entrancelogs | I'm trying not to sleep

Entry tags:

I'm trying not to sleep

Who: Clara & anyone! (totally open)
Where: Around the mansion
When: The week after the shadow event
Rating: TBA
Summary: When you have a terrible shadow event, it's time to stay busy to forget about it
The Story: Clara is beyond humiliated.

She's lost a great deal of her pride, she's fractured almost every single relationship she's formed in her time here, and she's at a loss as to what she needs to do to make herself feel better. So the best solution in her mind is simply not to think about it and stay busy. She can't act like any of the things her shadow said never happened, of course, but she doesn't have to linger on it. There's too much hurt there for her, and it's best to just build up some walls on the inside and close it off and away. And sleep? Forget about it, there's way too much time to have thoughts loiter on everything that went wrong, or have pesky dreams slip in, and that's definitely not something she wants to have happen.

On Tuesday, she has plans with both Luke and Owen, and despite not being up to her usual spirited nature she's grateful for the chance to interact with the both of them without shadows present.

On Wednesday, she thinks she has self-defense lessons but also spends a good portion of the day sprawled out in the sun at the beach. She's not usually a beach dweller and she doesn't usually sunbathe, but she thinks it's the perfect place to read through some Jules Verne. Journey to the Center of the Earth was a childhood favorite, and it makes her feel safe and nostalgic so she's grateful that the library has a copy on hand just waiting for her.

On Thursday, she spends her time out in the gardens, working on both drawing and painting. Her lessons with Whale have left her eager to continue practicing, working on a drawing of white roses which she has every intention of painting red by the end of the day. If someone happens across her, she's more than likely to grab hold of them and convince them to pose for her so she can attempt a more complicated subject.

Friday finds Clara holed up in the library, a stack of books on space piled up around her. She's sitting cross legged on the floor, and the pile of books towers above her, constantly wobbling as if they're about to topple at any given second. There's fiction, non-fiction, and even some picture books at her side. She started the day out reading for research but now has an old, worn copy of The Little Prince in hand. It brings back memories of her mother, and those are always good to hold onto when she's having a difficult time.

The rest of the weekend is spent either at the swimming pool or her room. The pool she's never really used before, so it's nice to just float around and stare up at nothing in particular. It's a funny feeling, just aimlessly floating, doing nothing for hours on end. She almost feels guilty for it, but it's a nice break from being cooped up in the library. When she's in her room she's working on painting her walls, trying to complete constellations for the night sky she's painted across every single wall. She's not much of an artist, but this has given her something to do in her time here, and the project is almost complete. There's even a little TARDIS painted right up above her bed.

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She isn't sure what to say either, she's caught somewhere between upset and embarrassment. "You might. Or I might. We don't know what's going to happen." She pushes to stand up, her hands grip hold of the edge of the table. Her knuckles turn white as she thinks it over, trying to figure out something else to say.

"We should go on a walk." It's not a question, it's a decision. They can't keep having this conversation inside the library, anyone could be lurking and listening.

D'Artagnan jerks back when she stands, caught off guard. "I-- All right, we could do that," he says slowly, standing to join her. She didn't make it sound like much of a suggestion, but he's not going to argue with her and disrupt the fragile peace they have.

"Where to, then?"

"Outside." She quickly decides, and grabs hold of her little prince book to shove it into her red satchel. She grabs hold of her bag and secures it before leading the way out, motioning with a sweep of her head for him to follow. She waits until they're out and in the halls before speaking, trying her best to make things feel the same as they used to.

"I've been practicing with my sword." She admits, a way to make conversation and talk about a common interest. "It's still a work in progress, but I think I'm improving."

"All right." He feels a bit as though they're going on some sort of secret mission, but that definitely can't be the case. He follows her out, staying silent until she speaks again. He laughs at her admission. Not in a mean way. More surprised than anything else.

"Have you? I'll have to test you one day," he says, smiling, and oh, it does feel good to smile with her again.

