MAY MINGLE

[etrayamods]

WHO: Everyone!
WHEN: May 17th-31st
WHERE: On Etraya
WHAT: A mingle log!
NOTES\WARNINGS: N/A, please note any needed warnings in threads.

⏵ a hero's return ⏴ As champions exit the Labyrinth, they’ll find that their environment has gone through some fairly drastic changes. Where there used to be larger bodies of water is now thinner rivers going through land; the amount of bridges connecting landmasses has decreased, given what had been individual islands are now much more connected. In addition, Etraya is significantly more green; flowers bloom, birds chirp cheerfully, and there are numerous additional species of insects, mammals, and aquatic creatures throughout the lands. Baby foxes roam through forested areas, bees pollinate the flowers to spread them more thoroughly around the inhabited areas, and it feels brighter. Or perhaps that’s just in comparison to how the Labyrinth had been. There are more areas to explore, new facilities, animals, and Etraya feels significantly more settled than it had before. Aurora’s promise of renovations had been true. And if one looks up, they may notice a city bubble visible on the closest planet that hadn't been visible before. ⏵ coffee break ⏴ After hearing Clarke’s suggestion, Aurora sets up a new cafe close to the apartment complex, and sends out notices to individuals with mandatory coffee hour times listed for them to come to Corrine's Cafe and make a few friends. While the note does state that it is mandatory, there will be no follow-up from Aurora nor the companion bots to ensure those who receive notes do show. Given this is Aurora trying to take suggestions in mind and see how successful they are among the citizens of Etraya, however, following directives may not be a terrible idea. It's up like a modern-day, smaller cafe. One walks in through the front door, and is greeted by a companion bot behind the counter who offers a wave of their hand and a friendly “Welcome! Let me know when you’re ready to order”. The menu offers lattes, mochas, espresso, black coffee, several different kinds of teas, and a few drinks that are a little odd to find in a cafe; ale, canned sodas and coffees, numerous bottles of wine, but only pinot noir. Soft music plays in the background, impossible to place but it sounds as if it may be based on tracks that were popular in the early 90s. Tables and booths are set up to seat two to four, with packets of sugar and small containers of creamer set out towards the middle. There are charging stations set up at every table, which may seem strange considering phones and laptops aren’t widely available, but Aurora’s doing her best. There are also a few bookshelves full of the classics, a few historical fiction, and several written by H.P. Lovecraft. Each seat has a placard in front of it, with a name, and a ‘fun fact’. One might say “Hello! My name is Joe, and I like to paint!” Another may say “Hi, I’m Jill! My sister died tragically in front of me and I’ve never gotten over it.” ⏵ new horizons ⏴ Several of the new bridges found in Etraya now have signs posted just outside of them, and on those signs is a QR code that the earpiece’s HUD can scan. Scanning this with the HUD will bring up a scavenger hunt, listing several items and circling areas where they can be found. Some of these objects will be obvious: find Corrine at Corrine’s Cafe - the companion bot who runs the counter, find a delicious meal at Bangsan Market, break into S.T.A.R Labs, or find room 87 at Point Blanc Academy. Some will be less obvious, like locating a bat, becoming friends with an archer, find a pink shirt, open bagged milk without making a mess, or get a drink at the mutant-friendly pub. Please feel free to make up your own items to find around Etraya! ⏵ NOTES ⏴ Welcome to our mid-month mingle! Please feel free to use this to explore Etraya, put up wildcard prompts (you don't need to use the above!), or use the open prompts to assist in jumpstarting cr. This mingle covers the period from May 17th to May 31st. Our next mission (and next mod log) will not go up until June 7th. ⏵FULL NAVIGATION⏴

Comments

[equivo]

[ As he studies the faint darkness under Clarke's nails, Krouse wonders if any of it is his. An unlikely prospect, given the length of time and frequency of hand washing he can assume between then and now, but it might not be impossible for a thin sedimentary ripple of his blood to be buried somewhere in there. There's something calming about the idea he decides he's not going to dissect here and now, like how he's not remembering the assured carefulness of her hands as she stitched him shut.

When her pinky twitches, his thumb follows suit, skimming the outside of hers in a tiny, reflexively soothing gesture. A spurt of fresh self-consciousness at that makes him lift his head, resolving anew to muddle through the next twentyish minutes without making a total spectacle of himself.

The timing's perfect to make sure he's put to the test on that almost immediately, his expression tightening as Clarke motions at her face to illustrate her description. Eyeliner warpaint doesn't have to mean anything. It's not exactly unique. Plenty of people must have gotten bitten by any number of things in the labyrinth. There's no accounting for how many of them might have been ungratefully reactive.

His thumb hooks around hers as he breathes in steadily, the spike of his pulse and dilation of his pupils notwithstanding. ]

You didn't shoot her, did you? That does tend to piss people off.

