divided | ( open post! ) voicetest → luke castellan!

( open post! ) voicetest → luke castellan!

what do:
→ drop a prompt (images work best for me!) or a previously written scenario.
→ completely up to date (but if you throw hoo at me I will have to rely on you and Google).
→ i'm gonna be slow because i'm possessed. (what else is new?)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ clarisse always thought the lock trick was cool, though chris has always been unlike his brothers in terms of trickery and thieving. he's never been like the twins, constantly playing pranks on people and stealing random shit for the hell of it, but he's never been as cunning as luke, either. if he hadn't been claimed by hermes, she honestly would've thought he was a son of hephaestus or apollo. he's never really seemed the hermes type, except for his excellent sense of humor.

she regards luke with a raise of her brow while he sets about opening the door. even if it only takes a few seconds, and gods know how many times he's done this before, she can't help but feel like he's showing off. he always did have an arrogant streak — and maybe, she might admit, with good reason. he'd been one of the oldest, most seasoned campers while, and she'll be damned if she doesn't admit that he was pretty impressive with a sword. she almost wishes they could spar again, just for the thrill of it, the rush of adrenaline that fuels the fight. it was always a challenge with luke, even if she hardly ever bested him in swordplay. it was something she could respect about him, though most of her respect for him is gone now. he tossed that out the window a long time ago, and it's going to take a lot more than just sparring to get it back.

she glances into his apartment from the bottom step, her one last chance to decide if she really wants to do this. honestly, she thinks, why the hell not? she's long since forgotten the real reason she came to the city, has found herself so caught up in luke castellan that she doesn't quite know what else to do with herself. it's hard to keep up with a child of hermes sometimes, on foot or in anything else they do. just as it's hard to keep up with a child of ares in the heat of battle, it's hard to keep track of hermes children. she thought she'd lost track of luke years ago, but the fates keep throwing her back into the castellan whirlwind. it's like they think this is funny, watching them crash and burn and then start all over again. clarisse never has liked the fates, so if this is an act of defiance, she'll do it gladly. anything to send a big fuck you to the old hags who try to rule their lives.

it's that defiance that has her walking up the steps to luke's apartment. it's not so much about him as it is about her. stepping over the threshold feels like the beginning of something new, something she's been searching for but never could put her finger on until now. despite having just stepped into the lion's den, she feels like she can shed her skin here and no one will ever know. it doesn't mean she trusts luke in any capacity, but they can work on that. she doesn't feel obligated to be the defensive clarisse la rue she is on the streets and at camp with prying eyes everywhere; she can let down her hair a little, even in the company of someone she still considers a traitor.

she could say a lot of things about the state of his apartment, from scathing to only slightly sarcastic, but instead she settles on something vague and generic that may or may not be accurately representative of her opinion — honestly, she doesn't really have an opinion, she just wants to break the awkward silence. ]

Nice place.

[ luke shuts the door and moves past her. with a lift of his shoulders, he shrugs off her compliment and any self-deprecating thing he wants to say. (it's a mess. i'm in the middle of redecorating.) but he lingers, like she is, uncertain of what to do in his very own home. ]

[ it's clean and sparse. he doesn't have much in terms of personal items. he lacks in photographs and the vast collection of shit he used to hang on his wall back at the hermes cabin. it's clean and it's neat and it's entirely unlike luke that not even he sometimes recognises his own apartment. it's as though he's afraid of making a mark on the world, just in case it's another scorching one that leaves people burned for years, if not for the rest, of their lives. ]

[ the thing about clarisse is that she throws him off guard. she had never really done that before, throwing him. she's always been predictable; press this button and you get this violent reaction, say this and you get called punk. but with her so willing to spend time with him, when all they've been doing is getting comfortable with the dance of punching and nursing a bruise … luke falls short on what the next step is. and he's the guy with the plans — he knows what he wants to do, knows how to get it, and knows how to work with it once he's accomplished it. clarisse's offering of … it's not friendship, necessarily, nor is it forgiveness, but her attempting to try is something he had never planned for. he had never thought he'd get it, her warmthness, her ability to break out of a vicious cycle of punishing him for crimes both she and he and the world had been at fault for. ]

[ he shifts on his feet. his gaze flickers to her, then to the wall behind her. ] You want something to drink? [ and it sounds so dumb. he wants to wince, but it's the normal thing to say — the mortal thing to say. ]

[ even a friendly thing to say. ]

[ it's easy falling back into whatever this is, but there's still so much left unsaid, left undone, that it probably won't ever be the same. neither of them quite knows how to act around one another anymore now that the age-old hostility is gone — there was a certain tiresome familiarity in it, but now it's been replaced with something entirely unfamiliar to both of them.

clarisse has never been good at making small talk. she's good at throwing insults and lashing attitude, not talking about the weather or the state of someone's affairs. she's honestly rather shoot herself than listen to people drone on about irrelevant and useless topics. that's one thing about mortals she doesn't envy — after living a life of nearly getting killed just for existing, living on the thrill of danger, she can't imagine what it must be like to live such a dull existence where the most interesting topic of conversation every day is if it's going to rain or not.

