clarke "no chill" griffin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
skaikru) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
come_sailaway2024-01-18 08:43 pm
skaikru) wrote in come_sailaway2024-01-18 08:43 pm
( january open post ) hello, hello, hello
Who: clarke griffin & you!
What: Sometimes couples therapy is you, your ex, and the person you both befriended.
When: (gestures vaguely at mid-late january)
Where: all over, like her own personal "welcome back" tour!
Warnings: none of note, will add as needed
i. i'm waking up at the start of the end of the world ( meta )
ii. but it's feeling just like every other morning before ( cabins | closed )
iii. now i wonder what my life is gonna mean if it's gone ( so open!!! )
iv. now it's over for me and it's over for you ( bridge | meta )
v. i believe the world is burning to the ground ( library )
vi. oh well, i guess we're gonna find out ( ari )
vii. let's see how far we've come ( wild card )
What: Sometimes couples therapy is you, your ex, and the person you both befriended.
When: (gestures vaguely at mid-late january)
Where: all over, like her own personal "welcome back" tour!
Warnings: none of note, will add as needed
i. i'm waking up at the start of the end of the world ( meta )
( something something falling in love is like falling asleep; slowly, and then all at once. except the last time clarke griffin remembers falling either in love or asleep, it'd been more akin to running five miles while already exhausted and promptly crashing on the first viable surface. waking up is easier, gentler. for the first time in a long time she hadn't been dreaming of bleeding out on sandy grass, or melting into the floor with grief in the middle of the labyrinth, or burning alive, or (insert ship or canon based trauma here). in fact, she hadn't been dreaming about anything. it's honestly quite refreshing.
the scratch of the couch is familiar. the ceiling in every single one of these identical cabins is familiar. and as she shifts and stretches with a slight groan it doesn't even register that the far wall is missing the carefully curated murder-board plastered above the desk. and that there's not a dozen prepacked go-bags stacked in every inch of extra space. and that she maybe isn't alone, or at least isn't alone with ruby rose. but give her a few seconds to blink the sleep out of her eyes and really focus, and the mask of relaxation that almost makes her look her age will vanish in favor of those well-worn worry lines.
then comes the "all at once", because clarke's sitting up. then immediately trying to stand up, only to discover her legs are the consistency of jelly from disuse, and thus collapsing gracelessly between the couch and the coffee table. absolutely donks her elbow pretty good on the edge of the table and now has to deal with the violent sensory feedback of the funny bone nerves running haywire across her stale spinal cord while trying to get her bearings as well. in the end, with a swell of disorientation that sounds a lot like waves crashing against her ear drum, she makes a rather graceless exit. )
ii. but it's feeling just like every other morning before ( cabins | closed )
a. natsuno yuuki
( immediately outside the cabin she pauses to read the number plaque beside the door frame. 113? what an odd place to end up; she can't even remember who occupied that room, the active list of ship occupants somewhat abandoned months (and months) ago. but it's not that far from what she'd still (begrudgingly) consider home. it's just a few paces, and slipping through the side hall between laundry and elevators to be back on the side with even cabin numbers. there's an initial instinct that demands she not be seen in this harried state of confusion and mild distress that has clarke keeping her head low and footsteps swift. at the door of 108 she's fishing out her shiptalk phone and scanning it against the lock, not even waiting for the telltale sound of the lock unlatching. just immediately reaching for the handle and coming up short when it rattles but doesn't give way.
what the hell?
but it's okay. it will be okay. and she's got a near immediate secondary plan of action.
back past the laundry and elevators, and raising a fist to hammer impatiently on the door of cabin 109, clarke swallows any embarrassment that flares up at the idea of recounting hey i woke up in a strange room and can't get into my own, help as she waits for natsuno to answer the door. she fidgets, bouncing on the balls of her feet in preparation to take off down the hall and hunt him down if he doesn't answer at all. )
b. rita mordio
( and after being clued in the fact that she's been locked out of her room because she'd been gone for four months, a lot of things shift around inside her skull. a new perspective forms, patchwork and full of holes; so much could happen in four months. eventually she'll extricate herself from natsuno, promising (promising) to see him again later. and most of her attention is diverted to making a mental list of items to immediately shop & pilfer the infirmary for, as this new segment of life on board the serena eterna means starting over essentially from scratch. thus far the list goes: sundries, bric n brac, also breakfast i'm so damn hungry right now. and then, maybe belatedly, oh, my other friends.
