( there's nothing inherently wrong with a good barricade, or at least there hadn't been back on her earth. but times change, the ground proves to have a tendency to slip out from beneath one's feet, minds are forced to expand at a rapid rate to accept the existence of things like vampires and superhumans and robots with genuine consciousness and the undead and magic and everything else that was contained in stories long forgotten even before she was born. it's exhausting but there's no other choice but to let knowledge roll over you like waves on a beach, and open your arms to the undertow because how else could one prepare against them?
clarke really wants to bring up the fact a sofa and end-table or two pressed up against the apartment door wouldn't stop someone with supernatural strength if they really wanted to get in, but she also doesn't want to fear monger. tim seems content enough with his own measures to smile at her after explaining, and it's arguably just her paranoia speaking, nothing bad has happened in etraya. yet.
she doesn't smile a lot in general, to the point where the best social mirror she can offer him back for that grin is a grim contortion of her face; eyebrows together, well-worn doubt pressed into the lines that form between them, and a wobble of the mouth — lips quirking down, up, down again, then pressing together so hard they blanche. and she shrugs.
Sure, at some point, ( comes her eventual echoing, though the undercurrent of when earned comes through loud and clear. and that hasn't happened within this conversation, it's been an all around weird first meeting even if some of the tension has lapsed. actually, why is he so sudden more relaxed without the pint size caped crusader here? that's weird, but not enough to comment on.
not when they're both still holding their organs. clarke very obviously diverts her eyes to the door of the apartment building, projecting her intention to extricate herself a split second before taking a step in that direction. but she isn't horrifically rude, she still says — )
no subject
clarke really wants to bring up the fact a sofa and end-table or two pressed up against the apartment door wouldn't stop someone with supernatural strength if they really wanted to get in, but she also doesn't want to fear monger. tim seems content enough with his own measures to smile at her after explaining, and it's arguably just her paranoia speaking, nothing bad has happened in etraya. yet.
she doesn't smile a lot in general, to the point where the best social mirror she can offer him back for that grin is a grim contortion of her face; eyebrows together, well-worn doubt pressed into the lines that form between them, and a wobble of the mouth — lips quirking down, up, down again, then pressing together so hard they blanche. and she shrugs.
Sure, at some point, ( comes her eventual echoing, though the undercurrent of when earned comes through loud and clear. and that hasn't happened within this conversation, it's been an all around weird first meeting even if some of the tension has lapsed. actually, why is he so sudden more relaxed without the pint size caped crusader here? that's weird, but not enough to comment on.
not when they're both still holding their organs. clarke very obviously diverts her eyes to the door of the apartment building, projecting her intention to extricate herself a split second before taking a step in that direction. but she isn't horrifically rude, she still says — )
Bye, Tim. Make sure you put out your fire.