( mizuki is looking at her so softly, so enthralled and hanging on every word, and... clarke's never been uncomfortable under the heavy, expectant gazes of a dozens of her companions while mapping out a war plan, or appealing to their pathos in an effort to divert a conflict; never flinched when spitting in lexa's face, or shooting through lincoln in order to pierce the heart of the mountain man holding a knife to his throat.

she isn't even all that bothered by his focused attention while she's talking, but that bookend of a compliment is just... too much. mizuki isn't the only one suddenly inspecting their nailbeds. but clarke will muscle through the unpleasant twists in her guts — guilt, it tastes most like guilt for having apparently misrepresented herself — and make herself look at his face again. )

...I don't want to mislead you. I used to think life on the ground would be beautiful. I think trees, flowers, butterflies, and rivers are the most amazing things I've ever seen. But life is hard, and ugly. Humanity may be great, but humans? They can be so, so brutal, and horrible to one another. And I just —

( going from conflict after conflict after crisis after gutwrenching death, clarke's never had the real opportunity to sit down and digest a lot of what she's experienced in the last two years. if this cruise — this extended moment after her maybe-death, where they's hostages and maybe going to have to murder each other — is going to be good for anything, at least it'll give her a few brief moments to breathe. maybe even to process. but that hasn't happened yet. )

I don't know how I feel about a lot of things anymore.