( it'd be lovely to have not just been through the ringer herself; to feel a little more composed, or at least have a more practical grasp on spirit magic and be able to offer him more solid, confident assurances that this wouldn't be allowed to happen again — that she believed lightning like this couldn't strike twice. but she was, she isn't, and she doesn't.

clarke is trying her best not to flounder, but there is a pause on her end. a long one, only bookended by a swish of cheap synthetic skirt caked with drying blood and the grating sound of four legs when she reaches to pull a chair right up beside him. )

Pratt, please shut up and look at me.

( the hand rubbing his arm trails down to his wrist and gives a tug, trying to unearth his face from his palms. acquiescence or not, she continues with a quick, guttural speech. )

You absolutely should not have been the one to kill him, okay? It shouldn't have ever been you, and it's good that it wasn't. That's a burden literally only you are putting on yourself, and you're being so goddamn unfair about it. ( recognizing that pratt is more likely not to take into account the damage that would do to his own psyche, there's a very swift follow-up of: ) Can you imagine how Sharky would feel if he came back and heard it'd had to be you? He loves you, there's no way in hell he'd want that for you, he'd be devastated.