[ The joke creaks with strain, his focus too intense to pass off as casual. His next best bet is concern, which isn't even a lie. The trick is passing it off as some level of reasonable, for himself almost as much as for her. ]

[skaikru]

( krouse presses concern but it doesn't quite fit in with the way he's looking at her, and clarke's expression quickly sours. or rather, she flinches. )

Of course not, ( she says, bordering on insulted (or worse, hurt) that he would even think such a thing. as if they hadn't met for a second time when she'd been drenched in blood, the most well capable murder between the two of them.

a beat, and then...

like the hook of his thumb around hers, like this gentle point of contact that's not quite casual but not quite anything else serves as a key in some invisible lock. unlike some, clarke griffin had arrived here with friends. whether they proved a benefit or baggage really depended on whatever mission they were set on, and just because she hadn't sought them out to comfort her in the wake of the doppelgangers doesn't mean she couldn't have. she is not touch starved — she could fold natsuno or rita into a hug any time she needed, and even octavia had hugged her fiercely within the last month. but also she is — and this is new, a little too electrifying, a little too easy.

that should be quashed. and she almost wants him to know: )

...I thought about it, though. ( not bordering, but well over the line into guilty territory. like she ought to be better than that, seeing as that weirdly chipper blonde who flipped with the same hair trigger as krouse's revolver had still be a person, no matter how unreasonable in the moment. it's clarke's turn to drop her gaze and study the back of her free hand like there's going to be a test on the whorls and lines of her own skin in the next five minutes. in her peripherals, the liquid surface of her coffee is far too dark to evoke a strong remembrance of the lapping, blood stained siren pool but it's enough that it's wet. she had tried to talk to lisa first, and when that failed she'd gotten kicked and bent double. first she'd been scared, and then she'd gotten angry. )

She was trying to drown me. And I really didn't want to die like that again.

( and clarke sighs, a phantom of a death rattle. and again two things happen at once: she withdraws her wandering foot, hooks it around her stationary heel, and disentangles their fingers to slide her hand back across the tabletop to cradle the base of her coffee cup. )

It would have just slowed me down.

[equivo]

[ The wrong kind of joke at the wrong moment, a stupid miscalculation he should have known better than to make. Most people take shooting someone seriously. Something crumples in his throat like torn foil, disappointment surging up around it. At least it keeps him from trying to interrupt her to fumble some attempt at salvaging things, which is for the best, because it rapidly becomes clear that he wouldn't have had a chance.

He's had to revise his opinion of Clarke's general levels of compassion before. Someone could argue that's repeated here. A person so generous she wants to make allowances for everyone, however off-putting their behaviour is, and so selfless that admitting she was tempted otherwise embarrasses her. It's a flattering explanation, brimming with noble intentions and guided by a strong moral compass. Parts of it are even true.

But he sees the guilt first. Pervasive, internalized, like the kind of poison that builds up in the bones until they have to bury you in a lead-lined coffin. A guilt that says anything that happens to her is something she might deserve, and anything she does about it is something she should be ashamed of. The crumpled foil in his throat calcifies into familiar, hideous splinters.

When she tugs her hand away, he almost reaches after it. He has to press it flat again to keep it still, staring at her downturned face like he can drag something out of it with sheer force of will. ]

If someone's trying to kill you, I think you get a pass on thinking about shooting them.

[ His voice is hard, brittle only at the edges. His throatful of splinters, swallowed, burrow into raw nerves and already open wounds. ]

In fact, call me crazy, but I think that's one of the most reasonable times to actually shoot someone.

[skaikru]

( at some point it ought to occur to clarke that she's just irreparably broken, when even a reasonable sort of absolution does absolutely nothing to soothe the ache in her chest. but this is not the day that happens, all she can manage in the moment is pressing her lips together so tightly they blanche white and scowling at the wood pattern of the table like it'd done her a personal wrong.

krouse doesn't quite get it. he still doesn't quite know her.

thought about means wanted to, at least for a few seconds. and not for the reasons a normal person might be moved to kill someone in the middle of a fight, out of fear for the absolute and unknown oblivion of death. because she'd already taken the forerunner position in establishing they'd just come back here, hadn't she? it'd just been an utterly insulting notion that she'd die again so quickly, and for nothing but trying to do the right thing. and despite the failed foray into heroism (aka basic human decency), it'd more so been about the inconvenience. clarke had entered the labyrinth with two concrete lifelines to hold on to — keep her people safe, and get to the end first in order to have a say in what the next mission would entail so she could keep her people safe. only to fail at both, but she couldn't have even tried if doomed to spend 48 hours rotting and reforming.

in the end, the time she spends studying the table and chewing over her own shortcomings gives clarke the time needed to recompose herself. and krouse's attempt to mitigate her demons ultimately drags out a small smile by the time she tilts her face up to meet his gaze.

manufactured and pacifying, but so soft it almost passes for genuine. )

You're right.

( and he is. but this is also clarke neatly book-ending the conversation, a wordless reinforcement of i'm fine punctuated by pulling her coffee mug to her mouth and taking a measured sip. she's been in this seat for nearly 40 minutes, and her drink is bitterly lukewarm, but look at her — functional in the wake of the labyrinth, bordering on pleasant and casual. )

Still sucked, though.

