[young professionals au PART 1: clarke is a fourth year resident in cardiothoracic surgery on her rotation in the ER when lexa, a young foreign diplomat, breaks her arm and needs a cast.or: they’ve both been through wars, and sometimes second love has really great timing. // for siimulacra bc i rly like her & she liked this au // a03]
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make your way through my tears & i’ll relax (there’s a wave of grace)
.
there’s a light in my skin that’s ben dimmed / imma dig you up & give you what i took / pull you up & tuck you in & make you look / imma smooth your shoulders down & calm what’s shook / it was all forlorn if only for a season
—purity ring, ‘repetition’
//
Your interns are frequently quite incompetent, so you’re not actually surprised when you get a page just before you’re about to take a nap to come to the ER and consult on a fractured wrist. And you love your job—you really do; you love using your hands and your brain and your care to help people get better—but sometimes you really, really hate your job.
Mostly because this is the 45th hour of your 48 hour shift, and you’re exhausted, because you just got a new year of interns and because the ER is probably the most grueling surgical residency rotation. You get some great surgeries, sure, but you’re a fourth year resident specializing in cardio-thoracic surgery, so sometimes you just really really want sleep.
But you tug on your running shoes and rub your eyes, don’t bother to shrug into your lab coat because you’d gotten blood on it earlier and, besides, you’re Clarke Griffin and everyone knows you around here anyway.
You down some lukewarm coffee and stifle a yawn when you’re in the elevator, and soon you’re hurrying through the ER to one of the small, private trauma rooms; you wonder why one of your interns had put a broken arm in there, but you’re too tired to question it.
You knock quickly on the door before opening it, and it kind of pisses you off when your patient—her arm in a sling—glances up at, holds up her index finger, and continues talking on her phone in some rapid language you don’t know.
You wait for about half a minute before she hands up and puts down her phone, and you’re expecting some sort of apology, but she just kind of stares at you. She’s pretty—really, really pretty, you think; thin with a sharp face, eyes that float between green and grey. Her blouse is rolled up to above her elbow, and it looks expensive, and for some reason this only makes her more attractive. When you pull out her chart and glance at it quickly you notice that she’s your age—28, and you’re irrationally not so tired anymore.
You put down the chart on the edge of her bed and step toward her. “Hi, I’m Dr. Griffin, one of the surgical residents here.”
“Lexa,” she says. Her voice is higher and softer than you’d imagined. It’s nice.
“I’m just going to take a look at your arm,” you say, and she nods and offers it toward you with a grimace.
“Listen,” she says while you’re taking her sling off, “I have a very important bill that I have closing remarks on in general assembly in—” she glances down at her watch—“two hours and forty-seven minutes, so if you could just put a cast or splint or something on this and not require surgery, that would be ideal.”
You’re torn between laughing and rolling your eyes, because, general assembly and passing bills or whatever important things you assume those are, you wouldn’t send away someone with a fracture that required surgery.
But, “Well,” you say after looking at her arm and the X-rays on the computer monitor while she watches you carefully, “it looks like you’re in luck today, because my intern was just being cautious when they called me to consult, because you have a pretty simple fracture.”
“Great,” she says, and her phone rings again.
She answers it and you’re about to say something about there being a no phones policy, because this is ridiculous, but she bites out the fastest, most aggressive sentence in the same unfamiliar language she was speaking earlier before hanging up and looking at you almost apologetically.
“This was not ideal timing for me, Dr. Griffin.”
You laugh a little. You check your pager quickly—you only have an hour left of your shift and things don’t seem too frantic, so you say, “I’ll make you a deal—I’ll put your cast on myself if you promise to take it easy for the next few days.”
She tilts her head. “And why would you putting my cast on be more beneficial than someone else?”
You clench your jaw, because this isn’t the first time this has happened: you look young; you’re kind of small, blonde hair, blue eyes, and, fine, you’re pretty, and it’s not unfrequent for people to doubt you.
“I’m the top surgical resident in my program,” you say, “and otherwise it’ll be the same intern who was here earlier.”
Lexa almost cracks a smile, and she nods. “This is a deal I can agree upon, then.”
You do roll your eyes this time and then go to gather the supplies you need. Once you have everything set up on a tray, you take her arm again. You feel over it softly, just to make sure your intern set the fracture properly—the X-ray looks clean and clinical, but it can’t hurt to be certain. Plus, Lexa’s skin is soft, so there’s that.
