Crazy but Sweet, Sweet but Crazy

22: to give a hug

"I got this big scratch on my face because of a sharp splinter on my locker," Clare said quickly, pointing to the Band-aid on her face.

A splinter on the locker. With some amusement, Elliot wondered if it was an excuse she'd conjured on their way to her house, or if this was improvisation.

Either way, she needed to hone her acting prowess if she wanted to fool Jessica.

Then, she added, "He dropped me home because of this too, even though his ribs were injured from a game at school. So he should stay the night. Driving with the injury will hurt."

With the exact same look of determination her daughter wore- with stubbornly set jaw, the slight nod to self that signaled she wasn't going to be swayed even by the president of United States- Jessica put her hands on her hips.

"Okay, then no more discussion needs to proceed. I'll be back in a minute with all necessary- things."

There was no room for buts or it's okays. Before Elliot could say another word, Jessica deftly made her way to the second floor, and disappeared into a room, closing the door behind her.

For the few seconds of silence, Elliot looked around at the living room.

Empty plates from food they'd made together. Empty cups that used to contain scoops of ice cream probably worth five to six people's serving size. Grey's Anatomy paused, on the TV. Scattered cushions on the couch, the remote control, a stack of car and fashion magazines on the coffee table.

The smell of grilled steak still light in the air. The sound of neighbors chatting, a dog barking.

In front of the TV, were framed photos. Photos of Clare Horan at different stages of her life, sometimes alone, sometimes with Jessica and Michael Horan. Laughing at something off-camera, in the amusement park, in a graduation ceremony-

So this was how a home sounded, smelled, looked and felt. And to this home, Jessica and Clare had invited him to stay over at.

The home without Michael Horan now.

"You like me that much?" Elliot said, turning back to face her. "What're you doing?"

"I'd rather have Reneé Bailey have a sleepover at my house than have you over," Clare said, her face contorted like she'd just stepped on a cockroach. "Which says a lot."

Reneé Bailey. A wave of a strange, strong emotion swept over him. Irritation. It was irritation, and then, a wonder at his own irritation.

He had no right to be annoyed that Clare preferred- or at least said she did- Reneé Bailey's company to his.

"You're trying to get me killed, aren't you?" he muttered, sighing slightly.

To be so easily tempted by their polite suggestion to stay over, despite knowing the consequences when he returned home. As if taunting him, a throb ran up his ribs.

As she often did when frustrated, Clare pushed back her long black hair. Released from her fingers, they cascaded back onto her shoulders obediently.

"You go back to your house after sleeping out, and of all places, at my house. They're going to kill you, for sure," she said, matter-of-factly. "So the solution is simple."

She didn't skirt around the whole topic of Landon, or mince her words. But her suggestion clearly showed what she felt: sympathy.

When he'd initially showed her the bruises on his body, his strategy was quite straightforward.

Pity points. Sympathy points.

Even if he failed to get evidence of his father's guilt and Michael Horan's innocence, he'd have insurance- Clare Horan who would have sympathy for Elliot. Her sympathy would grow if he insisted on concealing what Landon did from the public.