( and she sighs with her whole chest, leaning back in her chair. the little pocket of air they'd unintentionally managed to build around themselves and their not-exactly-private conversation bursts the second she casts her gaze around at the coffee shop as a whole. it is busy and bustling, somewhere in the background a face she doesn't recognize enters the building with the soft jingle of the door bell and orders a black coffee at the counter. he cradles his cup like a baby near his chest, and will eventually move to sit in what was previously krouse, and i never finished high school's seat. corrine is bringing out a fresh tray of croissants. slivers of surrounding chatter flood into her ears alongside an off brand version of enjoy the silence by depeche mode bumps quietly in the background — words are very un-fundamental, don't get so sentimental.

clarke had momentarily lost her grasp on the passage of time, but figures she has 17 more mandatory minutes. and very abruptly doesn't care anymore.

and, like — if there was ever anyone around to enthusiastically break a rule or two with, krouse has at least long proven he can be discreet. her mug thunks gently against lacquered wood as she sets it down with emphasis, and the legs of her chair only mildly squeal as she braces her palms against the edge of the table and pushes back. )

Do you want to just go?

[equivo]

[ 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. ]

[skaikru]

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 — )

You can come in.

[equivo]

[ 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.

[skaikru]

( 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. )

[equivo]

[ Krouse moves far enough inside to close the door almost all the way behind him, tucked into the frame just short of latching. Presumptuous, but he doubts she wants anyone wandering by to watch this exchange any more than he does. ]

I guess there are downsides to being a jack of all tools.

[ They don't have to talk about her transitory apartment or her mysterious jar that looked uncannily like a piece of set dressing from a mad scientist's lab. (Better to think of it like that than as anything real.) She didn't invite him here so he could pry into her personal business.

He wonders why she slept on the couch and not in her bed. If she drifted off there by mistake in the middle of something else, or if it was a choice. The former seems like something she'd do, but so does the latter. Either way, the image of her balled up on her side with an unhappy pinch at the corners of her mouth comes to him all too easily, and he's barely banished it before she comes back with the gun.

It looks like it's in good condition. Not surprising. He'll still take it apart to check it when he gets back to his apartment, but only because it's a habit. Just like keeping the safety on, because every gun is always a loaded gun. He takes it carefully, his eyes still not having come up further than her hands since his first sweep of the place. He holds it parallel to the ground and pointed at neither of them as he examines it, this plain, dully black tell.

When he'd gone looking for a gun, he'd had criteria in mind. Compact, reliable, easy to conceal. Nothing flashy or distinctive. It had cost enough to make him wince, with Bet America's firearms black market being what it was, but at least it had also made him queasy and slick-palmed the first time he picked it up. He got over it.

So it's deja vu that he feels almost the same way now, imagining which tiny details about it identify it as his. He takes a shallow breath, which lets him know he'd apparently stopped doing that, and looks back up at Clarke. ]

Thanks. [ He should have suggested they split up so he could get his holster first, but there he goes again. ] I wasn't looking forward to trying to figure out how to use a slingshot.

[ Through his belt will do for now. He only needs to get it down a floor. He wipes his palm on his hips afterwards, even though it's still dry and clean. ]

Before I go, [ he says, casually ] do you mind filling me in on what eyeliner girl looked like, besides a reject member of KISS? Just so I can keep an eye out for who I want to avoid in future death traps.

[skaikru]

( the gun is in much the same condition as it had been when he'd pressed it into her palm in the midst of the monster swarm, save a few streaks from long dried saltwater droplets that'd been half heartedly scrubbed away. if clarke had put a little more thought into their eventual reunion, she would have hunted down a bit of distilled vinegar and broken into her stash of hydrogen peroxide and maybe given the thing a proper wipe down; if she'd had a bore brush and gun oil, she would have cleaned it, and if she had bullets she would have returned it with twelve shots in the magazine. but these are considerations that flood forward in hindsight, weapon already returned.

the moment's over, right? clarke had followed through on returning the loan, krouse is inspecting his gun for general wear and tear, the door is still open a crack and in short order he'll probably turn to leave. and then she'll be alone in this simultaneously barren and messy apartment, and have to turn her attention towards mentally preparing for tomorrow's coffee hour and acknowledge a special sort of uselessness that comes with having no idea how to proceed next in this place. he will leave and she'll turn to her murderboard and stare at the lurid yellow pages for the millionth time, like some revelation will spring out from between the faded blue lines. and when it inevitably fails to manifest, she'll fish her kidney jar out of the cupboard to remind herself how utterly enraging it is to be stuck in a place like this again, and try all over. then she'll get a headache, and try to lay down to sleep, but had drunk too much coffee and will become painfully aware of how rapid her heartbeat is and inevitably go for a walk — marveling at nothing but how alone one can feel in a city bustling with people.

a few seconds of silence reign while clarke preemptively plans out the rest of her day, eventually interrupted by a classic krouse half-joke which earns a light snort in response. a sling shot. she should probably take this moment to apologize for leaving him (being forcibly separated, but it's the same thing) without even her knife in exchange back in the maze. though it wouldn't have done much to help him in the well...

but he's got a follow-up question all of a sudden, and despite a measure of surprise at the return to topic, it's easy enough to answer. )

Oh. Um, blonde. About this tall — ( an illustrative palm held flat, guesstimating roughly at lisa's height. ) — with green eyes, and...

