[ per the usual, he goes to work. he packs up the left over curry, the bread-of-the-day, which is currently sweet potato, and some apple sauce. he slips a bag over his shoulder, and even though Morgana's not in it, it's still heavy with supplies.
he makes his way across town to see her, a boy on a mission. it takes him a little bit, but eventually he's at her doorstep sending a message to request access. ]
[The access is given without a response. Once Ren moves in, he'll see a number of people bustling in the lobby, ready to leave and move out. Even if New Amsterdam saw the better side of this catastrophe, no one's taking their chances that things will stay this way.
Clarke's apartment is several floors up, and the hallway reveals that it was once a rather nice place. Well, before the monsters attacked. Her door is cracked when he reaches it, and Clarke can be found standing against the ledge that is now the side of her apartment, arms crossed, and with hair blowing into her face as she watches people down below.]
[ he takes a moment to eavesdrop as he steps through the lobby, purposefully slowing down or stopping to catch tidbits of what they're talking about before he moves on.
there are no qualms with moving in even when the door is just a little bit open. he quietly steps through, adjusting the band of the bag that's over his shoulder. ]
Clarke?
[ it's quiet, but it sounds louder than he means it. ]
[When Clarke turns toward him, it's obvious she's in bad shape. It's not the kind of bad shape for when she was volunteering, working a full time job, trying to get Red Wings off the ground, and also doing classes online. That was a certain level of "doing too much" that had a certain flavor to it. She was tired and exhausted but wasn't broken by it. Not emotionally.
No, right now, there's a certain flicker of life that's left her eyes. It'll come back. It always does. But that's the problem, isn't it? How many more losses can one person take?]
Hey. [Her steps are slow, but she eventually reaches the other side of the apartment. Her eyes look tired—not from lack of sleep, though there's a bit of that, but from crying. Believe it or not, this is healthy for her. To take time and feel what she's feeling.]
[ the bag gets lifted from his shoulder and set on the table. ]
You don't have to tell me what happened. [ he leads in, because while his concern is there, he knows better than to pry. even without that connection, he can still do something. ] How are you feeling?
[ she said she had people, that was good. having support is good, but knowing people cared out of that realm was good, too. ]
[ from the look of her, she certainly has had better days. there's grief there, and that's something that he can understand: mourning after you have to let something go. ]
Take some time to take care of yourself.
[ a pause, and he puts a hand on her shoulder. ]
You're usually the one taking care of everyone else.
[The comfort of his hand dissipates quickly. The first words are understandable. The ones that follow—while understandable—hit harder than she knows he intends. As calm and controlled as she's attempted to be, it fades quickly. Her throat tightens as she chokes up, and in come the tears.
The words, of course, are almost identical to what her mom told her before she touched the ground. Good advice. Good advice mirroring her father, even if Clarke has never been anything like him. She's never been good enough or worthy of being compared.
But she knows her mom wanted her to be that, to be that good guy.
Her fingers curl into fists at her sides as she tries to push back the tears. But she doesn't succeed, not immediately.]
[ she did take care of everyone, and everything, didn't she? there was a level of sincerity there that came in earnest. he can pinpoint the moment where she cracks, almost hear it as she gasps. ]
Clarke? Hey ...
[ it wasn't what he was going for, but he's not about to back away now. ]
It's not your fault, [she says, the words mumbled out and meant to be a comfort for him. That's the truth. Ren had only been saying something that was standard and needed, and it broke her. Maybe she didn't need it. But normally she would.
She doesn't follow up with anything, though. Not yet.]
[Clarke nods after a moment. Somehow, her words had been less about making him feel better, and more about what felt necessary to her at the time. She knows that he isn't the type to take it personally. She just also hates putting burdens on other people. Taking it away is easy, a habit that slips in even when she has a hard time formulating words.
She inhales deeply and exhales, trying to gather her bearings.]
Thank you. [For a lot. For bringing her food. Her hand reaches up to cover his on her shoulder, fingers squeezing around it. Her chest ignites as he can feel her emotions: grief, pain, sadness, and a well of guilt and depression. Very little that's good. But cutting through it is a sense of gratefulness and relief. She's fond of him, too, even if her way of showing it isn't as readily available for him right now.]