oh, rita.
rita who is right here, just across the hall from 109.
when raising her fist to knock on the other girls door, clarke briefly remembers how early it must be. there are no windows in the hallway to clue her in on if the sun has risen or not yet, but any other time she'd died the wakeup call had been a rude 6:00am. it's maybe 7 by now? is vanishing akin to dying? who even knows, and yeah, kinda feels like it. but there's not even enough time to properly descend into the mental depths of why did i come back and not some of the others — before the door slides open and she's preemptively holding up both palms. )
Okay, don't freak out but apparently I'm ba—
iii. now i wonder what my life is gonna mean if it's gone ( so open!!! )
( past tearful, high pitched reunions, clarke slots right back into well trodden pathways throughout the ship, head swimming. a good chunk of the people she's met in life both here and on earth would likely give a kidney to "start over", but in this reality she's found that building ones life from scratch is a major headache. there's a rolling list of places to visit, things to get, people to avoid or passively greet. there's the whole idea of reestablishing herself in a place that feels like it's worked into her bloodstream; such a familiar cage, now gone dusty in her absence. so much can change in four months, but! rusty survival skills prevail.
out of the corner of your eye, you may spot a familiar head of blonde hair darting among:
( a. ) the shops!! all of them get a pretty immediate visit from one clarke griffin as she seeks to remake her emergency stash go bags. she can be found on the floor. she can be seen in bric n brac, pulling a handful of novelty tote and drawstring bags off the hangers. or kneeling on the floor just past the checkout counter in sundries, shoving travel sized amenities and snacks into aforementioned bags. the infinite tommy bahama gets a visit too, where handfuls of socks and underwear meet the same fate as toiletries and she's haphazardly draped athletic gear over her shoulder for personal use.
(the infirmary gets robbed too, but she's in and out so fast — scalpels, a bone saw, gauze, needles, drugs — that it isn't a great spot to catch her. not even really worth the mention, unless you're fast.)
( b. ) or else playback, which is admittedly an entirely self serving, nostalgic stop. apparently there's a new addition to the teen area, and she spends more than a few seconds surveying the build-a-bear stuffing machine before systematically stepping on the pedal and wrapping rolls upon rolls of high grade polyester fiber around her knuckles. these could probably be useful.
another few careful, lengthy moments are spent at various arson sites from back on launch day, surveying the scorch marks like they're great works of art. and in whatever hallway maximilien had open fired on ari, clarke can briefly be found slotting fingers into the pitted bullet holes in the wall.
and then —
( c. ) she's been absolutely starving since she woke up, but had shoved that gnarled hunger to the back burner until later in the day, when it absolutely demands to be acknowledged. clarke takes a late 1pm lunch in stellar. it's a calculated choice, she can't remember ever seeing people flood to the fine dining area during its specified meal times. and she picks a table far off in the corner, shadows allowing the illusion of privacy whilst absolutely stuffing her face.
( d. ) it takes a bit of time to work herself up to visiting the memorial, but gritted teeth and the mental reminder she's done harder things in life means clarke doesn't allow herself to avoid the spot just because of the difficult emotions it might bring to the surface. she tries hard not to look at too many of the tokens placed in remembrance of the fallen. plenty of those who disappeared never came back, but the jury is out on if coming back is a gift or a dragged out curse.
but regardless of deeper meaning, clarke still feels resolutely naked without a weapon at her side. and as she hadn't asked where her gun and knife had ended up. maybe??? it'd be among the offerings here? (and if not, it's not as if she's above grave robbing but hopefully it doesn't come to that.) a great deal of effort is put into not focusing on the various artifacts spread around; a self imposed set of blinders settling over her eyes which only really alights upon a friendship bracelet stapled to a sketch page. when recognition hits, she rips that from the paper without much ceremony and spends an odd amount of time just running the pad of her thumb over the gently fraying fibers.