( they'd met before the other girl had attempted to drown her, back at the very beginning of the maze. a few of the early on observations clarke had also noted were: no concept of personal space, grating, suspicious, and mean as sin. but krouse had asked for a physical description, not the gut instincts that left a sour taste on the back of her tongue, and there's one more to tell. she illustrates again, bringing up her left hand to drag the nail of her pinky finger idly from the corner of her mouth to halfway through her cheek. )

A couple scars. She had a purple notebook and a fanny pack at one point.

[equivo]

[ Krouse watches Clarke trace the trail of Tattletale's scar across her cheek as if he's already remembering this moment from a distance, glassed over and remote. His heart beats hard enough it's all he can feel, drowning out the sick knot in his stomach and the tightness of his chest.

Everything he'd said to Tattletale, he'd said because he didn't have anything left to lose. As she triumphantly reminded him, she'd helped make sure of that. If she regretted not leaving herself any leverage to hold over him, well, that was her fucking problem.

It was an accident that Clarke ended up with his gun, but Tattletale's not going to believe that. Even if he gets rid of it now, the link still exists. Sooner or later, she's going to take the pieces she has and put them together. It's not going to matter if he tries to explain that it doesn't mean anything, a series of coincidences that only look like conspiracy.

It doesn't matter, because even if he can convince her of that, he's not going to be able to convince her that there's nothing here she can use. Nothing here that wouldn't be fun to pull apart, just to show off that she still can.

The smart move is to walk away. Cut his losses, ignore the fallout. Clarke can fend for herself, and it doesn't mean a thing to him at the end of the day. Whatever Tattletale decides to do to her and her guilt isn't his problem.

The door clicks all the way shut behind him at the nudge of his heel. He keeps looking at her, her hollowed out eyes and too-serious mouth. ]

I'm about to ask you something shitty, and you're not going to want to answer without asking me why. I need you to not do that. Just answer. Gut instinct, yes or no.

[ Quiet, almost perfectly level, even as his eyes bore into her with all the urgency he's keeping out of his voice. ]

Do you think you can try to trust me on something?

[skaikru]

...probably.

( there's a warbling uptick in inflection at the end of the word that almost causes it to cross over into the realm of a question returned. but it is not one. it is a statement well chewed over in the span of the several seconds it takes clarke to work her way around the consonants and truly grasp what he's asking.

something has krouse balanced on a razors edge here, and in mirror discomfort, clarke's face contorts in preemptive defense. her brow furrows, the corners of her mouth drag down, and when given the choice between two answers she still tries to forge her own middle ground.

she is well familiar with the facts of their acquaintance; he'd willingly cheated a game with her, he'd dawdled at her side in the woods, conveniently not been a mass murderer keen to set on prey in their weakest moments, carried her message, protected her identity, warned her off potential threats, pressed a gun in her hand and let her keep it for far too long. he'd made her laugh, and tried to absolve her of her sins. and while she'd never actively sought him out, there are the beginnings of a patterned relief every time he just shows up. he'd kicked the door closed all the way, she'd heard the latch click, and her gut instinct had not been one of fear at being locked in a room together.

but being asked to sum up everything those series of events made her feel in a single word? weighted. tense. a little nerve wracking. the same pit in her stomach that had threatened to swallow her whole every time she made a new alliance stretches now, wide and dark and terrifying.

and then there's the fact krouse looked so pressingly, sickeningly concerned before asking, little lines of his practiced facade easier to pick out like marionette strings against a curtain. and had prefaced the ask with the caveats that she couldn't ask why, which was smart because that's absolutely the next thing on the tip of her tongue. why?

why do you seem so... scared? )

I mean, it's not like you've lead me astray yet.

( she knits her brow and curls in her lower lip to anchor in place with her teeth. that's about as close to an explicit yes as she clarke can offer without knowing more, and there's no point in chasing answers that seem like they'll inevitably land at her feet in the next few seconds. )

[equivo]

[ Even in the middle of this, he can't help but find her hedging her bets almost funny. Probably, so she has room to back out without breaching a commitment one way or another if this goes a direction she doesn't like, even though by any reasonable judgment she wouldn't owe him anything if he was trying to play her.

But it wouldn't really be about what she owed him in that scenario. It'd be about what she owes herself. Personal integrity is a tricky thing to balance with pragmatism. ]

Probably. [ He half-smiles briefly, like a wince. ] I can work with probably.

[ Or maybe it's just something he finds particularly challenging, because if he had any real integrity to speak of he'd be telling her she shouldn't give him probably. It doesn't matter that his intentions here are almost as good as they ever get. It's rarely his intentions that constitute a problem.

But he can self-flagellate on his own time. Right now, he has shit to do. He steadies his shoulders and rubs his fingertips against the denim of his jeans before he plucks his earpiece off the side of his head, then holds his palm containing it out to her with a beckoning crook of his fingers. ]

...god, I hope you've actually been speaking English.