"That's what I'm counting on." She grins, knowing that she just might have a few tricks up her sleeve that surprise him. She picked up a book in the library on technique with a sword, and that combined with his lessons have ensured that she's far from hopeless. In fact, with enough work, she just might stand a chance of being actually decent.

She takes the lead and heads downstairs and out the front doors in a rush, excited to get out into the open air and walk the gardens. "You have to promise not to be offended if I pass your test with flying colors, though."

He wouldn't be entirely surprised if she turned out to be adept at it. It's not difficult, really, if you have any amount of grace or coordination, and you always improve with practice. He laughs, puts a hand to his chest.

"I'll try, but I can't promise anything." Not that he'd feel anything except proud if she did well. He taught her, after all.

"Have you gotten the chance to go riding yet?"

At his laugh, she can't help but grin wildly. It's nice, to fall back into this rhythm, to not feel uncertain in the moment. "I've only been riding with the duke. Buckingham, that is. It feels like it was so long ago." It's funny to her how time moves here in the mansion, everything's starting to blur together and make it difficult to tell just how long ago something really happened.

She turns her bright smile in his direction, both hands reaching up to grab hold of his upper arm as if she's about to tug him off toward the stables. "Why? Are you inviting me to go?"

D'Artagnan's eyebrows raise, and a thought-- a horrific thought-- occurs to him. If D'Artagnan's interested in her....romantically, who's the other person? She's mentioned Buckingham a few times now, and-- and-- oh no. He needs to ask, but he can't-- it'd be much too awkward. But he also can't go on if the answer is what he thinks it is. He stops walking, putting a hand over one of hers.

"I-- Yes, we could go, if you like, but Clara, I...need to ask you something." He doesn't want to bring it up, especially since they've just had a nice moment, but--

"Is... you mentioned two men being interested in you. Is Buckingham also vying for your affection?" Please say no. Please say no. You don't understand, he's too young to turn into Athos.

The second the words are out of his mouth, she looks horrified. Not because the duke is a terrible person or disgusting, but because she's not romantically interested in him at all. "Of course not!" She sounds almost offended and in disbelief that his mind jumps right to that conclusion, but she supposes she can't blame him for doing it.

"If he's vying for my affection, I'm not aware of it. His shadow was a bit forward, but I doubt he's interested." She looks bewildered now, as she tries to imagine just what Buckingham would act like if he was interested in her. It's mind boggling, really it is. So mind boggling that her mouth moves and makes words before she has time to think about the best way to deliver them.

"Owen. It's Owen. He's definitely not Buckingham." She hisses this out in a raised whisper, a hand reaching up to brush hair behind her ear. Oh, this is so awkward. And after a perfectly wonderful moment, too.

"I'm sorry, I just-- I had to make sure!" He says, putting his hands up in surrender. He's trying to be... well, someone not from the 17th century, because he's heard women don't appreciate that kind of treatment. They don't want to be fought over. Or something. (The thought never occurred to D'Artagnan, truly.) He knows how he'd deal with this. Plain and simple.

He snorts. "He's vying for everyone's attentions, all the time, but you wouldn't--" And he makes himself shut up. She clearly likes Buckingham, for whatever that's worth, so he supposes he should ruin things more.

"Owen? The doctor?" Huh. He taught him to sword fight just the other day. Week? Time passes so strangely here... Anyway.

"The one who hits on other men's girlfriends in bars?" That's...all he remembers, besides the fact that Owen's a doctor. Oops.

"Yes, the doctor." She huffs a bit, because D'Artagnan jumps straight to the side of Owen that's the public image. Of course Owen tells everyone about these things, why wouldn't he? With a sigh, she reaches up to rub at the bridge of her nose. "Don't think he actually does that, by the way. Least...not anymore. It's complicated."

