She's sitting in one of the tents they set up somewhere between the grounders' camp and Mount Weather, waiting to hear back from Bellamy. The bandages covering her cuts chafe her skin and a particular deep one along her ribs stings more than the others. She had planned to ignore it, but one of the adults saw her wince at minor movements and told her to sit down somewhere while they got someone to take a look at it.
Her hands are a little bit shaky when she pulls up her shirt to look at the cuts herself and the bandages she can see are stained with blood. She moves her hand to take them off as the front of the tent opens and someone slips inside. Clarke.
She drops her hands, fumbling to pull her shirt down again, not sure how to look at her. She understands why Clarke did it, somewhere deep down she's even thankful, but something keeps her from saying that out loud.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice is a not as cold as she intends it to be and she hopes the waver in it wasn't obvious. "My mother's busy with other... injuries, so she sent me," Clarke says, unfazed and almost bored. Almost. "Let's just get this over with. Take your shirt off."
She wants to look at Clarke with narrowed eyes or make a snide comment, but all she manages to to do is pull off her shirt with a wince that she tries to suppress. She closes her eyes and Clarke takes off the bandages around her ribcage carefully, cold fingers grazing her skin.
Taking shallow breaths, she swallows against whatever it is that keeps her from speaking, but she can't find words either way. "This one," Clarke says, lightly dragging her finger next to the cut, "is not healing properly. It's too deep, I'll have to stitch it up."
Her eyes open and she nods, watching Clarke pull out a sewing kit from a small bag. "Lie down," Clarke says with an almost absent voice and she does, resting her head on a makeshift pillow and staring at the tent's ceiling.
Cold hands settle on her ribs again and she bites her lip to stop a pained groan when the needle pierces her skin. She balls her hands, unwilling to admit to anymore pain. Her gaze shifts from the ceiling to a head of blonde curls surrounding a face etched with concentration. Something twists inside her, the lump in her throat growing anew.
When Clarke is finished, she tells her to stand up again, grabbing new bandages to wrap them around her mid. Goosebumps flare up her neck and she briefly wonders why, before lifting her hand to Clarke's chin.
Clarke flinches back slightly, but her hand stays on her face when their eyes meet. She touches the bruised skin around Clarke's eye lightly, purple and green, and she swallows her pride, forgets her stubbornness. "I'm sorry," she whispers into the space between them, and Clarke's cold eyes melt slowly.
She wants to say more, that she's glad Finn wasn't tortured to death, that Clarke did the right thing, that she wishes she didn't have to do it, but no words make it past her lips. Instead, she finds herself in a hug, Clarke's arms around her ribcage, carefully avoiding wounds, her face pressed into a bare shoulder.
It's a short hug, but she swears she feels one, two, three tears fall onto her shoulder and a heartbeat pounding in time with her own. Clarke pulls back and hands the shirt to her, gathering her things and with a small smile and a quiet "Let me know if it's not getting better.", she leaves the tent.
Releasing a shattered breath, Raven stays there, looking after her.