[ This particular ill-timed realization isn't a joke, but he nearly laughs after it anyway, nerves jangling like a bad phone line. It'd be just his goddamn luck if his first attempt to drape a fig leaf of operational security over this ended in a language barrier. ]

[skaikru]

( listen, the only moderately safe bets are hedged. the clarke "my contingencies have contingencies" griffin special: irrevocably drawn to someone but still feeling the deep seeded urge to keep them at arms length — for both their sakes, she'd reason.

krouse plucks his communicator from the side of his head and offers it forward, and she doesn't even need the suggestion of his fingers to figure out what to do next. she raises a hand and sifts through her hair to peel that little bud of technology from the shell of her ear, slipping it into the little lip of a pocket in her athletic pants before affixing his in its place. )

I do speak English. ( like she has anything else in her wheelhouse other than broken trigedasleng. but she's also resolutely sure these ear pieces would translate anything; what was the point of pushing teamwork while not providing them the means to understand one another? )

[equivo]

[ There's another of those funny, fleeting crumples he gets around his eyes at odd moments when she slips his earpiece on. He steps in closer, his empty hand rising as he shifts his gaze to the side of her face, like the ends of two magnets slipping past each other against invisible pressure. ]

Then you don't need this.

[ He murmurs, ruefully, as he reaches for his communicator to slip it back off of her ear. It's impossible to do it without skimming the whorls of her ear, his fingers brushing up against her hair gathered behind it, and for a second, it's like he could be tucking a loose strand of it back for her. A small, ginger act of carefulness, out of sync with the moment.

He palms his communicator with his thumb as he pulls his hand back, clipped and efficient, and pivots on his heels to head for the kitchenette. ]

Not quite what I was getting at. [ He explains, his back to her, as he reaches for the cupboard she didn't open to stash a jar inside. ] Although - fuck, who knows how much it matters.

[ But even as he says that, he's rummaging through her dishware. A short, squat glass cup, a ceramic bowl with a higher lip than the cup is tall. He collects both and closes the cupboard back up, going to the sink. Communicator in the cup, cup under the tap, bowl inverted and set on top. He leans against the edge of the counter, his hands flipped to the grip the edge as he looks down into the black mouth of the drain. ]

And what I'd actually need here is a Faraday cage, and even then - [ another half-laugh, all inhale without release, and he leans over to twist the sink on, water sluicing over the top of his little echo chamber ] - well. Work with what you have, not what you want, as they say.

You should put yours in the bathroom. Break up the noise a little.

[skaikru]

( oh, this isn't about to be an expose of compelling, explanatory, condemning footage or voicemails? clarke had grown so accustomed to profound pieces of revealing information coming into her shiptalk phone in the form of shared messages or photographs, and only truly grasps she'd read the room wrong when he reaches out to gently pluck the communicator from her ear, and she freezes. the only muscles that twitch are the ones in her face, eyes fixed on his while her expression butterflies from blank alarm, to pinched confusion, and with the slight tickle of fingertips against the shell of her ear — the beginnings of understanding. oh.

embarrassment is minimal at best but still present, but will have to wait to be processed. she can feel a little stupid and adjust to be better going forward later, krouse is already moving towards the kitchenette. and despite this being her apartment, clarke follows in his wake like a student shadowing a professional in a medbay, watches him rifle through cupboards and start up the sink, her only prevailing thought being — huh, that's clever.

too clever, perhaps? how often has he played tactical defense against outside listeners before that he hadn't even fumbled the glass? what's a faraday cage? and again, what are you so scared of?

but clarke has never balked at the opportunity to learn. for the moment she's focused more on the stream of sink water and trying to imagine what the feedback through the ear piece would sound like on the other end than she is on krouse himself. and when he prompts her to get a little more distance than just shoving her earpiece in her pocket, clarke obliges. )

Okay. Give me a second.

( she retreats towards the bathroom, and spends a solid few seconds just looking around the cramped room lit by fluorescents. this is supposed to be one of the few places aurora wouldn't infiltrate in the name of surveillance unless absolutely necessary for a mission, but they'd just had one and are currently in the recovery period; the calm before the third wave of a storm. the span of time where, if they were back on the serena eterna, everyone would have been picking up the pieces and licking their wounds; taking comfort from their friends or steeling themselves with hollow resolves like hope and the sentiment that next time won't be as bad. recharging their batteries, so to speak. fooling themselves.

there's a cup that houses her toothbrush and toothpaste on the lip of the sink, but more appealing is the bathmat just outside the shower. she stoops for a moment to shove her earpiece beneath heavy memory foam and absorbent cotton, and for good measure turns the shower on full blast and flicks on the vent fan before slipping back out and closing the door behind her. the latch clicks into place at her back, and clarke drifts back across the apartment floorplan until she reaches the couch-bed — a good middle point between bathroom and kitchen, gives them the most distance.

she doesn't move to sit but stands at the arm and tilts her head, equal parts inviting him to join her here and finally spill whatever this lead up has been angling towards. )

[equivo]

[ Krouse nods as Clarke heads to the other room. He waits until the sound of her footsteps shift before he leans further over the sink, closing his eyes as his hair falls short of hiding his face. Under his bandages, his left arm lights up from the pressure he's putting on it. He shifts to his right late, the ache lingering. ]

Okay.

[ He says to himself, drowned out by the rush of water. A deep breath to fill out his lungs, another small nod, and he pushes off the kitchen counter. ]

Okay.

[ Back to the doorway, where he thinks about whether or not he should take off his shoes, a fleeting hangover of long instilled conscientiousness about carpets. Clarke hasn't, so he probably shouldn't. It's a stupid little thing to have come to mind, slipping in between the checkboxes of every real concern he should be keeping at the forefront of his thoughts.

