Unsure if she was expecting argument or acquiescence, but it was one of the two. The first gave leave to slip off the handle and continue biting at each other with carefully measured jaw pressure, but fighting all the same — which had been familiar before, and become oddly comfortable in her time on the ship. The former more like permission, because once they were in agreement, she could crowd forward and maybe hug his head to her stomach; he looks as tired as she feels, and the gap between them is not a pleasant one — morally and physically. Instead she gets the friend/ally version of a peace-talk proposal. It's the most constructive route, yet still catches by surprise when her spine's still ramrod straight and teeth still set like one braces for a blow to the face.
The best Clarke can immediately give is... a small correction.
"It's also solar powered." In regard to the Rover and gasoline. There'd been solar panels along the siding, and last she'd seen they'd been splattered in gore and cracked from zombie impact, but it's a sticking point. Not everyone can resist dipping their toes in tangents, but like beguiled corpse she reigns in the renewable energy discussion. Neither mattered in the grand scheme. No, instead Pal's offering what feels like a level ground, carved out flat amidst a series of what could have been deep crevasses that swallow people and their high horses whole. A better and easier place to meet, an offer to learn — and maybe to agree.
And that's decidedly enough. He won't look at her for long, and the best way to fix that is take the few steps it takes to crowd into his space, and sink onto both knees between his feet at the wheels of the desk chair.
"Okay." Clarke will concede first, then. Though every concession she gives comes with fragile, break in case of emergency strings attached. Both her elbows take up his own recently vacated spots on this thighs. And she dips her head, trying to get under his gaze and drag stone grey eyes back to her face by sheer force of (beseeching) will. Look at me, in unspoken terms. Palamedes Sextus clasps his hands together in composure, and in opposition Clarke Griffin holds both of hers palm up and open in the small space between them.
no subject
The best Clarke can immediately give is... a small correction.
"It's also solar powered." In regard to the Rover and gasoline. There'd been solar panels along the siding, and last she'd seen they'd been splattered in gore and cracked from zombie impact, but it's a sticking point. Not everyone can resist dipping their toes in tangents, but like beguiled corpse she reigns in the renewable energy discussion. Neither mattered in the grand scheme. No, instead Pal's offering what feels like a level ground, carved out flat amidst a series of what could have been deep crevasses that swallow people and their high horses whole. A better and easier place to meet, an offer to learn — and maybe to agree.
And that's decidedly enough. He won't look at her for long, and the best way to fix that is take the few steps it takes to crowd into his space, and sink onto both knees between his feet at the wheels of the desk chair.
"Okay." Clarke will concede first, then. Though every concession she gives comes with fragile, break in case of emergency strings attached. Both her elbows take up his own recently vacated spots on this thighs. And she dips her head, trying to get under his gaze and drag stone grey eyes back to her face by sheer force of (beseeching) will. Look at me, in unspoken terms. Palamedes Sextus clasps his hands together in composure, and in opposition Clarke Griffin holds both of hers palm up and open in the small space between them.
Let's do that.
"Then let's discuss variables."
Let's learn.