The reduction seems fine, as you’d thought, and when you take back your hands you notice that her eyes had briefly fluttered closed. You have no idea whether or not Lexa is queer, or in a relationship, or anything, but you’ve been up for, like, twenty-nine hours, so whatever. She’s beautiful.
She swallows and then looks at you intently.
“What color do you want for your cast?”
Without skipping a beat, she says, “Do you have black?”
You laugh. “Yep.”
“I will have that, then. Thank you.”
You try to hide a smile, because you know she’s not trying to be cute, but she kind of is. She doesn’t have an accent but her English is incredibly formal, and you’d heard her speaking something else. You pride yourself on your bedside manner, among other things, and you like talking to her anyway, so you ask, “Are you from the United States?”
She shakes her head. “No. I am my country’s ambassador, though, so I’ve lived here for the past seven months.”
You nod and apologize quietly when she winces as you start to wrap your arm, even though you’re being as gentle as possible. “So, ambassador, huh? What does that entail?”
“A lot of commanding everyone,” she says very seriously, and you kind of want to laugh again. “As well as law school, I suppose.”
“You’re young for all of that neat stuff,” you say.
She glares. “So are you, Dr. Griffin, for being a surgeon.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, and she deflates a little.
“I am sorry,” she says. “Anxiety and pain are not beneficial for me, as it turns out.”
You laugh. “I can tell you that they’re not beneficial for anyone.”
She smiles. “Do you like this job, Dr. Griffin?”
You take a deep breath, because it’s a complicated answer. “Do you like your job?”
“I like helping my people,” she says without any hesitancy. “My job is means to an end.”
You take a deep breath because no one has ever really expressed that feeling quite like that before. “Yeah, I get that.”
You finish up after a few more minutes of comfortable quiet, and then you tell Lexa to flex her fingers, make sure she has proper circulation. She tells you that she’s fine, but you still write her a prescription for pain meds while she tries to put a blazer back on.
She frowns when she spots a big stain of what you’re pretty sure is falafel on one of the sides, and she looks up at you and says, “I was hurrying to get lunch and forgot napkins, so I went back to get some and tripped going up the steps. My arm, rather than my face, broke my fall, but my lunch was ruined in the process.”
She deadpans the whole thing and you’re not sure if it’s supposed to be funny—which, apparently, is kind of Lexa’s thing—so you bite your lip to fight a smile and say, “I’m sorry, that sucks.”
“So now I am hungry and injured and with a ruined blazer.”
She’s grumpy, and it’s cute, and it’s been four years; you have no idea whether or not Lexa is into you at all; you don’t know, like, anything about her in general, but why not?
“If you need, I, um—I can lend you my blazer?”
She stares at you, probably because you’re in scrubs and have no blazer with you.
“I mean, we’re close enough to the same size and it’s black; it’s just in my locker.”
“I could not possibly ask you to do that.”
You shrug. “Really, it’s fine. I’m just going home after this, I don’t need it for anything tonight. You have some—general assembly?”
She smiles a little and it’s lovely.
“I’m offering,” you say.
She sighs. “Fine,” she says. “That would be helpful. Thank you, Dr. Griffin.”
“Cool, great,” you say. “Well, you can just head out to the lobby to sign your discharge papers and I’ll go grab it, okay? It’ll just take a minute.”
“Okay,” she says.
“Awesome.” You hurry to your locker and Bellamy raises a brow at you when you clumsily yank your locker open. He’s changing into scrubs to start his shift.
“What’s got you so excited?”
You put the hanger back with slightly less enthusiasm. “I, uh—there’s a girl, well, not a girl, she’s my age, and she just needs to borrow it.”
He grins. “That’s my girl.”
You roll your eyes and hurry out with a wave, and you hear his laugh boom after you.
You smile despite yourself, because Bellamy is special to you, and he makes you happy a lot of the time, and then spot Lexa waiting in a chair in the lobby. She has perfect posture but you still think she’s kind of cute. You hold the blazer up and she gives you a flash of a smile before she stands. You hold it open and help her put it on; it’s a little big on the shoulders, but it’s generally fine. When she turns around, you look anywhere but her very direct gaze and fumble with her sling, grazing your hand over the soft skin on the back of her neck.
You step back and she says, “Thank you. Should I return this to you here? I’ll have it cleaned.”
