Palamedes doesn’t spend a lot of time looking over the cluttered room, though he does note the very Clarke-ness of it all. The mess of notes and lists tacked to every flat surface echo Pal’s own cabin, where the walls have become a veritable sea of post-it notes. He knows enough about Clarke to understand the stockpiling, and to not be entirely surprised by the bits of art and color. Cam would be horrified by the chaos of it all, but Pal looks on it all with a certain amount of fondness.

“Good. Sit,” he says, even as she has already begun to do so. Anything with half a brain would be able to tell that he is retreating into professional distance as a way to cope with his own uncertainty, but he likes to think that he’s just being practical. Clarke’s well-being comes first. Feelings can come later. Or maybe he can avoid them altogether.

Ignoring the defiant tilt of Clarke’s chin, Pal checks her over. He takes her pulse, gently moves her limbs to check for pain or swelling. He puts his palms on her skull, checking for internal swelling and relieved when he finds none—why did he let her run off before?—and with only the slightest hesitation pats down her torso.

“Three bruised ribs,” he declares finally, voice calm despite his racing heart. “Your feet are healing well--no infection, thank goodness--but you should really avoid walking on them for a couple more days.” She’s also one giant bruise, but that seems obvious enough that he doesn’t bother to comment.