table as it is. That he's already imagining a time when he could talk about this, to anyone, but especially to someone telling him in not so many words that she knows what it's like. There's a thing he can't say, a luminous and awful hook lodged in the roof of his mouth, and he can't unlock his teeth around it.
He makes another tight, almost-laughing noise, buried in the back of his throat, and lifts his head. A watery smile stitches itself in place as he drags the heel of his hand across one eye, then the other, wiping away the start of tears he can't really pretend didn't well up. He tells himself that it's fine. It's going to be fine.
Lexa. It's a nice name. She must have been something, if Clarke cared about her enough for the world to turn her into leverage. ]
Sounds good. [ He rasps, then picks up his still too hot coffee to take a scalding sip. ] Thanks for hanging onto it. And sorry. Again. It's just - guess it brought some things back.
[ Embarrassment chokes him like a vine. He'd prefer Clarke see him mauled a dozen times over instead of seeing this. The insides of his arm aren't as wetly vulnerable as the squirming contents of his chest. But there's nothing he can do about it now except try to mop up some of the mess, and if that isn't the story of his life, he doesn't know what is. ]
And I'm sorry about her.
[ His tongue aches numbly where the coffee scorched it insensible. He doesn't feel the words that slip off of it in quiet, trite condolence, just the thrum of anxious guilt in his pulse. Another of those right things to say that don't seem right when he says them, like he's always missing some crucial piece of the puzzle.
But he can't just say nothing to the look on her face, bottled up and cast out to sea. Or he could, but he won't. Even he's not that selfish. ]