[ when she grabs him, he stops. it's a thing one has to do when a child of ares reaches out and stops one from moving forward. he looks back at her, but he's no longer putting on the facade of the camp counsellor he used to be — smirking, arrogant, amused. he had donned that mask a few moments ago, but rather poorly, it sitting oddly on his own skeleton. it's a ghost from the past, just like she is, but clarisse no longer fits the girl who remains in his memory. all those sharp edges she had thought were on display, moons ago, are there, now, permanent fixtures attached to her skin. ]
[ he expects her to simply let him go, possibly toss a remark at his back about how it's good riddance he's leaving her alone. he doesn't expect her to reach out, to demand from him an answer he can't give her. whatever clarisse's damage is, it's her own to deal with. but maybe he's a part of the process of her learning what it is. ]
[ he should rip his arm from her grip and walk away, leave her standing where she is, repating the dance they always do with one watching the other walk away. (usually he's the one seeing her back, her head held high, those long legs of hers moving with such power and ferocity the entire earth shakes.) but he doesn't. he's not sure why. maybe it's the ghost of her that makes him stay, wanting to help, wanting to reform a friendship that wasn't quite as volatile as it is now. luke stays because he has nowhere else to go. he can't go back to his mom's — it's too painful, to think of what she's gone through, what she's seen, what she's felt because of his abandonment and fear and misunderstanding of everything she had done to try and better herself and the life of her child's. he can't go back to camp half-blood. the only place that accepts him is manhattan, the city he had tried to tear apart. clarisse is a reminder of all of it, but she's also something so separate from it, too. ]
[ she's here, always. trying to beat him down into a pulp. there's no one else — no thalia, no annabeth, not even the great hero, percy. ]
[ he's quiet for a few moments. quietly, with his sword drawn and his defenses down: ] I'll walk you back to your apartment.
[ he doesn't smile, doesn't offer her a hand, simply stands there. the look on his face isn't of happiness or amusement or sadness — it's blank, a little vulnerable, his mouth in a line and his eyes a little defeated. ]
no subject
[ he expects her to simply let him go, possibly toss a remark at his back about how it's good riddance he's leaving her alone. he doesn't expect her to reach out, to demand from him an answer he can't give her. whatever clarisse's damage is, it's her own to deal with. but maybe he's a part of the process of her learning what it is. ]
[ he should rip his arm from her grip and walk away, leave her standing where she is, repating the dance they always do with one watching the other walk away. (usually he's the one seeing her back, her head held high, those long legs of hers moving with such power and ferocity the entire earth shakes.) but he doesn't. he's not sure why. maybe it's the ghost of her that makes him stay, wanting to help, wanting to reform a friendship that wasn't quite as volatile as it is now. luke stays because he has nowhere else to go. he can't go back to his mom's — it's too painful, to think of what she's gone through, what she's seen, what she's felt because of his abandonment and fear and misunderstanding of everything she had done to try and better herself and the life of her child's. he can't go back to camp half-blood. the only place that accepts him is manhattan, the city he had tried to tear apart. clarisse is a reminder of all of it, but she's also something so separate from it, too. ]
[ she's here, always. trying to beat him down into a pulp. there's no one else — no thalia, no annabeth, not even the great hero, percy. ]
[ he's quiet for a few moments. quietly, with his sword drawn and his defenses down: ] I'll walk you back to your apartment.
[ he doesn't smile, doesn't offer her a hand, simply stands there. the look on his face isn't of happiness or amusement or sadness — it's blank, a little vulnerable, his mouth in a line and his eyes a little defeated. ]