She's not about to get into how Owen told her he's different now, he wants to be someone else here in this place. It's not her business to tell him, and everything they discussed during the shadow event she wants to keep between them. So she's left feeling exasperated, and mostly still embarrassed that D'Artagnan had even thought it was the duke in the first place.

Again, D'Artagnan's hands go up in defense. "Look, I don't know much about him. We trained together, and he told me a bit about his life before.... this place. I don't care what he does or what he did--" Though he'd care if Owen made some sort of promise to Clara and then hurt her, but he doesn't feel the need to mention that.

"I'm sure he must be at least somewhat decent for you to be interested in him," he says, waving a hand in the air. He's feeling pretty exasperated himself.

"He's - "

She realizes that she doesn't really know Owen, beyond the terrible things his shadow's said, and the few times they've actually had meaningful conversation. Owen himself has tried to warn her, and she's the type of person that thinks everyone deserves a second chance.

"I'm getting to know him. The same as I am with you." And that's really all she can say about it now, because she's confused and embarrassed.

"If he isn't decent, at least I've been trained with a word, yeah?"

D'Artagnan tightens his jaw, and clears his throat. It's meant to be a dig, he assumes, the bit about getting to know them both and while it doesn't really offend him (because he doesn't know her either, he learned that much last weekend), it's not the nicest thing to hear either. And the second's definitely a dig, he knows, because he really wasn't trying to make any sort of impression on her about him. At least not consciously. He's no good at manipulation. He prefers just to be honest.

Which he'll do right now. "This was a bad idea," he says, meaning the walk, mostly, but also his initial approach of her in the library. He should have given it more time. "I should go."

"What? Why would you go?" She's got no idea what she's said this time, and she's looking at him as if he's completely misunderstanding every single word that comes out of her mouth.

"Are you angry about what I said? Is that what this is about?" Because she doesn't know what else it could be. Since they're still in close proximity, she reaches over to poke at his side. It's a bit rough, but she's getting fed up with his taking her words and entirely mishearing them or twisting them around to potentially suit his mood.

"First off, my saying I was getting to know him was my saying that I don't know him well at all and you might be right. And that last bit I said? Was my saying I'd stand up for myself if I needed to, and cut him down to size if I tried anything. Dunno why you're so quick to jump to being angry when it doesn't suit you in the slightest."

And since she's still not sure what to do with her hands or her body language or any of it, she just reaches out to poke him roughly again.

He makes a small noise at the first poke, because ow, fingernails. He's not too excited about her calling him out on his idiocy either, but he supposes he's more used to that than the poking.

"I'm not angry," Really, he's not, just mostly frustrated, "and I-- ow" He grabs her hand and tugs her even closer, so he can have a better hold on her. He doesn't want to be interrupted by pokes again, thank you.

"I'm not angry," he repeats, slowly, calmly, leaning down into her space. "I'm just saying, perhaps I should have given you more time. Or myself. I could have given myself more time." Though if he hadn't approached her today, he wasn't sure it'd ever happen.

"I have no idea why you take to jumping down my throat when it doesn't suit you in the slightest."

The second he's in her space, she's rising up on her tiptoes, leaning right back into his. They're almost nose to nose at this point, her eyes locked on his. "You sound angry." She points out her perception of his tone and what he's saying, and rises up on her tiptoes just a bit more so her forehead bumps into his. It's meant to be more playful than hostile, because the fact that they even need to discuss this is ridiculous to her.

"Also, not jumping down your throat. Not my fault you can't handle a poke or two."

There are moments in life where you must make a key decision. One that will affect everything you do from that point on in an altogether too significant way. Clara's forehead bumps D'Artagnan's, and he's overcome with an urge to take her face in his hands and kiss her, but he knows if he were to do that, he'd be risking everything they have, fragile as it is. He wants to-- oh, does he want to. He could tell you about all the time he's spent imagining how stupidly soft Clara's lips are, but he won't. Do any of it, that is.

