( he thinks too highly of her. or his bar for friendship is set at ground level. both realities are problematic ones, but since the two of them are in a set habit of keeping their inner compliments to themselves, clarke has no conversational foothold from which to further dissuade him. krouse takes her hand lightly, looks her directly in the eyes, and she thinks this may be the easiest alliance she's ever sought because at least it isn't built on the backbone off the atrocities she's committed. there's no levying wanheda above trickster, and this isn't a battlefield they're standing at the edge of — it's just her apartment, her slept-on couch.

they shake, and just like that — allies. cemented in words, if not blood under the fingernails.

clarke manages to remain optimistic even as they drop hands. hers withdraw to her lap, fingers fiddling over themselves until threaded like basket weavings and forced to be still. she still smiles in his direction, and shrugs in deference to gratitude. )

Any time. ( it seems proven through experiment that clarke will always take his words to heart. whether she chooses to follow his guidance in the end, though? an appreciation of amy dallon and disinterest in falling for tattletale's tactics speak loudly, but they've moved past all of that now right? krouse provides the mental break of imagining the roles reversed, and clarke half-snorts. )

I really hope the shoes never switch, and that you never meet any of my old enemies. ( most of them are dead, not that it means anything in the multiverse. the others? well, it'd be fair to say they still scare her too.

a beat, then as almost an entirely separate thought: )

Should I have made this more painful for you?

( because she can be a huge pain in the ass when times warrant, and if an opportunity for stubborn survivalism had been missed here, she'd like to remedy it going forward. )