she almost laughs at luke's question, because it does sound dumb. all of this is dumb, really. but it's... kind of a nice dumb. not a percy dumb that she'd like to throttle, just... a normal, everyday, mundane kind of dumb and maybe both of them could use a little of that. forget for five seconds that they're the son and daughter of greek gods, forget prophecies and curses and fates — just, for a moment, maybe they can forget everything. ]

Yeah, sure, whatever you got is fine. [ she hesitates, playing with the ring on her finger absently. ] Actually... do you... [ mind if i change. but she can't exactly say that because she didn't bring anything to change into and, well, they're at luke's place so it's not like he really has anything she can wear. it would be weird, anyway, wearing his clothes. she frowns, suddenly frustrated with herself for even attempting to bring up the subject and embarrassed that she wants to do it anyway. stupid, clarisse. ] Nevermind. I'll just... [ wait on the couch? follow him into the kitchen? what the hell is she supposed to do now. her unsure expression finishes her sentence while her words fail her. ]

[ luke's turned around when she begins asking her question. he swivels on his heel and turns to her, eyebrows raised. it's awkward between them, but if she's about to suggest something that'll make it feel a little more familiar, he's all ears. ]

[ there's not much in his fridge aside from diet coke and some fanta, and leftover takeout food that's all for one. for a guy who is in his twenties, his bachelor pad is subpar. a part of him kind of wants to leave his apartment. he thought it'd make him feel more comfortable and balanced while in her presence, but it's done nothing to serve his favour. ]

What? [ rather than saying okay, he's going to stand there, eyebrows raised, a little hopeful that the daughter of ares has a better idea on how to cut the awkwardness with a knife than the son of hermes who only knows how to destroy the things in his path. while he thinks of himself as a pretty decent strategist, she's the one who had been born with battle plans already formed in her head. does she want to leave? does she want him to walk her back home? he doubts she wants a round of xbox. ]

[ the expression on her face makes him press. it's not one he's ever really seen her wear before. his eyes dip up, then down, wondering, concerned a little, at the way she's broken her thought apart before letting it blossom. ] What is it?

[ clarisse almost gets angry. almost. she holds it back because she's trying not to fall back into bad habits, snapping at every little thing, at anyone who tries to question her even when they have a legitimate right to. no, she swallows it down and tries to ignore the heat rising to her face, tries to shake it off with swift movement of her head. it's nothing, she almost bites out. it takes a lot of restraint to keep her from blowing up all over luke again.

she takes a deep breath to calm herself, trying to find the words. she may have the plans and strategies in her head, but verbalizing them has never been her forte. words don't come easily for her as they do for, say, annabeth, who always has too many words. clarisse can't even count how many rants about architecture she's drowned out over the years.

she doesn't know how to avoid the subject without sounding defensive, and the fact that he's even pressing the issue at all is making her flustered in a way she hasn't felt in a long time. she's angry and embarrassed all at once, and she can barely think, let alone try to lie, so she eventually just ends up with the truth. or, at least, a truth. she isn't exactly blurting out the whole truth. ]

Nothing. I've just been in this stupid thing all day.

[ she figures he can figure out what she meant. if luke was anything, he was never stupid, at least not when it came to figuring out how things fit together. besides, it'll make her feel better if he actually suggests what she's getting at, as opposed to her actually having to say it. or neither of them has to say anything, he just has to understand. she's fairly confident he will. ]

… Oh.

[ it's then that he remembers that she's wearing a dress. she looks like clarisse, but a clarisse who has grown up — one that most likely doesn't have a place for luke, the old luke, the new luke, the luke that's not so chewed up with anger and resentment, that luke, in her life. at the realisation that she's no longer in her usual combats and pants, his eyes drop down her form. ]

[ again. he'd gotten so caught up in the bubble that they were in to even think of making a remark of the skirt she's opted for. ]

I don't have anything of Chris'. [ it's the wrong thing to say, he knows it. chris is his brother, just as he is something special to clarisse, and whatever the hell has happened between them most likely hasn't changed the fact that it might sting to hear his name. but luke figures if clarisse wants to change, it's into something familiar. ]

[ but he honestly tries to rectify it. he glances over his shoulder to where his room his, brows furrowed slightly, but the thought doesn't occur to him. ]

Did you want to go home? [ his eyes lift back up to hers. ]

[ it doesn't exactly occur to him to ask her if she wants anything of his to wear. they're not friends, they're not even acquaintances — the thought doesn't come forth because clarisse la rue detests everything about luke castellan, even his shirts. wearing someone else's crap usually means something intimate. ]