But for all the things he's trying to think through, he's calm. It's how he gets when he's committed to seeing a decision through. His doubts don't ease, his pulse doesn't slow, but they fade into a static he can tune out.

He flashes her a smile when she comes out of the bathroom, clean and easy reflex. Crossing over to the couch is just a few steps. Taking a seat at her invitation doesn't feel like crashing into the earth. ]

Can't be too careful.

[ Maybe that's another joke, lightly said as it is. He's not dwelling on it. The butt of his gun is digging into his hip. He adjusts so it stops. ]

She's good with computers. [ Funnelled cash, background research; he doesn't know how much of that was true, but it was enough. ] Better with information.

I know who she is. [ As if it's not obvious, but it's better to be clear. ] Back where we came from. Which is a problem, because I can't tell you how. And that's why I'm hoping you're still keeping an open mind, even though this sounds like a load of absolute bullshit.

[skaikru]

( there are times where the suspense is worse than the reveal, and times when the reveal makes one long for the tense moments from before — when they didn't know the full depth of what they were dealing with and could at least pretend it wasn't that dangerous.

and clarke ultimately can't tell which court this conversation is going to lead them into. she can feel her heartrate tick up, feel her chest squeeze, and the beginnings of an adrenaline based response making her legs feel heavy and her palms tingle. she almost wants to stay standing and faced towards the door, but he seems an even bigger wreck, and he still sits. )

You're making me a little nervous, Krouse. Just — tell me.

[equivo]

[ You should be more than a little nervous.

He's not going to say that. He doesn't even want to say it. What he wants to say, watching her tense up on the brittle edge of fear, is that there's nothing to worry about. That he's got it handled, all of this lead up for nothing but the common courtesy of letting her know that, one occasional ally to another.

More than he wants to say it, he wants it to be true.

But he's been trying not to lie to her about the things that matter. Do better, his own choice of words that keeps coming back in a bitter curdle of acid at the back of his mouth. Maybe if he'd done worse, they wouldn't be here. ]

She's a parahuman. I'd say 'like me', but that's sort of the fundamental issue. She's not like me.

Powers tend to come in types. Most of them change the things you can do. Some of them change the way you think. [ The twist of his mouth tightens. ] She's one of the latter. They call them 'thinkers', creatively enough.

I don't know exactly how her power works. I don't know how much it's working here. But to give you the gist of it, she knows things. Things she shouldn't be able to know, things she shouldn't even be able to guess. She can look at someone and tell where they came from, what they're planning, if they're going to pull a trigger. Give her a phone call between two people, and she can figure out a whole criminal conspiracy. She's not always right, but she's right enough of the time.

If you think about all the things you wouldn't want someone to know about you, well. She probably does. Or she can get close enough to mess with your head, push you into giving her more. Or just push you.

And that's what she does. She pushes until people do what she wants, or they break. Or both. She doesn't really give a shit.

[ He managed to keep his voice steady up to that. It's not nothing that it only crests into a rough waver there, a fraying bow dragged the wrong way over steel strings pulled too far. He pulls his fingernails out of the denim over his knees and makes his hands still. ]

That's why I can't tell you as much as I want to. Because anything I tell you, she's going to figure out I told you. The more you know, the more she's going to think you're a threat. And -

[ This is the bad part. She'll be able to see it in the way he stops looking at her, a contortion of guilt and shame and hot, black hate passing over his face. ]

And I've fucked you over enough already, because I gave you my fucking gun, and her and me - we're really not on great fucking terms.

[ It almost seems like he's done, his head tipped down and shoulders pulled back and together like there's a knife slipped neatly between them. ]

I'm sorry.

[ The two most useless words in the English language. ]

[skaikru]

( the past few moments had been filled with suspense and clarke had wanted answers. and they are subsequently provided by krouse, but it's like... no matter how much he talks, no matter how carefully engineered the answers are to ward her off asking follow up questions, there's still holes. she wants to ask for more information about thinkers, a sudden new brand of power to be envious of because how convenient would it be to have something more than instinct to go off of when confronting someone new? she wants to ask for more specifics on what it means to be pushed by someone like that, and if there are any surefire ways to circumvent it — like teleportation powers that don't work when one's stuck in the depths of a well — and she very, very desperately wants to ask about those not great fucking terms the two of them are on.

but, resoundingly. overall. perhaps a bit undermining considering how severely krouse hunches his shoulders, all clarke really has to ask at the end is, )

...that's it?

( that isn't the right response, that feels like it demeans his very obvious fear. clarke cobbles her incredulity back into herself; takes a deep breath, and allows the familiar facade of competency to settle over her. she is unbothered by the warning lights he blares, but not unsympathetic to why he'd sought to raise the alarm. she smiles at him, though it's tempered and diplomatic more than sincere. )

So she's another Aurora. Or, Echo I guess.

( another captain, another friday. another a.l.i.e. just another in a long list of more capable creatures than her, who would still cry when they're half drowned.

clarke had seen enough of the labyrinth's effect on powers when natsuno'd had difficulty shoving aside the hurtles they'd been forced over with a hoard of zombies at their heels. and she'd weathered tattletale's seemingly instinctive need to lash out when pushed into a corner, just to find it lacking. )

If it's the gun you're worried about, there's nothing wrong with the truth. We were stuck together in the middle of the maze, we traded weapons, we got separated before I could return yours. Nothing about that's out of the ordinary, or means anything significant.

