Yeah, unless you're letting me keep your gun forever.
( she knows him to be capable of silence. that stretch in the woods where she'd outright asked him to shut up, and the purposeful quiet of his movements around the little oasis in the middle of the maze when she'd pretended more than actually tried to sleep are proof enough. but the cafe is too bright and bustling to be considered quiet, and that's not even what she wants — would absolutely sit and listen to krouse prattle endlessly about nothing in particular if it felt like they could dig themselves out of this particular, multi-faceted hole of guilt. a well of emotion, if you would. another small factor may be the seed of delinquency he'd sown when switching the name tags; clarke had been sitting patiently in this cafe day in and day out as an open book, in penance for having subjected the entire populace to this silly little task absolutely no one was enforcing, and she's tired of it. a little rebellion does the soul good once in a while.
so they stand, and she doesn't bus her own cup this time. and they shift and shuffle and slide around the other tables in a loose, two person single-file line 'til reaching the door, where she pushes it open with the soft jingle of the welcome bell and holds it so krouse can walk through — after you. outside the sun is high in the sky, full and bright, with not a cloud in sight. it's the middle of the day, bordering on summer at best guess but with a slight breeze that still ushers in a cool, refreshing chill. the change of scenery does something to settle her nerves, a proper (if also temporary) book-end to their coffee shop conversation and the chance to compartmentalize rather than feel. clarke focuses on the smell of trees and the shrunken rivers rather than what the siren pool had tasted like when lisa thrashed beneath the surface and droplets of salt water had burned against her cracked lips; she listens to the distant trill of birds and prefers its sporadic nature over the perfect melody of the sirens' song. dodging around other pedestrians on the sidewalk is so easy compared to ducking out of the line of dragon fire, and there is no invisible, unspecified time limit hanging over their heads.
there is no small talk, but it's not a very long walk. just a couple of minutes at the easy but direct pace she sets. and if she ignores that they're still stuck in a bubble, it doesn't feel anything like traversing the dusty labyrinth hallways. the apartment building looms into view first, followed swiftly by the hospital rooftop. once inside the former, clarke does pause for a split second because she largely prefers taking the stairs — not being trapped in the small, enclosed space of the elevator even for the few seconds it takes to traverse floors, always with the option to turn around and run from a potential threat.
but it's just the two of them in the lobby for the moment, and krouse is... krouse seems like he had a hell of a time at the tail end of the maze, and since she'd skipped over asking how long it'd been since he'd managed his escape, clarke just rolls with the assumption that he still might be recovering from the aches of survivalism. she punches the button to call the lift, then the number four to trigger the soft mechanical whir of closing doors and engaging gears. her room is down to the right once they exit, second window from the left if looking up at the building from the street. she sighs a little while fiddling with the lock, every time she returns to this place just another reminder that it means nothing to her; a provided home that will never feel completely safe, even if aurora loosely promised she didn't always keep watch within. it's just another bit of set dressing, a place to sleep or not sleep, a staging area more than a comfort to return to after a long day. but it's what she has, and against her will, it'd become familiar.
the door swings open easily and even from the doorway a few things stand out. the lights are off, the curtains down; the air is stale, with the distant scent of hot soap leftover from this morning's too long shower. there's a bedroom door open and the edge of a perfectly made bed in line of sight, but the couch is a rumpled mess — obviously slept on. the coffee table in front of it is a bit of a mess, a disjointed array of items: two swiss army knives, a nonsensical newspapers or three, a lighter and a can of hair spray, a half drunk water bottle, an unopened bottle of liquor innocently set next to a fresh wash cloth, an open box of moleskin bandages, the wrappers of a few protein bars, a yellow legal pad splayed open — and more than a few pages ripped out and tacked up in the space around the window, a series of lists and thoughts and a hand drawn map of etraya on display. just inside to the left are three go-bags identical to the one she'd been wearing last they met; all heavy, and visibly over stuffed, lined against the wall and ready to go. beyond them the filthy, crusty, blood stained war boots, cargo pants, jacket, sweatshirt, and neon high-visibility t-shirt she'd worn in the labyrinth are just in a pile, obviously discarded and not touched again since she'd managed to trudge back here in the wake of finding her friends at the exit. and to the right, there's a relatively untouched little kitchenette with a jar on the counter full of liquid, something dark suspended within it —
oh fuck. )
Wait here one second.
