[ He pulls a slight face at the idea of her keeping the gun, because that's the response that makes sense, but it's more automatic than calculated. As he trails behind her on their way out of the cafe, he's already halfway lost in his own thoughts, just present enough to give her another quick, knowing smile at her getting the door ahead of him this time.
After that, staying lapsed into quiet is unexpectedly simple. The pressure to say something that normally builds up in any undefined lull is redirected to thinking through his other problem.
Thinking through might be generous. Most of what he goes over is a string of crystal clear moments strung in sequence, starting in a rotted city with a skyline like a boxer's teeth. There's an old Greek myth about Prometheus' brother, who lacked his more famous sibling's gift for forward thinking. When the gods wanted to make a point over one slight or another, they sent him Pandora and her eponymous box, and it was really his fault that the whole world went to shit even though she takes all the blame. That part stuck with Krouse, eleven or twelve with a secondhand anthology of world myths, enough that he decided to remember the name.
Epimetheus. Titan of hindsight, the gift of knowing exactly how you fucked up only after the fact.
It keeps him busy into the elevator, which he doesn't stop to think might be for his benefit even while he vaguely appreciates skipping the stairs. He'll remember the path to her door if he ever has a reason to, one of those little habits of observation that never turns off, and he still manages not to really take in the implications of visiting the place where she lives until she opens her front door. Hindsight, again.
What hits him first is how familiar it is. Not the layout or the decor, which is an architectural curiosity that would normally be pinging his attention, but the parts of it that are hers. A cluster of lifesigns he's not going to call a mess, even if it might be one, and the conspicuous containment of nearly all of it to one small area. Notes on the wall, supplies on the coffee table, bags packed to go, the crumpled huddle of clothes she hasn't yet found the energy to deal with.
Clarke doesn't live here. This is just where she stays. He's walked into this room before. Richmond, Boston, New York, Brockton Bay. The city changes, but not the habits. He's stilled by it at the threshold, his shoulders held too level and face too schooled, as memory lands a clean punch right beneath his sternum.
The funny thing about her breaking the silence with a curse and rushing in to clean up is that if she hadn't, he wouldn't have had half as many questions about whatever is in the jar that's no longer visible when he pushes the front door back open at her invitation. ]
It's not that bad.
[ He smiles as he steps inside, sweeping a purposefully cursory glance around a fraction of the apartment before he looks down at his feet, his hands tucked into his hoodie pockets. ]
You should have seen my last place. [ A joke, obvious in tone if not content. ] Looks like you found the Swiss army knives. Have you noticed the tweezers sticking on yours? They do on mine.
no subject
After that, staying lapsed into quiet is unexpectedly simple. The pressure to say something that normally builds up in any undefined lull is redirected to thinking through his other problem.
Thinking through might be generous. Most of what he goes over is a string of crystal clear moments strung in sequence, starting in a rotted city with a skyline like a boxer's teeth. There's an old Greek myth about Prometheus' brother, who lacked his more famous sibling's gift for forward thinking. When the gods wanted to make a point over one slight or another, they sent him Pandora and her eponymous box, and it was really his fault that the whole world went to shit even though she takes all the blame. That part stuck with Krouse, eleven or twelve with a secondhand anthology of world myths, enough that he decided to remember the name.
Epimetheus. Titan of hindsight, the gift of knowing exactly how you fucked up only after the fact.
It keeps him busy into the elevator, which he doesn't stop to think might be for his benefit even while he vaguely appreciates skipping the stairs. He'll remember the path to her door if he ever has a reason to, one of those little habits of observation that never turns off, and he still manages not to really take in the implications of visiting the place where she lives until she opens her front door. Hindsight, again.
What hits him first is how familiar it is. Not the layout or the decor, which is an architectural curiosity that would normally be pinging his attention, but the parts of it that are hers. A cluster of lifesigns he's not going to call a mess, even if it might be one, and the conspicuous containment of nearly all of it to one small area. Notes on the wall, supplies on the coffee table, bags packed to go, the crumpled huddle of clothes she hasn't yet found the energy to deal with.
Clarke doesn't live here. This is just where she stays. He's walked into this room before. Richmond, Boston, New York, Brockton Bay. The city changes, but not the habits. He's stilled by it at the threshold, his shoulders held too level and face too schooled, as memory lands a clean punch right beneath his sternum.
The funny thing about her breaking the silence with a curse and rushing in to clean up is that if she hadn't, he wouldn't have had half as many questions about whatever is in the jar that's no longer visible when he pushes the front door back open at her invitation. ]
It's not that bad.
[ He smiles as he steps inside, sweeping a purposefully cursory glance around a fraction of the apartment before he looks down at his feet, his hands tucked into his hoodie pockets. ]
You should have seen my last place. [ A joke, obvious in tone if not content. ] Looks like you found the Swiss army knives. Have you noticed the tweezers sticking on yours? They do on mine.