[ she crosses her arms in front of her in an attempt to hide the fact that she's wearing a dress at all, not that it really accomplishes anything. it's a defensive strategy, one that doesn't involve words, and she can't help but furrow her brows at the way luke is looking at her. it's not that she feels threatened, she just feels... a little more vulnerable than usual. no one's really looked at her like that in a while, not since...

chris. yeah, it does sting, hearing his name coming from luke. she wonders if he did it on purpose — she wouldn't put it past him — and for just a second she almost reconsiders this whole thing. she should go home, get out of luke's apartment and never come back, and forget that any of this ever happened. but she's already here; she might as well stay. she thinks chris would probably want her to — or, at least, he'd be proud of her if she did. it's progress. so, really, she's doing this for him. and for herself.

she's not even thinking about the intimacy behind wearing someone else's clothes. she's just thinking about how she's more comfortable in pants and a t-shirt than she is in a dress, regardless of whose pants and shirt they are. she'd wear percy's clothes if she had no other choice — hell, she'd even wear one of mr. d's stupid ass tiger-striped shirts if it meant getting the fuck out of this dress. at least luke's will fit better and will be less humiliating than looking like a safari tourist.

she grumbles and rolls her eyes, like this is the easiest concept in the world and why isn't he getting it. ]

No.

[ she doesn't mean to say it so harshly, and it shows on her face, the way she recoils slightly. she's frustrated that he's being so frustrating, and she can't tell if he's doing it to get a rise out of her or not.

she hesitates, trying to find words that won't sound mean. mean is her default setting; it's hard to find anything else, especially around luke, who she's only just now starting to learn she can be friendly with. it's nothing like the old days, but this luke isn't the old luke — this luke isn't even the same luke that betrayed his family and nearly destroyed the world. both of those lukes are dead, died a long time ago, and now... clarisse has no idea who this luke is at all. all she has the past, when, really, the present is what speaks the loudest. ]

Can I just... borrow something?

[ and it sounds so stupid out loud she almost does want to just leave. this is beyond embarrassing — if she'd just thought it through before jumping to insist on his place, she wouldn't be in this situation. her stubborn refusal to back down from her own decision is making things worse. ]

[ luke's mind has been a whirlwind of thoughts — he doesn't deserve to be here, he doesn't deserve forgiveness, he doesn't even deserve elysium but he would take that over any other choice, if he were given a choice. sometimes luke wonders if his curse had been to be born with hate already curling deep within his chest. did he ever stand a chance? or had he been designed from the beginning to try and tear the world asunder? his thoughts don't particularly stretch as far as to be accommodating to clarisse's discomfort — her happiness isn't his priority, nor has it ever been; they've never been the type where he understands, without her so much as hitting him squarely in the jaw with it, of what she really needs. that's always been chris. he gets her in ways no one else does. and if luke had been in camp, being a regular kid, rather than ageing too fast and twisting into an ugly shell of himself, he would've seen it uncurl before him. ]

[ but it takes her having to bite at him for him to realise what she needs. luke may have been a popular kid, the golden apple of camp half-blood once upon a time, but he had never been one to completely understand the needs of others. if he did, he never would've left his mother, he never would've abandoned thalia, he never would've left annabeth to grow up thinking promises meant nothing to those who vowed to keep them. but luke is a selfish thing, sometimes, and he stares at clarisse like she's grown a third head — for she has, because isn't she the one who punches him and bites at him and burns him for simply being within the same block as her? to think she wants to wear his clothes, that his things will make her comfortable … he can't help but look upon her like as though she's a stranger. ]

[ and she is. he has never quite known clarisse, for all the years they've spent together, he doesn't know anything outside of what's in the how to be a demigod for dumb punks. he doesn't know if she likes jokes or the colour blue or if she even likes diet coke, even though he's seen her drink it. he thinks of chris, of how he'd be more useful and less of a stumbling newborn horse, in this particular scenario. ]

[ luke's still. he takes a few beats too long to even reply — let alone think up one. he's meant to ask her why she wants his crap when she can barely stand him? why she wants to borrow his things? does he really make her that uncomfortable that she has to shed her newly found girly skin? he could turn this into something it's not — a joke, a jest, something old and ancient that sits in the wheels of time between them, but he is not that luke and she is not that clarisse. so he goes for the lame thing. ] Yeah.

[ he glances away. and then he begins moving to his room. the apartment isn't too big — it's bigger than the houses at camp, but it's not as big as an aphrodite kid would like it to be. he crosses the foyer to his door within seconds, his long legs quite a big help, and disappears through the doorframe, not waiting to see if she's following like a shadow. he opens one of his closet doors and starts rifling through his shit. ]

[ clarisse half expects him to make a sarcastic pass at her, to say something about how she wants to borrow something of his — but he doesn't, and she's actually kind of relieved. he just goes with it, and she might actually thank him if she weren't still in the process of figuring out who he really is and how she and him fit together, if they even fit together at all. she and percy clash, but eventually they find common ground; she wonders if she'll ever be able to do that with luke, or if she even wants to. part of her must, since she's here and he's giving her his clothes, and that means...

