[ luke hears her move, belatedly, after him. it surprises him that she doesn't simply barge into his room and claim it as her own, as she always had back at camp. but this is unfamiliar territory for more than just him, and maybe clarisse la rue, the drakon slayer, is feeling as unsteady on her feet as he is. ]
[ he glances at her, sizing her up, unsure of what exactly it is he's meant to give her. if it were anybody else … if it were thalia, he'd give her the very first shirt on the shelf. hell, he'd give her the shirt off of his own back if it'd make her smile and forgive him for all the reckless shit he's done over the years. but clarisse is different, and baring himself to her in such a manner is something unthinkable. he may have let her into his apartment, closer than any demigod has ever reached, but he's not stupid enough to think that her claws are blunt. ]
[ he's grabbed track pants that will hopefully fit her hips if she adjusts the tie around them. his jeans are out; they won't fit to her form, despite how the pant legs would. dropping down to his knees, he decides to make a mess of his shelf and dig for something else. he doesn't know why it comes to his head, this idea to make her … her happiness isn't his priority, nor is her comfort, but luke feels as though he owes her for something he can't quite vocalise. for something she won't let him, either. ]
[ in his hands is a checkered red button up. it's bunched, a mess, something he doesn't wear, but he'd bought once, because a girl with dark hair like her, but with brighter and friendlier eyes, had said he'd look good in it. it'd been one of the only nice things to happen to him since his rebirth; call him a sucker, but luke's always been a little desperate for love and approval. pulling himself up to his feet, he crosses the distance and holds it out. ]
[ uselessly: ] Here. [ with amusement and an upward curve to his mouth: ] You'd make a nice picnic table.
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[ he glances at her, sizing her up, unsure of what exactly it is he's meant to give her. if it were anybody else … if it were thalia, he'd give her the very first shirt on the shelf. hell, he'd give her the shirt off of his own back if it'd make her smile and forgive him for all the reckless shit he's done over the years. but clarisse is different, and baring himself to her in such a manner is something unthinkable. he may have let her into his apartment, closer than any demigod has ever reached, but he's not stupid enough to think that her claws are blunt. ]
[ he's grabbed track pants that will hopefully fit her hips if she adjusts the tie around them. his jeans are out; they won't fit to her form, despite how the pant legs would. dropping down to his knees, he decides to make a mess of his shelf and dig for something else. he doesn't know why it comes to his head, this idea to make her … her happiness isn't his priority, nor is her comfort, but luke feels as though he owes her for something he can't quite vocalise. for something she won't let him, either. ]
[ in his hands is a checkered red button up. it's bunched, a mess, something he doesn't wear, but he'd bought once, because a girl with dark hair like her, but with brighter and friendlier eyes, had said he'd look good in it. it'd been one of the only nice things to happen to him since his rebirth; call him a sucker, but luke's always been a little desperate for love and approval. pulling himself up to his feet, he crosses the distance and holds it out. ]
[ uselessly: ] Here. [ with amusement and an upward curve to his mouth: ] You'd make a nice picnic table.