[He registers the little girl beside Clarke, but he can't quite process her. He can't quite process any of this, and so when Clarke throws her arms around him, he's thrown off balance just enough to take a small step back. The rest is automatic—he hugs her back, hands clutching at the soft, worn leather of her jacket, his voice low and quiet.]
We're fine. We're all fine.
[She's fine. In fact, she seems more than fine. It's overwhelming, and for a second, all he can do is bury his face in the crook of her shoulder, breathing past the sudden tightness in his chest.]
no subject
We're fine. We're all fine.
[She's fine. In fact, she seems more than fine. It's overwhelming, and for a second, all he can do is bury his face in the crook of her shoulder, breathing past the sudden tightness in his chest.]
The nightblood worked.