somewhat belatedly, and as a last act before vacating the scene like she'd just committed a crime, a remnant of hippo breath is also snatched up and plunged deep in the confines of a pocket. don't ask why, clarke genuinely has no explanation other than it called to her. )
iv. now it's over for me and it's over for you ( bridge | meta )
( even before her little impromptu, nonconsensual vacation it'd been a long time since clarke had hiked the stairwell all the way to the very top and parked herself outside that immovable door. what feels like ages ago, it'd been one of the first places on board the serena eterna she'd ever visited, and had kept a semi-constant vigil in those early days until it became obvious the captain was never going to open up and let them talk. maybe for others he'd materialize out front, and for even fewer select passengers (skulduggery pleasant and gal friday) they could step inside. but for clarke griffin the wheel had never turned, and it'd eventually been more a place to find silence and solitude than any real answers.
would things have played out differently if the captain had ever entertained her hostile negotiation intentions?
given everything, probably not.
whatever.
today it's a picnic venue. still so, so hungry after reawakening, clarke settles criss cross applesauce against the far wall and pulls out the freshly hoarded supply of sundries snacks from an inner pocket of her coat. pops pre-packaged trail mix while running through learned blood sigils just to make sure they were still fresh in the memory, or else humming to herself between chews of beef jerky. artificial evening eventually begins to color the sky... )
v. i believe the world is burning to the ground ( library )
a. open
( the last stop on this days venture is the one she'd purposefully avoided for as long as possible. the stacks still smell like thick pressed paper, leather bindings and leather armchairs, and the musk of mildly stale air. any signs of previous ship-wide vandalism are minimal, pretty much everything seems in good working condition, and...
and the chairs she and palamedes sextus spent so many hours occupying in quiet, mutual thought are unoccupied. they almost beckon, as much as any inanimate object can. and clarke's previous avoidance is well validated, as nothing seems as inviting in the moment as picking up a new book and curling into one of those chairs. she's heckin' tired after this full day of reacquainting herself with the world, and deposits various bags of acquired goods on the floor with a solid thump before taking up residence in a far corner chair. turns out being assigned a new cabin to sleep in was the worst shipwide betrayal of all, and — exhausted, but — with currently no plans to return to cabin 113 tonight she slinks down low and settles in. )
b. steve harrington
( clarke is halfway to dozing, huddled over a table and using her forearms as pillows when the sound of human life (footfalls, breathing, the rummaging through shelves) grates against the animal instinct dwelling in the back of her brain, and jerks her into an upright sitting position. one hand drops to her beltline but grasps at nothing — i still need to find a gun. never mind, there's still steak knives stolen from the dining areas stashed down by her ankles. but in the time it takes to reach for those implements of self defense, the cloud of sleep clears; the low lights of the library in its evening shroud still illuminate enough features, and her thoughts right themselves enough that recognition can works its way through surprise.
the shock comes in at last place, and has her half-rising — the scrape of chair legs against the floor high pitched and grating. )
I — Harrington?
( why is it so much more astounding to see this previously lost passenger back on board than to grasp the fact she'd been gone for a number of months herself? well, introspection on that bit requires a deep dive into how little one clarke griffin values her own importance. but also snakes back around to the fact it feels like a literal minute since she'd last been on board, and the several months he'd been gone take precedence.
also, maybe it's a little nice not to focus on her own vanishing for a second. maybe it's a little nice to see a familiar, non-hostile face. maybe, belatedly, a mild swell of hope will bloom in her chest that he won't be the only one. )
vi. oh well, i guess we're gonna find out ( ari )
( there's nothing quite like being laid up under witness protection, healing from grievous wounds and suddenly being texted by a ghost, is there? )
I'd like to speak with you.
vii. let's see how far we've come ( wild card )
( hit me, bitches. the girl is back, i'm hype for endgame, hmu for any specific plottings you'd like and let's dive back in! )
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Huh? No, nothing like that. I was being generous, don't you think?
[She was also, important to the context, incredibly stoned at the time.]
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( but for the sake of this thread, generous and hilarious are a perfect rhyme. )
Is he still walking around like that?
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[Rita snickers, finally tugging the phone back and taking another look at the picture. Ah, it never gets old...unlike Peter Starr.]
My magic effects aren't permanent. Oh, but it did stick around for longer than I thought--a couple weeks, maybe? So did Catsuno's tail-
[Oops, was that a slip of the tongue? Ahem.]
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clarke visibly perks up, like a bulldog with a treat dangled in front of their face and preemptively salivating — i mean blinking expectantly. )
Whose tail?
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Just, you know... Ca--I mean, Natsuno. He just had a tail for a little while.
...And maybe some ears.
