Deprived of sources of affection mixed with a difficulty of touch, Ava both craves and pointedly avoids it. Yet the fuzzy edges of her brain can't access that instinct right now, to push away. Instead she just holds onto Clarke as the hallway continues to sway, fingers brushing at tangles she finds. She too missed her mom, misses Janet... yet another connection in her life cut off too soon.

"Probably so," she agrees, has no idea what to suggest that may be. Survival and pain is all she really knows. There's so many stupid basic skills she lacks, things nobody bothered to care to teach her because they weren't related to her purpose. And now Clarke is offering...

"Princess," she scoffs quietly, as if she's above such things. And then, even quieter. "My favorite is Rapunzel," she admits, a sort of shameful secret that she's ever bothered with fairytales. But she can relate, locked away from the rest of the world.

"Yeah, but go slow," she requests. "My hands don't always work."