she's not really sure what that means. or what it says about their relationship, whatever that actually is. they aren't much of anything except two ghosts of people they used to be bumping around in the dark and only ever finding each other for company. as far as they've come today, she can't particularly say she doesn't like his company. she doesn't particularly dislike it, either, it just simply is. it's company. it's something that fills the void of loneliness she's been feeling. he isn't chris, but no one else is. she knows she can't replace him, wouldn't dream of it, but she needs something.

despite the danger luke presents in the way she doesn't know him, he's safe because she doesn't know him, not anymore. sometimes she can hardly stand to be around percy and annabeth, or even her cabinmates, always trying to deconstruct her and figure her out, convince her that her feelings aren't worth feeling anymore because the designated mourning period is over and now angst it out of style. they always seem so tired of her, like she's just a fad they're waiting to die out, but she's tired of them too. it's probably better she's not off on their stupid quest — the likelihood of her killing someone not on the opposing side is higher now than it ever has been.

she doesn't follow him immediately, watches him disappear into his room before she strides forward, almost like an afterthought in his wake. she doesn't feel comfortable enough following him all the way into his room, so she leans herself against the doorframe — not quite in, not quite out — and peers in, watching him from behind. ]

[ 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.

[ clarisse really should punch him for that. not a violent, ruthless punch like the ones she normally delivers, just a friendly one. one that fellow comrades give each other when they're horsing around and ripping on each other for fun. luke isn't a fellow comrade, though — she hardly even considers him a fellow anything. demigod? maybe, but only in the sense that he's hermes' son, not in the sense that she would lay down her sword or even her life for him. friend? definitely not. she's simply asking a favor from a stranger with a familiar face and a familiar existence — a stranger she doesn't quite feel uncomfortable around anymore, but still remains cautious. trust is a hard thing to win back from a child of ares.

she rolls her eyes at his comment, a faint hint of amusement in the way the corner of her mouth twitches upward rather downward. she takes the clothes from his hands, their fingers brushing again for only a second. it makes her heart jump, the familiar contact, even if just briefly, and for a moment she can't think of anything to say. she always has a comeback, but she's finding herself at a loss for words, distracted by his proximity again and the strangely warm feeling she gets from being this close. there's only one thing that falls out of her mouth. ]

Thanks.

[ it's not quite sarcastic, but it's not quite genuine either. she obviously isn't thanking him for calling her a picnic table, and it's not like he really deserves her gratitude. it's more of an empty thank you, said out of obligation rather than having any real weight to it, which is probably why it sounds so awkward. ]

I'm assuming you have a bathroom.

[ she's not going to change in his room, that's for sure. ]

[ the punch doesn't come — and luke can't say if he's disappointed by the lack of fire she usually has (or had, luke doesn't know this clarisse; he has to keep reminding himself that the girl he remembers is a ghost, now. he had had a hand in pushing her into the past) or if he's pleased she isn't bruising his shoulder or snapping the bones of his nose. it's a conflict he never predicted he'd be warring with himself over. ]

[ he curls his fingers into his palm, waiting for the tingling sensation of them being burned to fade away. his eyes linger on her hands before flickering up to her face. she has pretty eyes, always had, but seeing them up close, and her so still, as she's always such a tornado around him, fists flying, hair whipping, and them both running after one another in a bid to be the first to reach the flag. ]

Ensuite's back there. [ he throws a thumb over his shoulder. but it would require him to step aside or for her to barrel into him if she wanted to pass the threshold into his room. luke doesn't quite realise that, with the little space he's left between the doorframe and himself, only a tiny, little mouse can fit through without touching him. ]

[ he'd make a quip about her changing while in his own room, with the door closed, even, but luke doesn't find himself finding the right words to even express it. this is unfamiliar territory between two people who have grown, one from sadness and grief, and the other from rage and pity. keeping it to a minimum with the burning quips, whether insulting or simply to ruffle her feathers, is best. besides, he doesn't think he can even let the words out of his mouth without jumbling them up right now. clarisse has made his head spin ever since she demanded he take her home. ]

[ clarisse's eyes follow the direction luke points, over his shoulder somewhere — she's lucky she's tall enough she can actually see over his shoulder instead of having to look around his whole body. she pushes off the doorframe, and when he doesn't move immediately, she glances behind him again and then regards him with a slightly quizzical brow. ]

Are you...?

[ going to move, she says with her eyes. she could just push past him, bump shoulders with him and press on to secure her privacy, but she doesn't. his room isn't a battlefield, nor is it anything to be invaded and conquered. it's simply his room, and she is a stranger in unfamiliar territory. ]

Unless there's another one.

