Full of feelings of her own, she smiles at him. "Impressive," she tells him. 

"Oh?" He puts on his best charming grin, which, to his credit, really is quite charming. "What'd I do?"

It really is. (Are these her feelings? Or future hers? How can she even tell?) "I don't know how you set things up," she tells him, heart pounding, "but you covered everything, didn't you? Bravery, that's one. Caring about your sister, that's two. Standing up for the bullied, well, two and a half, since that's still your sister, but I'll give you an extra half point for how you got them to apologize so neatly, that's four. And you were intending to show off at the end and make some comments to show off your cleverness, until your sister cut you off, thanks for that, by the way." She nods at Whiteout. "Did you pay them? Because that was perfectly executed." (Is she doing it right? She thinks so. Nothing's gone bad yet that she can see.)

"Do I know you?" he asks, putting on an affronted air, or trying to; it's rather undercut by the mischievous smile he can't keep off his face.

She laughs, despite herself. He looks so cute, so handsome, and maybe it's the adrenaline or memories of the future but she can't help it. She's known him her whole life, even if they've never met. She loves the way he looks when he's surprised, when he's up to something clever (even though so many times such looks presage such awful things, they come with delight so much more), and so she laughs, even though she's trying not to. 

"Oh, wait," he says, playing up the bit. "Did we meet on that fishing trip last month? No, hang on, I'll remember. Aha! You're on the queen's Council of Ancient Elders, is that it?"

"You goof," she tells him, wrinkling her snout at him. 

"You're the one taking all the romance out of this," he protests. "It's supposed to go," he clears his throat and angles his head to one side as he puts on an imitation of Clearsight's voice, "'that was so brave, how you stood up for your sister like that!'" Head to the other side, back to his own voice but pitched to exaggerate his intonation, turning his smooth charm into a parody. "'Oh, that, what, no, it's what any dragon would do.'" Back to Clearsight, earnest and sweet. "'No, no - you're special, I can tell.'" Himself again. "'Not as special as you. There's a magic about you that I've never found in any other dragon!' 'Why - why do I feel as though I've known you forever?' 'Because you have... and you will.' Fireworks! True love and happiness for the rest of our lives!"

"The fireworks," Whiteout puts in gravely, "are figurative."

"A good thing too," Clearsight says, "the futures where he used fireworks he ends up starting a fire that burns through half the school gardens."

"I do?" he says, alarmed. "Really? How do I not—wait a second," he stops and points a claw at her accusingly, "you're making that up."

She laughs. (He's so cute here and now, offended like this. She's seen this before, she's felt it, but this is the first time feeling it for real.) "Has anyone ever told you're an awful seer?" she asks. "That flowery exchange isn't like me in the least."

"That's a relief," he says, bouncing back to his charming grin. "But couldn't we let this be a tiny bit more romantic? I mean, it's not every day that I meet my soulmate. Just this once, in fact. Right now."

It is happening right now. She's seen this moment in dozens of different ways, and the thousands of futures that follow from each, but what she's seen is nothing to compare with what she's feeling. Love and joy and terror and excitement, all wrapped together. She never wants this moment to end, and she needs to know what happens next, and she wants to fly away and hide from all the feelings inside her. He's beautiful and terrible and wonderful and everything is stretched out in front of them, so many ways for things to go wrong, or right. 

He looks earnestly into her eyes.

"Don't worry about the future," he says, reaching for her front talons to wrap them in his. "Just be here, with me, in this moment, where we are both as happy as we've ever been in our whole lives so far."

She wants to, she really does, but as they touch, a torrent of visions overwhelm her, flooding her with hundreds of futures, washing over her in wave after wave of possibilities. 

Darkstalker, in the twisted crown, killing dragons from across the room with a flick of his claw. 

Darkstalker, close to the age he is now, showing her a scroll with a hopeful expression.

A SeaWing, screaming in pain.

Her and Darkstalker, older, watching their dragonets roughhouse with Whiteouts', laughing without a worry in the world. 

Darkstalker collapsing in front of her, amidst the sound of ominous thunder. 

Blue IceWing blood, staining the earth like ink.

Darkstalker taking part in a discussion between a delegations of IceWings and the NightWing queen, the air still tense but full of hope.

A quartet of sapphires, given as a gift. 

Walking on ancient creaky talons to snuggle up with him on the porch, watching the sun set over the hills together.

The two of them only a little older, hiding together with Whiteout and a green SeaWing, worried about something.

Opening the royal treasury to bestow presents on their grandchildren. 

NightWings writhing before the throne, pleading and screaming as they clawed out their own eyes. 

Betrayal woven into copper wires. 

A trip to the sea. 

A green SeaWing in tears. 

She felt them wash over her again and again, until finally she pushed through to the surface and breathed, gasping for air, opening her eyes on this time, this reality, where none the wonderful or awful things have happened. Yet. 

Darkstalker is still gazing into her eyes, but now fairly vibrating with anxiety.

"Are you all right?"

"You didn't get any of that?" she asks. Even if he didn't get the same giant wave of futures crashing over him too, he still has mindreading. 

"I'm—trying not to look," he admits. "Seems unfair, you know? You can't read my mind."

Clearsight can't help but smile a little when he says that. In futures where he promises never to look, the anxiety of not being ever able to cause some problems, and universes where he voices no consideration have their own issues. This one is the most likely, but best outcome. She spares a moment (but only a moment, since he wants her here in this moment, and for that matter so does she; being in this moment makes her giddy) to take a quick peek into the futures, but nothing has changed since this morning, the decision had already been made. 

"I appreciate that," she tells him, still smiling. 

"It's not that bad, is it?" he asks, curious and a little concerned. "Our future? I've seen mostly good things."

"It's not that bad," she tells him, "at least, depending on how much you enjoy the average apocalypse." 

He laughs. It's only a little forced.

"I'm Darkstalker, by the way," he says, recovering his charming grin.

The laugher is only forced at the end, which means interpreting it as a joke is his natural (original) response. Which means he didn't (originally) read her mind, since she wasn't joking. 

"I'm Tailbite," she says, joking for real this time. "That's who you were looking for, right?" 

He laughs again, and this time it's not just unforced, it's a true loss of composure, his first true loss of composure since she first saw him. (His first true loss of composure in a lot longer than that.) She's just so—funny, cute, sincere, herself. She's just so herself. It makes him want to laugh until he falls down, like he's some kind of baby with no self-control, instead of a four-year-old dragon more than halfway to being grown.