( peace of mind, clarke almost says. because just as she might remind him of a dream raven, he reminds her of several unsavory characters she's met in the past. those clean clothes, those shiny shoes echo haunting memories of the mountain men's bunker, where they'd strung her friends up to bleed. the glimpse of danger in his eyes, sharp and recognizable in its unpredictability, calls to mind john murphy; she'd seen him hanged and hadn't tried hard enough to prevent from turning into a dangerous liability.

but that barely controlled anger is familiar.

(that fear, too.)

and perhaps the scariest part of clarke griffin, beyond her current, war torn appearance, is just how much she cares. for her family, for her friends; for the rather broken young people that tend to swarm around her knees and clamor to be protected. it's not so hard to blink a few times, and see him as one of them. and misgivings aside, she will always hold a candle of sympathy for anyone sent anywhere just to kill or die. that tight pinch in her face relaxes a little, like she's seeing and relating to him for the first time as something real, a person. even if he's no longer staring her in the face, he can hear her voice soften, no longer choked on the desperation swarming all her senses. )

It's still a little early to start making alliances before we know what's fully expected of us.

( but even murphy had surprised her. he'd cut down her mother's noose. and tentative introductions did not a blood pact make, so there really wasn't any harm. )

But my name's Clarke.