[ it seems weird that a single apartment would have more than one bathroom, and he just forgot to mention it, but she's never been good at reading luke. she's not good at reading a lot of people, or anything at all. books bore her, and she finds them difficult to get through with her dyslexia, anyway. people are a lot harder, even without words jumbling around on the page in front of her. people have emotions and feelings she doesn't always understand, motivations that don't always occur or make sense to her. picking up on subtlety has never been one of her fortes — ares children are always so blunt, and she spends so much of her time with her siblings, she's never needed to learn. now, she wishes she had. ]

[ he takes a wide step back, clearing the doorway for her. he hadn't realised he'd been blocking the way. clarisse, after all, is a bull, and when something blocks her path, she doesn't stand there idly watching it. it's always been something he'd been envious of, her ability to just charge at anything so confidently. a hermes kid sort of stumbles when in the face of something big and foreboding. he'd know — he tripped over his own feet a few times. ]

[ luke doesn't want to think of what it means that she's simply not pushing him out of the way and stomping her way to his bathroom. it's not that she's developed manners or anything. it's something deeper that he can't see, not even he can figure it out with his years of knowing her. ]

[ with a wide gesture of his arm sweeping the air, he waits for clarisse to step over the threshold. it's not a gesture made out of mocking, but an invitation. he doesn't feel his mouth working at the moment to properly answer her, let alone mumble a sorry. hermes kids aren't the most talented with their tongues, but they're good at thinking on their feet and manipulating almost anything — space not excluded. ]

[ clarisse nods, not really out of gratitude, just an acknowledgement of his movement at all, and passes him without a word, heading straight back to the bathroom in the corner. she still feels odd, using his bathroom at all, being that it's one of the most private places in anyone's home. she doesn't necessarily feel like she's invading his privacy, because he let her in, he gave her permission, but it makes her think.

why did he bring her here at all, other than she demanded him to? he could have easily said no, we're done, go home, but he didn't. and now here she is, in his bathroom with his clothes and she wonders just how the hell any of this happened, why they're even still going through with it. something changed today — she can feel it — and she has to wonder if he can feel it, too. it's impossible to tell if they're really on the same page because it's impossible for her to figure out what luke is really thinking — that's always been annabeth's field of expertise.

she closes the door lightly, setting luke's clothes on the bathroom counter. she stands in front of the mirror and hardly recognizes the girl reflected back at her. sometimes, she forgets she can be "pretty." she's so used to being rough and tubmle that it still surprises her when she looks in the mirror and sees someone silena once called beautiful. she has a hard time believing it herself, even now.

she smiles sadly to herself in the mirror, wishing silena were here to reassure her now, to tell her she's not making a mistake, she's doing the right thing, and that this isn't totally stupid and crazy what she's doing with luke, whatever that even is. silena was always wiser than she looked, and clarisse adored that about her. sometimes her wisdom was completely lost on her, but it always came back to her when she really needed it. she can almost hear silena whispering in her ear next to her as she pulls her hair out of the messy bun it had been in, hushed words about love and hate and beauty and fate. she wonders, for just a moment, if silena were here now, if she'd be teasing her or warning her.

she shakes her hair around her, letting it fall loose and then pulling it around to one shoulder. it's gotten longer over the years, out of a general neglect, but also because silena liked it like this. chris liked it too, but he actually preferred when it was short. something about it looking more badass — he did always have a thing for powerplay, not that she ever complained. asserting her dominance in bed just made things more fun.

she reaches behind her for the zipper, only to remember that she had one of her cabin mates zip her up this morning. no one dared try to say anything snide to her about wearing a dress or asking for help zipping it up; after years of living with her, they all know what they'd get if they tried. she tries to reach over her shoulder to get at it that way, but with little luck. she could keep trying in vain, but she'd probably break her arm first before she reached the tiny little fucker.

she takes a moment to stare at herself in shame before she finally works up the nerve to ask for help from luke castellan. this could possibly be the most embarrassing moment of her life, right after percy drenched her in toilet water when she was fourteen. ]

Luke...?

[ it sounds almost strangled, like she's not sure how to say it, and it sounds foreign to her, in a voice she isn't quite sure belongs to her. it sounds too friendly, too familiar, too afraid, like she's questioning the fact that she's even saying it at all as much as she's asking if he's still there. gods, she hopes he's still there — she really doesn't want to have to go find him. ]

[ luke's busy doing … what, exactly? clarisse is in his bathroom doing gods know what. is she rifling through all of his shit? is she going to leave some nasty prank for him in there? while the latter would've been plausible back in camp, he very much doubts clarisse is going to step back into the shoes of a fourteen year-old, especially not when she's dressed like how she is. he hasn't given himself much time to think it over, the way she's changed, and not just physically, either. she's a lot more quiet now, still as loud and abrasive and obnoxious as she had been when he'd been in her life, but something in her seems to have dimmed. luke has a feeling he had a part of that. ]