She smells nice and you almost want to tell her that you’d rather she didn’t, but you shrug. “My shift is over soon and I have tomorrow off so do you have time to get lunch?”
“I do,” she says.
“Great,” you say, and then fumble around your front pocket for a pen and scribble down your number on a little pad of paper, then hand it to her. “Text or call me or whatever and we can pick a place.”
“Okay.”
“Super,” you say, and her eyes are soft.
“Hopefully lunch tomorrow goes better than today,” she says. You try not to laugh, and she smiles and grazes her hand along your forearm for a flash of a second, but it still sends tingles down your spine. “It’s a joke, Dr. Griffin. I will see you tomorrow.”
She turns to go and you kind of just stand there for a second, and, really, it’s not the worst end to a shift.
//
Lexa (7:00 am): Hello. Do you have a restaurant in mind for lunch today?
Dr. Clarke Griffin (9:54 am): um, do you know the cafe near the park
Lexa (9:55 am): I believe there are a few cafes near the park.
Dr. Clarke Griffin (10:03 am): lol fair enough
Dr. Clarke Griffin (10:03 am): ok it’s called the grove have you been there
Lexa (10:03 am): I have not.
Dr. Clarke Griffin (10:32 am): well it’s rly good so does that sound okay?
Lexa (10:33 am): Yes, that is fine with me.
Dr. Clarke Griffin (10:37 am): super, how’s noon
Lexa (10:37 am): Noon is amenable.
Dr. Clarke Griffin (10:38): seeeee you there :)
//
Maybe lunch with Clarke Griffin, M.D., Fourth Year Cardio-Thoracic Surgical Resident is not the best idea, but your closing remarks were excellent and you essentially have the day off unless there’s a crisis, so you have Gustus pick up your dry cleaning and make sure Dr. Griffin’s blazer is in order before debating what you should wear. The reviews on “the grove” on Yelp seemed to suggest it was somewhat casual, but Dr. Griffin is quite beautiful, and you should not care, but you do.
You groan and get out a pair of jeans and a nice—but casual—blouse and one of your favorite scarves. It’s warm, but there is always a chance here, you’ve discovered through a few unfortunate days, it could get cold or rain without much warning. You struggle a little to put everything on, because your arm really does still hurt, but
You put on a small amount of makeup—mascara and sheer lipgloss—and then try to tame your hair, but you give up because it is your day off, after all. When you walk downstairs, Gustus is sitting at the kitchen island, reading the paper. He smiles when he sees you and says, “You look nice.”
You roll your eyes.
He stands. “Do you want an escort today?”
You shake your head. “You may have the day off today, although if you want to drive me, I would appreciate that.”
He nods and holds up your sling and you sigh when he doesn’t put it down, letting him put it around your shoulder gently and getting your arm situated.
“Your date will appreciate you following her directions.”
“She is not my date,” you say. “This is not a date, Gustus.”
He starts walking toward the garage and you follow. “Of course,” he says, “whatever you say.”
//
Lunch had been, well, extremely pleasant. Clarke—because Dr. Griffin reminds her of her mother, she’d told you with a laugh tinged with some heaviness—was very beautiful, you think, even though maybe you shouldn’t: her hair was golden and wavy; her eyes were bright. She was wearing a long, flowing skirt and a tank top and her arms were toned and fair.
And you had talked about your jobs, about some fun hobbies Clarke has. You had both kind of automatically stayed away from talking about families, which seemed natural to you. But you had talked about medical school and law school and where you’re from, and Clarke had listened very intently, leaning forward a little bit in her seat and asking thoughtful questions.
She’s, well, lovely, and you haven’t felt anything near this since you were eighteen, since Costia. But Clarke is different, and you have been alone for ten years, and things are different.
She had invited you to a little party she was throwing for one of her friends who was visiting, and you had agreed, probably too quickly. But you could smell her perfume in the breeze, and she had grinned when you ordered a burger and fries; she had opted for a salad.
It might be dangerous, and you know this, but you think you might want to kiss her sometime, and you have not had a good drink with anyone but Gustus in years.
//
You’d definitely said Lexa could bring a date or friends or whatever—god knows who your friends are bringing, so it doesn’t really matter at this point—but you weren’t expecting her to show up a few minutes late with a huge guy with her, covered in tattoos and with a beard and man bun.
She smiles and hands you a really ornate bottle of something and says, “This is homemade vodka from Russia.”