[As in kitty ears, because obviously he always has regular ears.]
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( completely and utterly straight faced follow-up question incoming here: )
Did he meow?
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[So...yeah that's not a no.]
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then she very cautiously lifts up a single hand and curls her fingers in, canting her wrist like a paw and asking: )
Like — mrrow?
( FULL ON MEOW? HE MEOWED? DID HE PURR — actually fuck no she doesn't want to know that much. in the unlikely event she ever needed to blackmail the hell out of natsuno, this alone feels like more than enough ammunition. and the caliber stamped on the bottom of this proverbial shell casing reads: if we survive long enough that these two ever get married, i'm absolutely including it in my speech. )
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Hmm...not bad, but--no offense, his was cuter. I mean, I'm not giving you ear skritches for that.
[This is all surely adding to future Clarke's eventual brain short-circuit at being asked about strap-ons later this very same day...]
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( i'll take "weird maybe-sex things i didn't want to know about" for 500, alex. )
And — totally fine that I don't make a particularly cute cat.
( a pause, a minor ripple of something that might be laughter but looking a lot more like she's having a minor stroke, then — )
Do you ever stop and realize just how many weird sentences you've said in this place? Or is it different because you came from a world that already had magic?
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Huh? It doesn't really have anything to do with magic...but it's not that weird. [Maybe the girl who names objects and talks to cats isn't the authority on what counts as weird in her world, but anyway-] Alright, what do you think is cute, then?
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at least until they bust out with the wildest of questions, one she's not sure that she understood correctly (and really hopes she didn't) and thus must ask for clarity. )
Like, in general or just when it comes to people I like like?
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Is there even a difference? [Glossing right over how there's probably things she finds cute when it comes to Natsuno just because it's Natsuno, she levels Clarke with a look that's totally just scientific curiosity and not at all amused at the prospect of turning the tables with a little friendly gossip.] Anyway, spill it.
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I don't really go based off... "cute".
( oh god why is her face hot, someone help. )
Striking might be a better word for it. Or admirable. But this is seriously not important, I'm sure there's more you could catch me up on instead.
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[There's almost a singsong quality to that thoughtful hum, a mischievous grin taking hold on her face, because she's pretty sure that's a blush she sees.]
You seemed pretty into the topic just a moment ago. Besides, there's really not much else to tell. [She'd rather mark this happy moment--Clarke's return--with something other than talking about getting tortured in the Village.] So--striking and admirable, huh? Like what?
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Like — ( suffering and struggling, this honestly may be the first time she's ever been asked this and is finding it hard to quantify in words. )
Okay, I like people who are smart. Battle-smart, book-smart, people-smart — doesn't matter. I like someone who can walk into a room and command all the attention, even mine. Confident in their convictions but reasonable at the same time. Someone who speaks passionately about the things they care about. Someone I could learn something from, be it how to relax, how to shoot a gun, how to survive, or how to cast a proper blood sigil.
And... ( she trails off here, lips still parted around the next word despite not knowing what it is going to be. her gaze glasses over ever so slightly as she fixates on a spot over rita's left shoulder and furrows her brow; this is self-realization in real time. )
I guess I like a bit of a challenge?
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Luckily Rita has taste so there's no chance of any tacky, dumb jokes along the lines of oh, you're just describing me or any such thing. No, instead, she finally has a better understanding of why Clarke turned out to be with Palamedes Flesh and Bone Magic of all people--something she'd wondered about all along, but would've been in pretty poor taste to ask about, seeing as she found out right after he disappeared...
But again: for a rare change, Rita doesn't feel like bringing the mood down right now, which might happen if she brings up that guy. So, instead-]
Yeah, that sounds about right. I can't picture you being into a doormat. Wait- [She suddenly narrows her eyes, and this time there's no brain-to-mouth filter before she blurts out her next question.] You thought Zelos was a challenge?
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A prom date doesn't equal a life partner, Rita.
( cue one — no, two more pillow smacks! but all in good fun honestly. this conversational topic is beyond embarrassing, and clarke is far past uncomfortable but the moment itself... it isn't bad. it could be worse. at least she's in friendly company. after the rather one-sided pillow-fight clarke slumps back into the couch with a little huff. and after a beat: )
But yeah, he probably was. No one's naturally that cheery, there had to have been something else going on there. Mostly we just both looked great in pink, though. And he didn't look at me like... ( i was trouble. like he already knew the weight of my sins. like my reputation preceded me. her facial features pinch, and then she's doggedly shaking her head. )
Nevermind, doesn't matter. You know, a lot of it just comes down to timing too.