[ but he's sitting on his bed, then he moves to his closet, shutting the door to only open it once again. he pushes a shirt around, unfolds a folded corner, then closes it again. it's odd, having her in his apartment. it doesn't feel as cold as it had when it was only him. but while he has no false belief that she'll be lingering, he has to wonder what she means to do if she's stealing his clothes as though she's the spawn of hermes herself. is it a trick? he doesn't see what sort of war strategy she's implementing by asking for his clothes while showing him a much more vulnerable side to herself. ]

[ thankfully, it's her voice that gives him a purpose. him walking back and forth, pacing like the god of travelling's son he is, has him feeling uncertain of what he's allowed to transpire thus far. he's meant to be protecting himself from people like her, even though he so much as welcomed her to break his jaw in half again. ]

[ he walks to the bathroom, but stops before he gets too far. he doesn't come to the threshold, doesn't move so he can see her at all. he's merely hiding behind the wall as though she's something to be scared of. and she is. his tone is so uncertain: ] What?

[ clarisse exhales heavily, not realizing she'd been holding her breath this whole time waiting for luke to answer. thank the gods he does, sounding just as uncertain as she does. it allows her to relax a little more, to carefully open the door and peek her head around the corner, just to make sure he's actually there. she's not hiding from him, exactly, but she still feels so embarrassed that she even has to ask him to do this at all. it's better that he's here, though. there's no way she ever would've gotten this damn thing off on her own back at her place.

she opens the door a little wider, enough for both of them to be able to stand in the threshold. she looks at him awkwardly, suddenly very aware of what she's about to ask him to do and unsure if she can actually go through with it. hasn't she asked enough of him already today? ]

Uh. Could you...

[ and she turns her back to him without actually finishing her request, holding her hair out of the way so it doesn't fall over the zipper, but also just to have something to hold onto, something to do with her hands that she isn't quite sure what to do with. she looks back at him from over her shoulder, just to make sure he understands, her eyes almost threatening don't make me say it. ]

[ his legs move of his own accord. he stands at the very threshold of the bathroom and simply stares at her. it's as though she's like any creature he's seen before, standing in her bathroom, back to him — the clarisse la rue he knows would never bare such a vulnerable part of her body, not even to her own cabinmates. ]

Yeah.

[ a small, dark part of luke thinks to make her say it. could i what, la rue? what is it that you could possibly need from me? but the quiet voice inside of him that wants to spite her, to get payback for all the shit she's done to him — punching and punishing him continuously like he's still the bad guy — is just that: quiet. it's a luke that's angry, the kind of wrath that had spurred him on to take on a world much larger than one, sole demigod. ]

[ he wonders if this is a trick. did clarisse learn something from spending so much time with the aphrodite kids? but it's a cruel thing to think. clarisse hardly thinks well of her own body, unless it can be turned into a weapon ... and using it as silena had once done so, he doubts her even capable. he stares at her neck, though, then her shoulders, then those powerful shoulder-blades that work as hard, if not even more so, than her own legs. but when his eyes lift, he sees hers, and that desire to push her to say it, to even demand it of him, dissipates almost instantly. ]

Right. [ his own voice sounds rough. ] Okay.

[ taking a step forward, luke's hands remain uselessly by his sides. his hands are the most powerful tool he has — nothing can stop him when he puts them to work, whether it be a lock or a computer or a sword. but he finds his fingers slack, the bones in them turned to fluid. he moves closer so he can feel the heat of her body almost soak through his own clothes, as if they're in some sort of water bubble. outside, in the real world, she could barely touch him, not even when her own hand had been in his. but here, in his own private den, he finds heat searing his skin at the mere proximity he is to her. ]

[ one hand comes to lightly touch her shoulder, as if to anchor him — for his own purpose? or that of the zipper? — and the other latches onto the zip and begins pulling it down. the hand on her shoulder disappears, though, to come and hang uselessly by his side, but the teeth are hard, as all zippers are, and he finds that he has to brace the dress in place by curving his hand against the slope of her side, just before the bone of her hip. he keeps his eyes trained on her back, on watching the teeth of the zipper open up as if a mouth, as the knuckle of one of his fingers slides down her spine lightly as its revealed to him. ]

[ as soon as he agrees fully, she turns her head away from him, absently playing with her hair in his hesitation. it's the hand on her shoulder that freezes her where she stands, like a remote hitting pause. her whole body tenses, and a shiver runs down her spine. she wonders if he could feel it, the way his touch makes her nervous as only a touch can. clarisse has nerves of steel when it comes to battle and engaging the enemy — but here? so far away from anything worth fighting, so far from her comfort zone, that courage that makes her a feared warrior of ares dissolves with one touch.

as the zipper begins to come down, clarisse moves one of her hands instinctively to hold the dress up in the front. by the time he has the zipper all the way undone, it will be so loose it would simply fall down if she doesn't keep it from doing so. she isn't ready to bare that much to luke, though she still isn't sure where their boundaries are. there must be a line in the sand somewhere, they just haven't found it yet — or, maybe, it just hasn't been drawn yet.

