[ Krouse knows when he's being placated. His stomach flips with it, acid curdling with bile, coffee twice as bitter when he tastes it again at the back of his mouth. She withdraws and shutters so politely it's almost believable, if he'd just let himself believe it. It's not like it's anything he hasn't done before.
Self-loathing swells up like a burn-blister. He digs the balls of his feet into the floor through the soles of his sneakers, molars gritting and releasing in a twitch of suppression. He always does this. Someone shows him a vulnerability, and he says exactly the right thing to make them regret it. He doesn't even have to try, he's that good at it. But that doesn't stop him from trying, because apparently some lessons just don't fucking stick.
He sinks back in his chair to match her, palm skidding back across the table as he answers her soft smile with a fainter mirror. He should be able to do better than that, but should hasn't been getting him far.
Pivot focus and backtrack. He needs to get back to the material problem at hand, which is the only reason he has to care about the seams of Clarke's shell or anything that lies underneath. He's starting to formulate a follow up question about the girl with the eyeliner mask when Clarke, several steps ahead, makes a sudden, definitive decision. ]
- yeah.
[ He blinks, the shift enough to throw him all over again. He pushes back with his feet, not his hands, the screech of his chair a slightly louder counterpoint to hers.
Maybe he should be a voice of reason. It's not that much longer to have to sit. He could even offer to be quiet through it, if that's the problem. He is occasionally capable of keeping his mouth shut. But she wants to go, and he doesn't have it in him to tell her to stay anywhere for her own good. ]
Your place, still?
[ It's probably obvious. She wants to hand the gun over and forget about it. He just wants to make sure, as he rises to his feet, that he's not making another assumption. ]
no subject
Self-loathing swells up like a burn-blister. He digs the balls of his feet into the floor through the soles of his sneakers, molars gritting and releasing in a twitch of suppression. He always does this. Someone shows him a vulnerability, and he says exactly the right thing to make them regret it. He doesn't even have to try, he's that good at it. But that doesn't stop him from trying, because apparently some lessons just don't fucking stick.
He sinks back in his chair to match her, palm skidding back across the table as he answers her soft smile with a fainter mirror. He should be able to do better than that, but should hasn't been getting him far.
Pivot focus and backtrack. He needs to get back to the material problem at hand, which is the only reason he has to care about the seams of Clarke's shell or anything that lies underneath. He's starting to formulate a follow up question about the girl with the eyeliner mask when Clarke, several steps ahead, makes a sudden, definitive decision. ]
- yeah.
[ He blinks, the shift enough to throw him all over again. He pushes back with his feet, not his hands, the screech of his chair a slightly louder counterpoint to hers.
Maybe he should be a voice of reason. It's not that much longer to have to sit. He could even offer to be quiet through it, if that's the problem. He is occasionally capable of keeping his mouth shut. But she wants to go, and he doesn't have it in him to tell her to stay anywhere for her own good. ]
Your place, still?
[ It's probably obvious. She wants to hand the gun over and forget about it. He just wants to make sure, as he rises to his feet, that he's not making another assumption. ]