Instead, he scoffs, lets her go, and steps back so he can breathe. She hasn't outright rejected him, so he wouldn't feel bad about kissing her suddenly, because she has expressed interest. He's just-- Ugh. He's just afraid. How pathetic. He shifts his hand in hers, hooking their fingers together.

"Well, some people should learn to cut their fingernails before they go around poking people."

Quite honestly, in the moments where eyes were locked and they were practically sharing the same breath of air, she thought he was going to kiss her. And perhaps she should have been the one to do it, she realizes a bit too late. Her heart is rapidly beating, pounding loudly in her ears, and what he says barely registers with her. She's left a bit dumbstruck by all of it, and glances down at their hands before looking back up at him, slowly nodding.

"I'll see what I can do, for the next time." It's a tease, but one that doesn't come out sounding as sure of herself as normal.

In the end, it's probably the tone of her voice that does it. The tease that's meant to be a tease but isn't even halfway there. Her mind's clearly somewhere else, and D'Artagnan's certain he knows just where that is.

So in the next moment he's back where he was, except this time with his hands cradling her jaw, his fingers sinking into her hair as he pulls her close. Christ, this is probably one of the worst decisions he'll make. Or the best. He hasn't been able to determine yet. But he pushes the thoughts out of his mind as he leans into the space-- her space-- and kisses her.

If her lips weren't occupied with kissing him, she would most definitely be shouting out finally, as that's what her mind is doing right about now. Of course, initially she tenses, not because she doesn't like the contact, but because it takes her by surprise. But all too quickly she's melting right up against him, hand tangling in his shirt so she can use it as leverage to press up and into the kiss all the better. It's something soft and exploratory, mingled with an unyielding determination to make this count and be amazing because truth be told, she's been waiting for it for a while.

Well, that's certainly a better reaction than he was expecting, hell, it's even better than he was hoping for in the first place. The kiss is-- it's-- he can't even let himself think about the kiss because that would retract from the act of kissing her and that's just not something he's willing to do. He even forsakes breathing for so long that when he finally does pull away, he's sort of embarrassingly breathless and very unwilling to pull away at all.

"I'm sorry if that was poorly timed," he says into her lips more than anything else, and kisses her again, three shorter ones in succession.

At his words, her lips tug upwards into a smile against his. There's a tree close by, and Clara nudges him with her hip over toward it. "Definitely." She only gets out one word at a time in order to properly kiss him, "Wasn't." No, there's no need for apologies here, and she waits until they bump against the trunk of the tree to back off just a bit. She needs air, and a moment or two to collect her thoughts. Currently, they're swimming all over the place, and for just this once she doesn't mind all that much.

"So, that just really, actually happened." She laughs, cheeks actually turning red for once. She's really at a loss for words, which is probably a good thing, because her breath is heavy and she's fairly certain that at any second she might lean back in yet again to instigate another round. Which she does with no hesitation, figuring he won't mind in the slightest.

That tree by which the two of them are lingering?

It happens to be a rather massive oak, one of the largest on the entire grounds. A hard wood, oak is the national tree of France, but that's neither here nor there - what's special about this oak is the fact that it provides a goodly amount of shade on a particularly hot day in June, enough that a casual denizen of Wonderland might find respite beneath its boughs, armed with a book.

Said denizen, one Athos de la Fère, is enjoying a treatise by John Locke, who despite his English origins in philosophy has some rather interesting things to say about governments and their people.

The musketeer's solace is interrupted by talking far behind him, which he dutifully ignores until it devolves into murmuring, a pause for silence - too long a pause, and a telling one at that - followed by more muffled words. Getting to his feet and rolling his eyes, Athos snaps his book shut and moves around the trunk of the tree.

"There are over a hundred rooms in the Mansion, you really couldn't pick one of th-"

He blinks slowly, eyebrows climbing into his hairline. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, the expression on his face evolves from shock into something much more sinister: a smug smile.

"...I'm sorry, am I interrupting a tryst?"

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