she bites her lip self-consciously when he places his hand on her side, knowing full well that he's almost done with the zipper, yet part of her doesn't want him to be. part of her — a part she never shows to anyone (not since chris, not since silena) — wants to reach around with the hand in her hair and keep his hand there, right there on her side, wants to say something stupid like don't stop, wants him to do more than just unzip her dress. but the rational part of her, the part that keeps reminding her that this is luke castellan, will do no such thing.

so she stands there, his knuckle dragging down her spine along with the zipper, and she curses the gods, curses the fates, curses anyone she can think of. most of all, she curses luke castellan and she curses herself. ]

[ who knew a dress could be so terrifying? ]

[ luke has not been at the mercy of anyone showing them their vulnerabilities for so long that it shakes him to be at the mercy of clarisse's. she's as strong as steel, tougher than any metal forged, but here she is, baring her back to a boy who had pushed his sword into so many of them before. ]

[ when the zipper has reached the very end of its life, luke's hand drops from it, but the one on her hip lingers. it seems as though the breath within him had simply stopped, curdled somewhere in his throat, and is only now being released. his heart hammers in his chest, a monster out of his very own control. it's clear to him that her hands are busy holding the dress up. his eyes travel up the path of her spine to see her back is completely bare — luke isn't new to this, undressing girls isn't something he's never done before, but it's startling to him of how much of a girl clarisse is being right now. where's her armour? where is all the metal she surrounds her delicate body in to protect herself from monsters like him? ]

You gonna be okay? [ even though luke thinks to move back, to take several steps in that direction, those treacherous fingers of his curl into her hip and anchor him there. his eyes move up from the back of her neck to look at her earlobe, at how its bared to him from the way she's pulled her hair to the side. so many soft spots; he wonders if any of them are her achilles heel. ]

[ as exposed as she feels right now, she doesn't feel particularly uncomfortable. her heart is beating as fast as it does in the heat of battle, though the cause of it is something far less violent, but just as exciting. there's a familiar warmth that rises to her cheeks and her shoulders, even her ears. surely luke can see how flustered she is, but she tries not to dwell on that. she tries not to dwell on the fact that his hand is still on her hip, his fingers curling into her side, or the fact that she still doesn't want him to remove it.

where is her armor? she hasn't lost it, not yet, she's just been hiding it behind familiarity and unfamiliar touches she wants to be more than that. she knows she shouldn't, though, knows she's already crossed over enemy lines into unknown and dangerous territory. but there's something thrilling about not knowing what to expect, not being able to predict what luke is going to do — or even what she is going to do — and being completely defenseless in his presence. she doesn't need armor to face him, and she turns around with a look of incredulity on her face — had he really just asked if she was going to be okay?

but then, without even thinking about it, her armor flares up, and she's on the defensive, completely destroying whatever kind of moment they were just having. ]

Please, Castellan, all you did was unzip my dress. [ she'd been so good, too, but old habits die hard. she's still holding her dress with one hand while she shrugs and rolls her eyes. she can still feel the phantom weight of his hand on her shoulder, but she ignores it and everything it makes her feel. ] It's not like it meant anything.

[ she knows it's the wrong thing to say, the opposite of what she wanted to say — but she'd been getting too caught up in him, she'd been letting him get too close, and when it comes to feelings, clarisse has no strategy, no plan. feelings are the one enemy she'd rather run from than face in battle, even at her own expense. ]

[ luke takes a step back, as if stung. his mouth is pinched and his blue eyes swarm with anger. what he had thought to not be a joke seems to rear its ugly head as being one. he hadn't really meant to say anything, but, as per usual, the words had been stolen from his mouth before he could trap them between his teeth. he doesn't know why he says it; he doesn't care if she's okay, he doesn't care if she's suffocating in a dress that, while looks almost surreal on her and outlines her body shape better than the tomboyish crap she usually wears, isn't her. ]

It seemed like it meant a lot to you, La Rue. [ his eyes purposefully dip and travel down her figure. it's easy to fall back into the asshole that pushes people away with his anger. luke understands anger better than anyone. he harnesses it, but, in reality, he had let it harness him. he's meant to pull his gaze straight from her feet to her gaze, but he lets it travel up the route of her slender, tall, and surprisingly feminine, figure once again. then, his angry, blue eyes hit hers. he smirks, but it's strained, as if it's taking effort to put up this old and hardened and misfitted mask. ] Was the whole point of this trip to my place some weird Ares kid seduction plan? Because you're not doing really well at it.