And — ( as for tattletale potentially perceiving her as threat? she is far from the first, and will not likely be the last. clarke snorts lightly. ) — I'm not particularly scared of her, Krouse.

( turns out, for all his effort, she does not quite Get It. )

[equivo]

[ Krouse looks back at Clarke when she says that's it?, a sheen of resignation already across his eyes. It stays there while she goes through a neat, practical assessment of what he's told her about the threat, what they can do about it, and caps it off with polite, slightly dismissive assurance.

His mouth twists when she's done, expression creasing at the edges in a way that could be the cusp of all sorts of things. Frustration, hurt, desperation - or, as it turns out, a short, dry laugh as he drops his head and brings his hands up to press fingers along the sides of his nose. ]

Yeah. [ He says, voice threaded with a hairline crack. ] Okay.

[ He squeezes his eyes shut as he makes a quiet, tight noise at the back of his throat, digging his fingertips into soft corners at the top of the bridge of his nose. Then his hands drop as he straightens back up, landing on his knees. ]

I'm not asking you to be scared. I'm saying you shouldn't underestimate her, because even if she can't get to you? She'll find another angle to come at you from, if she decides you're a target she wants to focus on, and nothing pisses her off more than people not being impressed by her schtick.

[ There's a dozen things he could tell her that might make her understand. He can't use any of them. Not unless he was sure that she was going to end up a target, and the only way he'll know that is if it happens.

What he can say is something he's been doing his best not to allow, let alone admit, even to himself. But it's the crux of why they're in this situation. The thing he's done to her in exchange for a handful of moments of feeling like -

Like there could be something more to him than the sum of his mistakes. A rounding error in the math where he could hide this one small, warm thing. ]

And it meant something to me.

[ He's smiling again, faintly, because what the else is he supposed to do? ]

Not trying to get sentimental on you. I'd just rather you hear it from me first. [ His smile tilts, achingly wry. ] I like you, Clarke. And if she doesn't have a problem with you after the labyrinth, she's going to have a problem with that.

[skaikru]

( it's a semi-regular event, to find herself in disagreement with someone despite them both trying to tackle the same problem. clarke's got plenty she'd like to hide away about herself, but history proves she can take most accusations on the chin and keep going anyways. lisa's mask had cracked beside the siren pool, and she'd spat vehemence like a wounded snake directly in clarke's face while also trying to break her wrist; if it's just a more extreme version she's slated to face now, she thinks she can take it.

but krouse strikes paydirt with the mention of alternate avenues. her friends are her weakness, start with — some of the levity, the mark of the easy dismissal, drains from clarke's face as her vivid imagination strikes up. she could see natsuno proverbially flaying himself alive just to spite a blonde who thought she could use him as a tool, and shrugging off any bodily grievous consequences with the snap crackle pop of bones shifting back into place. but rita is easy to rankle, easier to hurt. and octavia... well, there's still what feels like distance between them, stemming from differences on earth and cemented by a two year gap since they'd last seen each other. the latter two would be easier to manipulate if tattletale set her mind to it, but all three could be doomed to suffer just by virtue of being associated with her.

clarke is already digging metaphorical graves for her friends in the back of her grey matter, reopening proverbial blisters on her palms from how tightly she grips the shovel and silently berating herself — fuck fucking shit — when krouse drops in with another gut punch.

it should be a nice thing, to be liked. it should be nice to mean something to someone. but it's not. the admission resonates in the air between them, then sets free a swarm of... not butterflies, but moths throughout her abdomen. anyone who decides to like her, trust her, follow her is just another person to inevitably let down, or hurt, or see dead at her feet the next time she makes a mistake. natsuno had at least made an informed choice when it came to befriending her, she'd told him everything. rita had wormed her way in after months of trials and loathing each other. octavia was grandfathered in after having been at clarke's side for most of her atrocities. krouse on the other hand, has no idea what he's getting into by deciding hers is an orbit he feels comfortable existing in, and that's scarier than tattletale.

or at least it's a danger she's more readily aware of. )

Oh —

( the kneejerk reaction is to batten down the hatches here. clarke tenses visibly in the shoulders; takes a deep inhale through her nose while readjusting against the back of the couch, suddenly viscerally uncomfortable but with no easy avenue for escape considering this is her apartment in the first place. there is a patch of rough skin on the inside on her cheek, and she bites into the ridge of scar tissue. if she shakes her head a little bit, it's an unconscious warning signal — then the pieces of her mask slot into place like tectonic plates.

the smile she offers back is wincing at best, but her tone is steady. calm. decided. assuring in its capitulation. )

Okay. I won't underestimate her. Promise.

( but there's a belated flare of... is this indignance? anger? whatever it is, it makes it easier to press her lips into a thin line and shake her head. she does not know this girl's name, and in the grand scheme of things, this is not the biggest problem staring them all down. ) But I'm also not going to allow her "problems" to dictate who I can and can't be friends with. And you shouldn't either.

