The tadpole is dead.

[centerishome]

It had been the shittiest day in the history shitty days. A huge ordeal in their lives had been settled. Emile Renior was dead. Statements were taken. Crime scene tape was strung around the courtyard and Clarke's apartment had been sealed

Comments

[on_jennys_terms]

She sat with her legs crossed at the knee, leaning on one of the armrests. "I think I told you to not make it a habit," she says with a raised eyebrow and a slight smile back.

[centerishome]

"I could be a hospital shareholder at this rate," Clarke replies. Exhaustion tugs at the corners of his blue eyes. He rests a hand on her knee. He's happy she's there with him, even if things are kind of ambiguous right now. He could easily babble on about being grateful or being glad she's there but the gesture, he feels, is enough for the moment.

[on_jennys_terms]

The gesture is enough. Anything more and she'd feel like she needed to leave. "How are you feeling?" She's feeling as bad as he looks, but given what just happened, it was justified. Not like she'd been run down to nothing or anything.

[centerishome]

"I look a lot worse than I feel. My wrists ache a little but I'm basically okay. I told them I didn't need to stay over." His hand moves from her knee to her hand. It's no more intimate than it's previous placement, just more contact. "Emile kept saying you were ignoring me. I knew you weren't. I never doubted you, I just want you to know that."