( when annabeth sets her stack of books on the floor, clarisse takes a moment to carefully read annabeth's face without literary obstruction. clarisse isn't always the most observant (certainly nowhere near as much as annabeth), but they've known each other long enough that clarisse has learned, in her own way, how to read between the lines of annabeth's expressions. she's seen annabeth at her most exhausted, her most guarded, at the end of her metaphorical rope; what she sees now is worse than that, somehow. it makes something in clarisse's gut sink, while at the same time she feels compelled to look away, like she's been caught witnessing something too vulnerable for either of them to address.
clarisse tears her eyes away from annabeth and looks back at the book as if to say, no, really, i love... but she squints at the faded print on the spine, barely able to make out the letters, let alone the whole title. whatever, it's probably boring anyway. she throws up her hands in mock surrender and — absolutely on purpose — the book goes flying over her shoulder. )
Damn, you got me. ( the thunk of hard leather hitting the stone floor behind her echoes all the way to the ceiling, but annabeth's reaction to clarisse's blatant disregard for precious reading material is mostly lost on her because she's already halfway into annabeth's personal space, arms shooting out to drag her into a hug.
it's almost like a dare, at first, like she's only doing it because she's not a chicken, her grip a little too aggressive like at any moment she could decide to make the hug a defensive hold instead. she won't, it's just — habit, training. even with annabeth, it's hard to relax. but after a second or two, the tension seeps out of her shoulders, and when she squeezes annabeth a little tighter it's not because she's calculating her opening move. she just ... wants to keep annabeth close a little while longer; to pretend, even for a minute, that they're back at camp half-blood instead of wherever the fuck they are now. sue her.
there's a lot that goes unsaid before she pulls away. are you okay? is there someone i need to punch? who needs to die? (did someone die?) do you want to talk about it? but eventually clarisse settles on a quiet, almost begrudgingly fond: )
Good to see you too.
( which, if you listen closely, almost sounds like i missed you. )
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clarisse tears her eyes away from annabeth and looks back at the book as if to say, no, really, i love... but she squints at the faded print on the spine, barely able to make out the letters, let alone the whole title. whatever, it's probably boring anyway. she throws up her hands in mock surrender and — absolutely on purpose — the book goes flying over her shoulder. )
Damn, you got me. ( the thunk of hard leather hitting the stone floor behind her echoes all the way to the ceiling, but annabeth's reaction to clarisse's blatant disregard for precious reading material is mostly lost on her because she's already halfway into annabeth's personal space, arms shooting out to drag her into a hug.
it's almost like a dare, at first, like she's only doing it because she's not a chicken, her grip a little too aggressive like at any moment she could decide to make the hug a defensive hold instead. she won't, it's just — habit, training. even with annabeth, it's hard to relax. but after a second or two, the tension seeps out of her shoulders, and when she squeezes annabeth a little tighter it's not because she's calculating her opening move. she just ... wants to keep annabeth close a little while longer; to pretend, even for a minute, that they're back at camp half-blood instead of wherever the fuck they are now. sue her.
there's a lot that goes unsaid before she pulls away. are you okay? is there someone i need to punch? who needs to die? (did someone die?) do you want to talk about it? but eventually clarisse settles on a quiet, almost begrudgingly fond: )
Good to see you too.
( which, if you listen closely, almost sounds like i missed you. )