( very abruptly — like for the first time in her life she's felt shame about her living quarters — clarke floods into the apartment and partially closes the the front door in her wake to obscure. a moment later, there's a subsequent scrape of glass against tile, a six second cacophony of cupboard hinges squeaking open, a thud of something heavy being stashed away, the thunk of a door closing, and then — )
no subject
( she knows him to be capable of silence. that stretch in the woods where she'd outright asked him to shut up, and the purposeful quiet of his movements around the little oasis in the middle of the maze when she'd pretended more than actually tried to sleep are proof enough. but the cafe is too bright and bustling to be considered quiet, and that's not even what she wants — would absolutely sit and listen to krouse prattle endlessly about nothing in particular if it felt like they could dig themselves out of this particular, multi-faceted hole of guilt. a well of emotion, if you would. another small factor may be the seed of delinquency he'd sown when switching the name tags; clarke had been sitting patiently in this cafe day in and day out as an open book, in penance for having subjected the entire populace to this silly little task absolutely no one was enforcing, and she's tired of it. a little rebellion does the soul good once in a while.
so they stand, and she doesn't bus her own cup this time. and they shift and shuffle and slide around the other tables in a loose, two person single-file line 'til reaching the door, where she pushes it open with the soft jingle of the welcome bell and holds it so krouse can walk through — after you. outside the sun is high in the sky, full and bright, with not a cloud in sight. it's the middle of the day, bordering on summer at best guess but with a slight breeze that still ushers in a cool, refreshing chill. the change of scenery does something to settle her nerves, a proper (if also temporary) book-end to their coffee shop conversation and the chance to compartmentalize rather than feel. clarke focuses on the smell of trees and the shrunken rivers rather than what the siren pool had tasted like when lisa thrashed beneath the surface and droplets of salt water had burned against her cracked lips; she listens to the distant trill of birds and prefers its sporadic nature over the perfect melody of the sirens' song. dodging around other pedestrians on the sidewalk is so easy compared to ducking out of the line of dragon fire, and there is no invisible, unspecified time limit hanging over their heads.
there is no small talk, but it's not a very long walk. just a couple of minutes at the easy but direct pace she sets. and if she ignores that they're still stuck in a bubble, it doesn't feel anything like traversing the dusty labyrinth hallways. the apartment building looms into view first, followed swiftly by the hospital rooftop. once inside the former, clarke does pause for a split second because she largely prefers taking the stairs — not being trapped in the small, enclosed space of the elevator even for the few seconds it takes to traverse floors, always with the option to turn around and run from a potential threat.
but it's just the two of them in the lobby for the moment, and krouse is... krouse seems like he had a hell of a time at the tail end of the maze, and since she'd skipped over asking how long it'd been since he'd managed his escape, clarke just rolls with the assumption that he still might be recovering from the aches of survivalism. she punches the button to call the lift, then the number four to trigger the soft mechanical whir of closing doors and engaging gears. her room is down to the right once they exit, second window from the left if looking up at the building from the street. she sighs a little while fiddling with the lock, every time she returns to this place just another reminder that it means nothing to her; a provided home that will never feel completely safe, even if aurora loosely promised she didn't always keep watch within. it's just another bit of set dressing, a place to sleep or not sleep, a staging area more than a comfort to return to after a long day. but it's what she has, and against her will, it'd become familiar.
the door swings open easily and even from the doorway a few things stand out. the lights are off, the curtains down; the air is stale, with the distant scent of hot soap leftover from this morning's too long shower. there's a bedroom door open and the edge of a perfectly made bed in line of sight, but the couch is a rumpled mess — obviously slept on. the coffee table in front of it is a bit of a mess, a disjointed array of items: two swiss army knives, a nonsensical newspapers or three, a lighter and a can of hair spray, a half drunk water bottle, an unopened bottle of liquor innocently set next to a fresh wash cloth, an open box of moleskin bandages, the wrappers of a few protein bars, a yellow legal pad splayed open — and more than a few pages ripped out and tacked up in the space around the window, a series of lists and thoughts and a hand drawn map of etraya on display. just inside to the left are three go-bags identical to the one she'd been wearing last they met; all heavy, and visibly over stuffed, lined against the wall and ready to go. beyond them the filthy, crusty, blood stained war boots, cargo pants, jacket, sweatshirt, and neon high-visibility t-shirt she'd worn in the labyrinth are just in a pile, obviously discarded and not touched again since she'd managed to trudge back here in the wake of finding her friends at the exit. and to the right, there's a relatively untouched little kitchenette with a jar on the counter full of liquid, something dark suspended within it —
oh fuck. )
Wait here one second.
( very abruptly — like for the first time in her life she's felt shame about her living quarters — clarke floods into the apartment and partially closes the the front door in her wake to obscure. a moment later, there's a subsequent scrape of glass against tile, a six second cacophony of cupboard hinges squeaking open, a thud of something heavy being stashed away, the thunk of a door closing, and then — )
You can come in.