[ she'd been doing just fine throwing him for a loop before her old defenses kicked in. who knew clarisse la rue was capable of looking anything like temptation? luke knows one name that had known all along, but he doesn't think of the kid who he had left to the madness of the labyrinth. revisiting the past is only good for him when it's a means for protection. his archilles heel these days is his loneliness and he has to protect that weak spot with everything he has, even if it's tossing whatever potential forgiveness he could pull from clarisse la rue to the wind. ]

[ she isn't sure why she expects luke to react any differently than he does. she thought maybe they'd both changed, but just like that, they're back to the old song and dance, her fire only growing stronger the harder he pushes at her, fans the flame. she knows it's her fault, knows she should say something, anything, but when their eyes meet, both of them glowering with an intensity that's a little frightening, she draws her mouth closed and keeps it shut.

she could say a lot of things to him right now — it wasn't until you touched me, i can see the way you look at me, this was a mistake — but she doesn't. she just stares at him for an uncomfortable amount of time, trying to process what her next move is. she's never been as good at thinking ahead as annabeth; she's always been the heat of the moment, not the morning after. she could easily shove him into the wall behind him, let her dress fall to the floor and press herself into him, lips against lips, body against body, until neither of them remembers how to breathe. she could slap him for suggesting that she wants anything to do with him like that.

but she doesn't. she doesn't do any of those things. she just grips her dress tighter, trying to calm the rage inside her, the rage that he incited, but she instigated. she was stupid to think she could walk into his apartment and try to make herself at home, try to turn enemy territory into neutral ground. but she's already here, in the middle of it, and now there's no going back. there's only one thing she can say that doesn't feel like she's being stabbed in the chest. ]

I'll be right out.

[ and she takes a step back and shuts the door in his face. she knows now silena would have warned her about this, the dangerous game you play with luke castellan, with your heart and your dignity on the line. ]

[ luke doesn't understand clarisse's deal. she shifts from hot to cold within a matter of seconds — and he can't quite keep up. but before he knows it, the door has been slammed in his face. he's gone from hot to cold himself — from cold to warm to scorching, to only find himself freezing in his own damn room. ]

[ he stares at the door and sheds himself of his jacket. a part of him, the good part, the one he thinks that wants to behave and atone and be worthy of something akin to forgiveness, drops down on the edge of his bed and pulls his shoes off. if she wants to go home after this, she can walk herself. but it's then, with the weight of his denim jacket off his shoulders and his shoes no longer weighing him down, he feels himself free to move — and, most importantly, to feel. ]

[ he marches back to the bathroom and pushes the door open. luke's never been the type to simply let others push him around. hadn't he so much as proved that to the gods? push him around and he pushes back — he'd wanted to be on his best behaviour with clarisse, to break them out of their vicious cycle of shit, but he finds that she just continues to push, push, push. ]

[ luke's observant. it's how he had managed to trick percy all those years ago, it's how he had been able to steal the master bolt from zeus. but his anger has blinded him, and with his brows pulled together and his hands bunched into tight, tight fists, all he sees when he enters the bathroom is red. not clarisse in a dress, not clarisse's bare shoulders, not clarisse's bare back. his gaze first lands on her back, on the space between her shoulderblades, before landing somewhere on her profile. ] What's your problem? Do you get off on playing games with people?

[ is this some sort of fucked up punishment? had she demanded he not leave her alone and bring her back to his simply to fuck with him? she's had enough of punching him in the face, so she's going for the gut? it's not really a secret that luke doesn't have anyone. for her to waltz back into his life and offer the hand of potential friendship, or at least a friendly acquaintanceship, is cruel if she's going to simply take it away. he understands that he deserves it, he understands that even she believes he deserves very little, but seeing it in action rather than merely thinking it scars deeper than a dragon's claw. ]

[ clarisse has just enough time to step out of dress and pull on the stupid red shirt luke gave her, her head still full of things she doesn't want to think about and things she doesn't want to feel, before luke bursts into his own bathroom. it startles her more than it should, riles her more than it should. her fingers freeze over the button she was working on — stupid backwards boy buttons — and the shirt remains only halfway buttoned, open enough that it reveals the length of her collar bone and just a hint of cleavage. the sleeves are too long, but at least the rest of the shirt covers her underwear, though only barely. with only his shirt covering her, her legs seem to go on forever.

it doesn't even occur to her that this might be considered indecent. if it were another situation, maybe she might be more embarrassed to be caught half clothed in someone else's bathroom, but as it is, she'd used to being walked in on by her brothers, and this feels no different. she can feel the rage emanating from luke and it fuels her own. it feels like just another fight with her brothers back at camp, except her gut never twists this sharply when she argues with her brothers. she never wants to drag them down and bite their lips. that's all luke. and she hates him for looking at her the way he does.

she turns swiftly on her heel to face him, eyes full fire and passion and hate all at the same time. ]

Maybe if you stopped looking at me like that, I wouldn't have a problem!

[ and it's the closest thing he's going to get to an admittance that there's something there, right here, between them. something she wants, but is too afraid to take. she's blaming it on him, because it's easier that way, but if luke is so observant, he should be able to see through it, see through clarisse's armor straight to her core, which is currently a mess of complicated emotions she's trying to hide. being friendly with luke is one thing, but they're starting to cross a line she isn't sure she's ready to cross again — the touches, the looks, wanting more — so she retreats back into her shell, just so she won't get hurt again. ]

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