( she'd had never been one for the semblance of greco-roman mythology that'd seemed to transcend the apocalypse. that'd been bellamy's territory, when he'd named his sister. and octavia's when she'd faced down the minotaur in the midst of the labyrinth with virtually no fear. clarke had stuck her nose in medical charts and earth skills notes, a perfect student to the point of annoying her teachers. she could tell you how to identify peppermint and list all the medicinal benefits, but hadn't recognized a siren for a siren until it'd already almost had her in its teeth. hindsight is 20/20 though, and every near death experience learned from; epimetheus may as well have been the origin point of learned fears, the perpetual knowledge passed down through generations of human beings singularly responsible for keeping them alive. life lessons, in titan form.
an important life lesson going forward is to keep her house in better order. when she'd left for coffee hour this morning, there'd been no expectation of inviting anyone back. there'd never been any thought of bringing another person back here who didn't already know how she lived in this odd dimensional limbo. or about her excised kidney, even if natsuno, rita, and octavia might still question why she hadn't gotten rid of it yet.
aside from the jar, there's very little shame in the state of her apartment until krouse offers up that it's not that bad. only then does clarke's gaze flit across and highlight upon the sporadic trash across the coffee table, and pile of dirty clothes in her To Be Burned pile in the corner and feel the slight creep of heat rising along her throat. cleanliness comes second to functionality, same way flavor isn't a high priority when it comes to sustenance. her mouth opens as if to speak, but he spares her the task of manufacturing an explanation with a light joke and immediate pivot towards swiss army knives.
which, yeah. of course. she'd gone to pick a few up almost immediately after he'd first mentioned they could be found at the counter of the kwik trip. )
Not really. But the scissors aren't very sharp either.
( what an odd sort of juxtaposition, a multi-tool that isn't very good at accomplishing any specific task. it's almost like it should pick a lane and stick to it; a knife should be sharp, tweezers shouldn't stick, you can't seek to save people while also immediately envisioning killing them the second it doesn't work out in your favor. just accept what you are. still warm in the face and braced in the little kitchette, clarke manages a little snort that lacks humor, if not content. swiss army knives were cool, even if inevitably a little disappointing.
give her another beat or so, and she peels herself away from the cupboard currently housing the kidney jar and drifts back towards the center of the apartment. back towards the rumpled couch, and stoops to dig her hand beneath the pillow and into the cushion crease. give her all of two seconds to brush fingertips along cold metal, work a grip around the barrel and extricate the weapon before straightening her spine and turning to present it to krouse in an open palm.
chamber and magazine completely empty, but safety still where he left it. )
no subject
an important life lesson going forward is to keep her house in better order. when she'd left for coffee hour this morning, there'd been no expectation of inviting anyone back. there'd never been any thought of bringing another person back here who didn't already know how she lived in this odd dimensional limbo. or about her excised kidney, even if natsuno, rita, and octavia might still question why she hadn't gotten rid of it yet.
aside from the jar, there's very little shame in the state of her apartment until krouse offers up that it's not that bad. only then does clarke's gaze flit across and highlight upon the sporadic trash across the coffee table, and pile of dirty clothes in her To Be Burned pile in the corner and feel the slight creep of heat rising along her throat. cleanliness comes second to functionality, same way flavor isn't a high priority when it comes to sustenance. her mouth opens as if to speak, but he spares her the task of manufacturing an explanation with a light joke and immediate pivot towards swiss army knives.
which, yeah. of course. she'd gone to pick a few up almost immediately after he'd first mentioned they could be found at the counter of the kwik trip. )
Not really. But the scissors aren't very sharp either.
( what an odd sort of juxtaposition, a multi-tool that isn't very good at accomplishing any specific task. it's almost like it should pick a lane and stick to it; a knife should be sharp, tweezers shouldn't stick, you can't seek to save people while also immediately envisioning killing them the second it doesn't work out in your favor. just accept what you are. still warm in the face and braced in the little kitchette, clarke manages a little snort that lacks humor, if not content. swiss army knives were cool, even if inevitably a little disappointing.
give her another beat or so, and she peels herself away from the cupboard currently housing the kidney jar and drifts back towards the center of the apartment. back towards the rumpled couch, and stoops to dig her hand beneath the pillow and into the cushion crease. give her all of two seconds to brush fingertips along cold metal, work a grip around the barrel and extricate the weapon before straightening her spine and turning to present it to krouse in an open palm.
chamber and magazine completely empty, but safety still where he left it. )