“Wow,” you say, “thanks.”
She nods and you lead them inside. So far Octavia and Bellamy had only managed to start setting up shots for you to take together, and Lexa looks like she’s a little overwhelmed.
“Do you want a beer?” you ask, and she and her huge man friend or whatever both nod.
You head toward your kitchen—your apartment is nice and open; you have a substantial trust fund and you try not to use it for much, but you really like your place.
Raven and Wick brought a bunch of microbrewery stuff, and you open your fridge and kind of gesture around. Lexa gets a stout and an IPA and hands the stout to the man, who just opens the top with his hand. Lexa smiles briefly when he hands it back to her and takes his, and then she turns to you.
“This is Gustus,” she says.
“Hi,” you say and shake his offered hand. “Are you Lexa’s—uh—boyfriend?”
Lexa blushes, and she’s wearing a flannel shirt-dress that’s probably too short to actually be considered an actual dress, and it’s unbuttoned far enough down her chest that you have to fight to not look at her boobs, so you kind of really hope he’s not her boyfriend.
“He’s my bodyguard,” Lexa says, and you laugh a little before you realize neither of them seem to be joking.
“Wait—really?”
They both nod.
“I’m just here as a friend tonight, though,” he says. “Lexa actually does like my company on occasion.”
She stares at him for a second before turning to you and then looking around your apartment, which is now kind of full, but not too crowded.
Octavia hurries over to you, glances at Gustus and Lexa, and then smiles at you amusedly.
“Come on, princess,” she says, “Bell’s got the shots all ready.”
You sigh. “Lexa and Gustus, this is Octavia, the guest of honor.” Octavia nods and then tugs on your hand. “And you’re welcome to join us for—”
“Tequila shots,” Octavia says.
“Tequila shots, then,” you say.
There’s a little bit of a flash of a challenge in Lexa’s eyes at that, and she’s just all kinds of sexy, because she has dark makeup on the lids of her eyes and her hair is wild, and her eyes are this unnamable color between grey and green.
“I’m driving tonight,” Gustus says, “but Lexa loves tequila.”
She doesn’t acknowledge that, only walks calmly toward the table and takes an offered shot from Bellamy with a nod.
Octavia elbows you with a grin and whispers, “Hot as fuck,” in your ear.
You shush her and take your own shot, ready your salt and lime, and toast, with everyone else, to Octavia being here in one piece. Lexa does her shot clean, quickly, without making any short of grimace at all. Raven—who you’re pretty sure has already had a beer or two, but she’d been having a tough week, so you understand—puts up her hand to give Lexa a high five, and it takes Lexa a second or two to slap her hand lightly, but she smiles a little when Raven cheers.
You all do two more shots and then Octavia and Lincoln go to put on some music, and Lexa looks a little relieved when it’s not too loud. She looks back over at Gustus, who is currently talking with some girl you think Bellamy brought, and Lexa’s hesitant but less stiff than normal. You touch the small of her back and she jumps a little.
“Sorry,” you say.
She shakes her head. “It’s fine, Clarke.”
“Do you want to sit down?”
“Can I make you a drink first?”
“Yeah,” you say, “sure. I’ll just be on the couch.”
She nods and you go and squeeze in next to Raven, who looks at you with a small smile, even though you can tell she’s fighting some pain. You try not to think about that night, how you knew she was dying, how much pain she was in, how you tried so hard to not have to leave her behind. How she’d screamed and screamed under your hands.
She takes one now, though, and squeezes gently. You look away from her brace where you were probably staring—but she doesn’t get mad when you zone out—and you take a deep breath.
“You okay, princess?” she checks quietly.
“Yeah.”
“Good,” she says, glancing up at Lexa, who is very seriously finishing up two drinks, “because Lexa is sexy.”
“God,” you say, “can you all just stop saying that?”
Raven laughs when Octavia plops down on Raven’s other side and leans toward you. “Saying what?”
“That Clarke wants to bang Lexa,” Raven says, which is predictably right when Lexa is walking over to you with drinks.
Either she doesn’t hear you or she pretends not to—you’re thankful for her lack of reaction either way—and hands you your drink before sitting down on your other side. It’s kind of a tight fit, with the four of you all packed into your couch, and Octavia takes one look at how hard Lexa’s trying to keep a respectable distance away from you before she stands and tugs your ottoman in front of the three of you and sits on it instead. Lexa relaxes a little but her thigh still grazes yours, and you’re wearing a skirt, and you try not to think about the warm smoothness of her skin.
