Either she was seeing right through him, or she was just that no-bullshit, to-the-point kind of person, and he was going to hazard a half-lashed guess that it was the latter.
Considering her slightly absentee character, the way she gazed at things no one else seemed to see, the snapshots of her he’d capture with a wandering flick of his gaze when he spotted her milling around the Hub, accomplishing what looked like next to nothing, and hugging the edges as though she wished to be invisible.
Which she wasn’t. Invisible, that is, though she certainly was a number of things. Unusual, private, off beat, to name a few. But invisible she was not. With long curtains of wavy blond silk that framed her round, charming face; large eyes that gazed absently, full lips she had a habit of biting into, inviting curves for miles and miles and miles—she was anything but invisible.
But Corbin had never seen someone look quite so uncomfortable in a body anyone would envy, a face that prompted stares. She seemed not to notice the way people looked at her—perhaps for the better, because word about her got around, as did many things in the Colony, and though some stared in appreciation, others stared in confused concern. Like her crazy might rub off on them should they walk to close, or look too long.
Crazy didn’t bother Corbin though. Hardly anything did. Crazy was harmless. Crazy was even a bit endearing.
Do you want something? As if he had no other reason to talk to her. As if the only possible explanation to his saying hi is that he needed a favor.
Which he did. But he didn’t want to draw attention to it.
So he played light, snorting briefly as they stepped onto the grounds together and headed in the direction of the training rings around the back.
“Sugar, I want a lot of things. But don’t we all, y’know? A Porsche. A private room. My old clothes back. A stay at a five star all inclusive. A really, really good lay.” He smirked down at her, as though they were sharing a joke, but the likelihood was that they weren’t. That his words would mean little to her, the content skimming around her, drawing just outside her lines.
But he’d been mates with Chance. He was used to being looked at with those uncertain, quizzical expressions.
Op, and there it was. A curve in her faint blond brow, a twitch in her full bottom lip. Something vaguely judgmental behind her bright blue eyes.
Okay, so he’ll get to the point.
“Alright, alright, well I do have a question for you. Actually, call it a proposition. Intriguing. Alluring. Opportunistic.” He spoke with his hands, underlying his enthusiasm, fingers waving theatrically. Everything was a game, to Corbin, everything a show. He had half a mind to drape an arm around her shoulders like they were old friends, hands dancing in the air before her face like he was preparing her for some fantastical tale—and as it turns out, he listened to that half of his mind. He often did.
“A chance to be partners in crime, if you will,” he continued, his grin toothy, eyes gleeful. He needed this. This distraction. This reminder to the carefree place he’d once been. Before affection. Before tenderness. Before Pryor. “Shall I go on?”
Eyes half lidded and curious, she hums a soft noise at the quick, bright sound of Corbin’s voice. The discordance of his electric body next to her sleepy, celestial one comforts her aching head. At least she can be heard, she supposed, at least he gets on with it. She wouldn’t say that she trusted Corbin an inch, because she trusts very few people.
But there’s freedom in that. Freedom to be herself without fear.
Her magic - Delusion, they call it-- - has held her trapped in a magisterium of sorts, imprisoned by the NWRF. Sickly old trees, hollow, wilted grass, surrounded by bright silver starlight; it was an ugly prison. The sweet young witch would feed herself on magic and honey; it was her way of life. But sometimes she started to feel suspicious. Mostly she thought those not affiliated with the NWRF were trustworthy, but sometimes she thought she knew better. Sometimes, talking to almost-strangers, she wondered whether she was holding herself prisoner.
Sometimes the moon whispered to her that one day the food would run out and she would starve, bone by bone, while she and the stars watched from behind translucent walls. They would let her, if they could, and it was that threat that was threaded through Corbin’s words. Chloe is nobody’s partner in crime, not these days. They are all too much suppressed, and her magic was withered by it. She wasn’t strong enough to fight them, and wouldn’t risk going back to isolation.
Maybe, if she just believed hard enough and summoned the vibrations, and stood in a particular manner, Corbin and his frightening ideas would disappear. He was dangerous. But somehow, the opposite happened; his arm was draped around her shoulders like they were old friends, and the only reason Chloe didn’t remove the arm: numbed shock. She disliked being touched by people she didn’t know well. He was big-- - tall and lanky, yes, but also his spirit. She felt his presence, huge and expectant, pressing against her boundaries. He was sweet, but it was hopeless. Chloe was blind to the things she didn’t want to see, and the confusion of this situation drained her energy away from where it was kindled in her fingers.
”I don’t do bad things now,” She said, a heavy weight pressing down upon her throat. “I won’t go back to isolation again, I can’t. They search my dorm. They take my things. They’d know,”.
(Sotto voce, fragile. She was a baby bird knocked from her nest)
Maybe they thought she wouldn’t notice. But any scraps that Chloe tried to hoard (a braid of dried, dead grass, a stiff brush of fur) would go missing. It frightened her. She didn’t know what monsters they were, that her warding spells didn’t hold them back. The sockets of her eyes felt hollow and blind, cradling only paranoia and superstition. Chloe was not ashamed to be frightened of them. Only a fool isn’t frightened of the monsters under their bed.
