It's a stupid, childish, selfish desire — but Ava tugs at the end of her hair, and Clarke immediately wishes the other woman would card her fingers across her scalp and pet down any fly away strands like her mother used to. The tightly held tough exterior that sticks in place even when she's drunk off her ass on the floor of a gaudily carpeted hallway is still just covering cracks in an eighteen year old's inadequacy issues and undigested personal traumas. And sometimes she just wants to be seven years old and safe again. Just wants her mom —

Especially during hard moments, when faced with mountains of logic that she can comprehend, but still struggles to apply to her own life. Maybe Ava is just who Clarke's going to become in the next decade, when she finally exhausts every recourse she's got and is faced with every single mistake she ever made. Maybe they didn't have any right to exist, if existence was so hard-won and painful. But then — why? Why the fiercely burning drive in her chest that insists she can't stop, that she deserves to live and maybe some day even be happy? Is that just another childish notion held close to her heart or...

"Life is supposed to be about more than just survival," Clarke admits in a quiet, mumble. Nevermind that, come tomorrow, she'll return to defining herself about what she fights about and who she fights for. In this moment, it's smile or cry. It's seek out that human connection, or fall apart at the seams. And summarily she's offering —

"I'll braid your hair for you. I can do a neat princess braid, I'll show you how..."