“Octavia,” Lexa says, and Octavia nods, “this party is in your honor?”
Octavia grins. “Yep. I’m on leave and Clarke always throws a party when I manage to come back in one piece, even if it’s just for, like, two weeks.”
You frown and take a gulp of whatever Lexa made you, which is both strong and really, really good.
“You are a soldier?” Lexa asks.
Octavia shrugs. “I’m a pilot, but, yeah, that too. It’s how we all know each other.”
Lexa looks to you and then Raven, and there’s a hint of something ineffable in her eyes. You wish they wouldn’t talk about it tonight, but they always do, because that’s why you even really have these parties in the first place. And besides, Lexa’s in politics, so this isn’t the first time she’s heard about war, you’re sure.
Raven pats your leg and then grabs her cane and stands. Lexa doesn’t move a muscle to help her—you and Octavia learned a long time ago that Raven could do just fine on her own—and it kind of makes you weirdly happy that Lexa sensed that too. Raven limps—but very quickly—to your mantle and grabs your framed picture there, and Octavia grins when Raven sits down on the arm of the couch and puts it in front of Lexa.
“Clarke was a medic,” Raven says. “For some reason, princess here volunteered just after she graduated from medical school.”
Lexa smiles slightly at the picture. It’s one of your favorites, even though it’s bittersweet. Raven is laughing, holding two thumbs up, balanced on some crutches, Wick kissing the top of her head. Bellamy has one arm slung over Octavia’s shoulder. Lincoln looks very serious if Finn wasn’t holding up bunny ears with his fingers behind his head. Finn’s other arm is wrapped around your waist. You’re all in various combat gear except for Raven, because she was still recovering, and Finn, because he was a journalist, and he didn’t ever fight.
“My brother, Bellamy,” Octavia says and leans forward to point to him, “joined as a medic the day after he heard I did. Protective guy.”
Lexa nods.
“And that’s Lincoln,” Raven says, “Octavia’s boyfriend. And he looks scary as fuck, but he’s totally not.”
Octavia laughs loudly—she’s definitely drunk—and says, “Do not let him hear you say that.”
“He knows we all know that secret anyway,” you say.
“Honestly, O,” Raven says, “he’s a sap.”
Octavia shrugs. “Okay, Lexa. This is Wick, Raven’s boyfriend. He’s around here somewhere and he’s even worse than Lincoln.”
“No objections here,” Raven says, and Octavia gives her a high five. “Anyway,” Raven continues, and Lexa nods, “I joined as a mechanic, but I got my engineering degree when I came back.”
“She’s a legitimate rocket scientist,” you say.
“That’s very admirable,” Lexa says. She doesn’t ask anything at all about the context of the picture, what happened to Raven, and you start to wonder if Lexa’s been through more of this first hand than you’d thought.
“Thanks,” Raven says.
“Of course,” Lexa says.
Octavia gets a little quieter and says, “That’s Finn. He was a journalist.”
Lexa swallows—the past tense is always still painful for you to hear, but it’s just a dull ache now, nothing that makes your hands shake. If Lexa purposely leans into you a little bit, she pretends to make nothing of it, but you appreciate it.
“O,” Raven says, smiling again, “why don’t you have the honor of telling Lexa why Clarke’s face is busted up in this picture. It is your party tonight, after all.”
Lexa’s eyes dance at your exasperated huff and Octavia’s excited clap, and this is really strong alcohol, but she’s beautiful.
“Well,” Octavia says, “Clarke—you know, she’s selfless and always keeping an eye on everyone else. I mean, she was your doctor, so you know a little bit.”
“Somewhat,” Lexa says, lifting her casted wrist a little.
“So, we were all meeting up to see Raven in the medical tent,” Octavia says.
“I got shot in the spine,” Raven says, “just for context.”
She says it so evenly, so calmly, that you breathe out a relieved sigh, and Lexa looks at Raven seriously and nods once.
“Yeah, so, Raven was getting better and getting ready to get sent home, so we were kind of having a little goodbye send off thing, right? And Clarke was coming back from some training exercises which ran a little late, so she was hurrying, and—Clarke,” she says, and you glare at her, “correct me if I get this wrong, but you tripped over a rock, right?”
“It was hard to see,” you grumble, and Lexa almost laughs.