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[A bit of mildly indignant screeching on Rita's end as she raises hands to try and fend off the sudden pillow attacks. C'mon Clarke, nobody chooses a date with someone they dislike, right?
Anyway, hair freshly mussed from pillow static, she huffs--then throws one of the pillows right back at Clarke.]
Didn't look at you like what? What do you mean, interesting timing? All I saw when I looked at that guy was an obnoxious face begging for a slap.
--I hope he wasn't into that. [Then all the times she insulted him would've just done the opposite. Now isn't that a horrifying thought?]
cw: the 100 (aka murder & suicide mentions)
also glosses over the particulars of zelos wilder for now, and whatever proclivities he may have had. she's got a point to make here about — )
It always comes down to timing, doesn't it? You could meet the love of your life at the wrong moment and miss them entirely because of outside circumstances. If a thousand people are depending on you at the time, it's just not possible to invest in one specific person.
( but that's not really what you were saying now, was it clarke... she takes a moment to recenter, and exhales in a little huff before producing ~examples~ )
If the Ark had been sustainable for another 100 years like it was supposed to, Wells and I probably would have gotten married and had a child, and died as just two other unremarkable members of a transitional generation. But the Ark failed and we needed to survive on the ground, and I met Finn. But it never felt like there was time for anything real until Charlotte killed Wells, then killed herself. ( she knows rita spent a brief amount of time in her memory by this point, and to save having to play catch-up or provide other (more painful) backstories, clarke skips ahead. )
I probably wouldn't have ever kissed Palamedes if we'd managed to find anything useful in the desert, but we didn't. I was frustrated, tired, so sweaty, and he was... there. ( with all his admirable glory and indescribable grey eyes. ) I never would have asked Zelos to prom if Pal hadn't disappeared after the Labyrinth. And if I'd managed to kill the Captain way back at the Battle Royale party, Venti never would have come by my room while I was feeling weak and useless.
( the common theme here is Big Bad Emotions = Sex, but clarke ain't ready to acknowledge that let alone spell it out for rita. so she just shrugs, as if she's made her point here instead of actually letting an additional piece of well-kept information slip out. )
So, see? Timing matters.
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But, well. That's a thought quickly banished as Clarke goes on to detail far more decidedly unhappy circumstances. She wishes she'd kept a hold on one of those pillows to throw one at the other girl now in an I get the point only halfway through the story, but instead sits in uncomfortable silence as she continues. And what is there to say, except an awkward-]
That...sounds more like frustration deciding things than timing, but...
[But that's enough on the topic of Clarke Griffin's sex life, thanks!!]
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clarke coughs a little. ) Maybe. Yeah. But it doesn't matter, I have no interest in making any other interpersonal relationships, on this ship or ever again. ( they only ever end in some variety of heartbreak, big shrug here. )
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But, well. Also sad: what comes out of Clarke's mouth next. Like, sure, they might not have much time left on the ship, and odds of escaping to anywhere else are looking pretty slim...
But still. That's an awfully cavalier facade she's using with such an...overdramatic declaration, isn't it?]
...Not that I don't get what you mean, but... [She does get it--because it's hurt so much, every bond she's made only to have the person at the other end vanish from her reach. Clarke had even been one of them. Rita bites her lip, glancing around the room as she tries to put it into words.] ...Are you saying none of them were worth knowing?
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what eventually comes out is flat. honest. a little devoid of emotion, but please trust it's swirling just beneath the surface as the visages of every lost love flickers in front of her eyes like a vintage slideshow. )
No. They were all worth it. ( and this sure is a forced attempt to smile here, to shake the weight off her shoulders and pretend it's laughable. it just doesn't completely reach her eyes. ) I just know my limits.
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And that's what allows her to catch the forced nature of Clarke's smile. Because--softly-]
They were worth it, which only means you miss them even more, too. That's how it goes, isn't it? I get it.
[Rita hit her limit at nine years old. Or so she thought--she just needed the right people in her life. And doesn't Clarke already have that, at least?]
Anyway, it's not like you're alone. Natsuno's here, and I am too.
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