[equivo]

[ This is where Clarke is going to tell him to get the fuck out. He's sure of it as he watches her tense at a warning that finally gets through, touching on a vulnerability he has access to from that one terrible night in the woods where he'd thought he'd done enough to keep both of them insulated from this.

She'll be polite about it. No reason to alienate him for nothing, however angry she is with him for his presumptions. That'd be a wasteful move, and she's not prone to making those. He wouldn't hold it against her either way; in fact, he might actually prefer it if she did go off on him, but that's as selfish as liking her was in the first place.

But he's the one underestimating her, this time. The flawed composure he'd been meeting her shifting expression with cracks again like she took that metaphorical shovel up to tap him between the eyes. He pulls back slightly in his surprise, uncertain of how he should take her - acceptance? Defiance? Whatever it is she means by the line she's drawing in the sand, and whoever it's about, between him and Tattletale.

So we're friends, now? is on the tip of his tongue, a little acid curl of skepticism that would reinforce the distance he'd expected they'd keep each other at, his personal failings aside.

That's not necessarily what she's saying. It's not really how he wants to answer her, either. It only feels safer because it'd be easier. But in foregoing the easier option, he's left with something worse, spilling out almost by mistake. ]

That's not the only reason I'm sorry.

[ He winces from his own honesty, holding his hands still so they don't fidget. ]

I'm not that great at being a friend. It's not just her, it's - a lot of things. [ One of which is so much of one that he doesn't know where he'd even start with it, so - the graspable and the mundane. ] I'm better at being an acquaintance. Less room to disappoint, or get you involved in all of my bullshit.

But I'm not going to leave you out to dry on this, either, all right? If that's what you're thinking. She was my problem first. So you do what you have to do, here, but if she starts anything else with you, you're not dealing with it alone. You don't deserve that.

[skaikru]

( alright, so she'd been the first to cross her own line in the sand when it came to the f word. friends, like an endearment; friends like a death sentence. if clarke grapples with her last statement, she can reason that she didn't actually mean to include herself in that category, that it'd been meant as a broad statement meant to encompass anyone else on the entire planet krouse may be worried about

but she'd said what she said.

and now has to sit here in abject, dumbstruck silence as he rattles off sentiments that may as well slipped off her own tongue. what had she told natsuno all that time ago, recline on the roof of a summer camp cabin in horrifically short shorts and accompanied by his trusted flamethrower? i end up hurting a lot of my friends. and i don't want to add you to that list. and she'd meant that, she'd tried, but best intentions don't hold a flame to consequences and in the end they'd both been stuck in prison stripes and doomed to be auctioned off at the next port. natsuno had stood beside her despite it all, to his detriment. he'd stand beside her if it meant his permeant, un-resurrectable death if it came to it, and that's a heavy burden on already tired shoulders — to add krouse into the mix might just topple her.

but he'd sat with her in the woods. he'd given her his gun. he'd gritted his teeth through unmedicated field surgery instead of asking her to venture back out in search of a healer. he'd kept her name off the network. he'd warned her. he'd never questioned, always just managed to understand...

it is remarkably hard, to tear yourself away from what seems like something you'd want. but that is what leaders do, time and time again. at some point during her listening, clarke's mouth had slipped open; a sliver of teeth and the dark of her mouth on display for several long moments before she realizes and pulls up her lower lip. krouse hits her with the wild idea that she doesn't actually deserve the consequences of her own actions, and it takes another moment to properly formulate an acceptable response. )

I'm not a very good friend, either. But there's got to be a middle ground somewhere, right? ( this time when she smiles at him, there's none of that pinched reservation around the edges; it's a real smile, if not tired and resigned when it reaches up to brighten her irises and accentuate the bruise like bags beneath them. and clarke offers out a hand to shake. ) Maybe we can just call each other allies.

( with vested interest. because be it mutated monsters, lisa wilbourn, or whatever else echo deigns to throw at them, she'd never leave him out to dry either. )

[equivo]

[ It's hard to believe Clarke isn't a good friend. Maybe she's not gregarious, or effusive, or easy to get to know, but none of those things are what come to mind when Krouse defines what makes a friend a good one.

She's loyal, and she's brave, and she's kind - kind in the hard-fought, battered way only people who are making a choice to stay like that are. She's been better to him than he could have asked anyone to be, and she takes all the fumbled gestures he makes to return that with surprise that gets him a little bit every time. When she smiles at him like that, he can't imagine who wouldn't be thrilled at the privilege of being on the receiving end of it.

He closes his hand around hers more gently than the prelude to a handshake. Holds her fingers in his for the half-second it takes to search her eyes for any sign of hesitation, or maybe just to study the gradation of blues in them, and then gives her a firm, light shake before he lets her go. ]

Allies.

[ It's a concrete term. Something with a hell of a lot less baggage than friend, and a role he likes to believe he wasn't half-bad in when circumstances allowed. Relief comes away with him as he leans back into the couch, huffing out stale air from the bottom of his lungs. So that's settled, says his slight shrug, like that'll cut through the threads of tension strung through this whole conversation. ]

Thank you for hearing me out. [ He strings out a slight pause, still looking at her with clear-eyed thoughtfulness. ] I appreciate it. If I were in your shoes, I'd have made this a much bigger pain in the ass.