“So we’re in the middle of this warzone, you know, and Clarke comes stumbling into the medical tent, broken nose and black eye and everything, and we’re all so worried, but she fell over a rock that was, like, five feet away.”
The loveliest laugh comes out of Lexa’s mouth—it’s light and soft, and you have the overwhelming urge to kiss her cheek.
You don’t—you’re twenty-eight and you certainly had your impulsive party years in university—but you’re happy when she turns to you. “Your service record must have been impeccable.”
You end up giving in to Octavia’s fond smile and Raven ruffling your hair and laugh in defeat. “Yeah, yeah.”
“You know we love you, princess,” Raven says, and Octavia pats your leg; you do know, and you feel lucky.
//
You don’t know how it happens, really, but sometime after a few people do body shots off of Octavia and Clarke plays a song called “Feeling Myself” on her guitar—and raps, which was far too endearing—you end up on Clarke’s balcony with just Clarke. She’s beautiful—she’s been beautiful all night—and you’ve had a significant amount of alcohol to drink, so your judgement about some things is impaired, but not that.
“How long were you there?”
“Two years,” she says quietly, staring up at the sky, then back down at the drink in her hands. “Which was four years ago. Sometimes it still feels close, though.”
You nod. “I served for my country for two years as well.”
She turns to you. “You did?”
“For my position in our government, where I am from, it’s—” suddenly, you only remember the word in Trigedasleng, and you know your accent has been peeking out all night anyway, but—“um, we have to, I had to.”
“A requirement,” Clarke supplies with a small smile.
“Yes,” you say, “a requirement. When I was eighteen, until I was twenty,” you say. “I attended university after, then law school.”
She nods, and you’re quiet for a few minutes. You were born from the earth, you think, with your always-tanned skin, your dark hair, your eyes the color of forest stones—but if you are from the earth Clarke is from the sky, all endless blues and the glimmer of gold in her hair.
After a while, she suddenly asks, “How many languages do you speak?”
“Thirteen,” you say.
“Holy shit.”
“It was a focus in my schooling.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Fuck. That’s amazing.”
You shrug. “It serves its purpose well now.”
She turns toward you and leans on the railing. She’s just a little shorter than you, and you try to focus on her eyes—not her lips.
“Octavia hasn’t ever really come home since we first went out there,” she says very softly. “She just keeps redeploying.”
“That’s very brave,” you say.
“Yeah,” Clarke says. “Infuriating, but brave.”
You smile a little and put your hand on her arm. You were going to take it away, but she leans into your touch.
“Lexa?”
“Yes, Clarke?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like rap?”
You laugh—actually laugh—because she is very earnest. “Sure.”
Clarke’s bright smile makes your stomach clench a little bit, but she only nods. You wait for her to do something, but she just kind of stands there.
“Did you invite me here tonight to ask me that?”
“No,” she says. “I invited you here because I like you as a human being.”
“Okay.”
“But it doesn’t hurt, I guess.”
You smile and she looks at your lips and you haven’t cared about kissing someone for years, so when you lean forward you are actually nervous.
When you kiss Clarke, she is soft and she tastes like vodka and lime and lipstick. You kiss her slowly, like you are asking for permission—and you are—but she kisses you back. You turn your head and go to kiss her again but you feel her back up, and you put your hands down from where they’d tangled in her hair.
It hurts more than you would ever care to admit, rubs on a scabbed wound somewhere in the recesses of your middle that has never quite turned into a scar.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I want to kiss you—I really like you, Lexa.”
You search her face for some sign of pity, but she’s just open and honest.
“It’s just—tonight is a lot of weird memories for me, and I’m drunk, and—Finn, the guy in the photo?”
You nod.
“He was my boyfriend and he was killed, and—”
She blows out a puff of air and tips her head back, and you’re concerned she might start crying.
“It’s okay,” you say, and your voice is slurred and soft and not at all like you’re used to.
She swallows and sniffles once. “I just can’t do anything tonight.”
“That’s fine,” you say.
“Yeah?”
You nod, and she sighs, then takes your hand and laces your fingers before leaning against the railing again.
“I want to, though, don’t take this the wrong way.”
You laugh a little and squeeze her hand. “Okay.”
You watch her look out at the lights of the city for a little while, because the noise of the party seems like it would be too much right now.
“I lost someone too,” you say.