[ in essence, he feels like this is partly what he's there for. in so many ways he witnessed the unraveling of his own team members as they navigated their losses, and their trauma. it makes him more steady in the face of it.
there's no flinching when she touches him, but he allows the feelings to flow, even if they're overwhelming. the corners of his lips turn down a little out of concern. while he's quiet, his own emotions are more intense than he seems to come off. ]
Do you want to talk about it?
[ because despite all his jobs, he doesn't have anywhere to be! right! ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@ren.amamiya
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Something came up.
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[ as long as she doesn't immediately need help, and she has someone to help her. ]
If you need something, let me know.
I can do laundry and make bread, too.
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[Since he's feeding everyone else, most likely.]
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[Sensitive ass stomachs.]
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Did you need anything else?
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But thank you.
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[ per the usual, he goes to work. he packs up the left over curry, the bread-of-the-day, which is currently sweet potato, and some apple sauce. he slips a bag over his shoulder, and even though Morgana's not in it, it's still heavy with supplies.
he makes his way across town to see her, a boy on a mission. it takes him a little bit, but eventually he's at her doorstep sending a message to request access. ]
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Clarke's apartment is several floors up, and the hallway reveals that it was once a rather nice place. Well, before the monsters attacked. Her door is cracked when he reaches it, and Clarke can be found standing against the ledge that is now the side of her apartment, arms crossed, and with hair blowing into her face as she watches people down below.]
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there are no qualms with moving in even when the door is just a little bit open. he quietly steps through, adjusting the band of the bag that's over his shoulder. ]
Clarke?
[ it's quiet, but it sounds louder than he means it. ]
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No, right now, there's a certain flicker of life that's left her eyes. It'll come back. It always does. But that's the problem, isn't it? How many more losses can one person take?]
Hey. [Her steps are slow, but she eventually reaches the other side of the apartment. Her eyes look tired—not from lack of sleep, though there's a bit of that, but from crying. Believe it or not, this is healthy for her. To take time and feel what she's feeling.]
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You don't have to tell me what happened. [ he leads in, because while his concern is there, he knows better than to pry. even without that connection, he can still do something. ] How are you feeling?
[ she said she had people, that was good. having support is good, but knowing people cared out of that realm was good, too. ]
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She walks toward him, a shaky hand coming up to push some of her hair behind her ear.]
This is going to help. I think the others are going to feel better knowing. It touched them, too. [Not as directly, not as suddenly. But it did.]
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Take some time to take care of yourself.
[ a pause, and he puts a hand on her shoulder. ]
You're usually the one taking care of everyone else.
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The words, of course, are almost identical to what her mom told her before she touched the ground. Good advice. Good advice mirroring her father, even if Clarke has never been anything like him. She's never been good enough or worthy of being compared.
But she knows her mom wanted her to be that, to be that good guy.
Her fingers curl into fists at her sides as she tries to push back the tears. But she doesn't succeed, not immediately.]
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Clarke? Hey ...
[ it wasn't what he was going for, but he's not about to back away now. ]
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She doesn't follow up with anything, though. Not yet.]
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If you need to cry, it's okay.
[ the last thing she needs is him feeling bad about her expressing her own emotions. he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief to hand her. ]
It doesn't bother me.
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She inhales deeply and exhales, trying to gather her bearings.]
Thank you. [For a lot. For bringing her food. Her hand reaches up to cover his on her shoulder, fingers squeezing around it. Her chest ignites as he can feel her emotions: grief, pain, sadness, and a well of guilt and depression. Very little that's good. But cutting through it is a sense of gratefulness and relief. She's fond of him, too, even if her way of showing it isn't as readily available for him right now.]
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there's no flinching when she touches him, but he allows the feelings to flow, even if they're overwhelming. the corners of his lips turn down a little out of concern. while he's quiet, his own emotions are more intense than he seems to come off. ]
Do you want to talk about it?
[ because despite all his jobs, he doesn't have anywhere to be! right! ]
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