Clarke doesn’t move, but you know she’s listening.
You never ever talk about this, but Clarke makes you feel safe. “Her name was Costia. We were young. She was killed by war too, because she was mine.”
“I’m sorry,” Clarke says, very softly, nothing else, no questions, and turns to face you.
“I thought I’d never get over the pain,” you say, “but I did.”
Clarke nods. “I know—with Finn, it’s just sometimes, some nights, you know—and it’s not you,” she says, “you actually don’t remind me of him at all.”
You laugh. “Do I take that as a compliment?”
She nods with a soft smile.
“Good,” you say, and she bumps into your side a little bit. It’s nice to just be with her, you think, and you do not care for many people in the world, and you do not know if you trust anyone, but Clarke might be different.
You kiss her shoulder gently when she laughs as Raven opens the door and says, “Since you’re not fucking, can you come inside so we can do toasts and all of that shit?”
Clarke rests her hand at the small of your back as you go inside, and when you turn around to sneak one last glance of her, you try to memorize how she looks like the stars, that she could’ve fallen from the sky.
//
Your head is fucking pounding when you wake up smushed into Bellamy’s chest on your bed, and you groan when he laughs lightly.
“Morning, princess.”
You just tuck your head back into his t-shirt and try to not feel the lurch in your stomach. “What the fuck did I drink?”
“A significant amount of homemade vodka, I think.”
“Fuck me,” you grumble, and he laughs.
“I think you’d rather Lexa do that.”
“Oh god, Lexa.” You lift your head. “Do you know if I said anything weird?”
“No, we pulled you away before you got too drunk,” he says. “But she did kiss you, I’m pretty sure.”
You think back and you do remember that. “She did,” you say, and it makes your chest feel warm and your head ache just a little less.
“How do you feel about that?”
“It was nice,” you say, and you feel yourself blush. “Really nice, actually. But last night was—it’s weird for all of us, you know?”
“I know.”
You sigh and sit up and then kind of immediately regret, and Bellamy smiles sympathetically. “So, you know, if I didn’t fuck things up too bad last night, maybe I’ll kiss her again soon.”
“I would be very happy for you, despite the fact that she is sometimes mildly terrifying.”
“I know,” you say, and he laughs and gets up from bed and holds out his hand.
“How about you take a shower and I’ll run to get some bagels and coffee.”
“Deal,” you say.
“Oh,” he says as you’re heading to the bathroom.
“Yeah?”
“Lexa went home safe with Gustus last night, just so you know. I made sure, because she was pretty much as wasted as you.”
You smile. “Thanks, Bell.”
He nods and shoos you into the bathroom.
Your heart aches a little, because you wonder if you’re actually ready; it’s been four years, but what happened there hasn’t stopped haunting you, not really, not on bad days.
But Lexa is guarded and intense and she’s been hurt too, so you think that maybe she’ll understand the nightmares and the feeling that sometimes there’s still his blood on your hands.
There never was, and you know that, but you still try to save everyone else anyway.
//
You would be perfectly content to stay under your duvet for the entire day, because, for once, you got to cancel to irrelevant meetings and not feel guilty about it.
You feel different, you decide—a different that is good, probably, because you had wanted to kiss Clarke out of something more than just a desire for physical pleasure, more than just, well, fucking.
And you understand, really—in most ways, you are proud of Clarke, and a little relieved, because you would not want to start something with someone you could grow to care for on a night soaked in Costia’s blood.
You groan when you hear Indra come into your room—technically, you suppose, she is your assistant, but she is far to important and intimidating to actually be considered such—and says, “It would be beneficial if you at least moved today, Commander.”
You poke your head out from under the duvet and you swear that Indra might laugh, but she refrains. She spoke in English, which means she’s not too serious; she only says, “There is breakfast prepared in the kitchen,” before turning and walking purposefully out of the room.
You sigh and groan a few times—purely for your own benefit—before crawling out from under your duvet. You kind of wish you didn’t immediately, because your head hurts and you might vomit, but you walk to your bathroom and don’t bother to turn on the lights. You shower for an indeterminate amount of time—usually you have a tight schedule and routine, but you’re off today—before you wash and condition your hair and then dry off. You braid your hair because you don’t have the energy to really do much more than that, then put on some sweatpants and a t-shirt and make your way downstairs.
There is breakfast—eggs and ham and hashbrowns, which makes you smile, because Gustus cooks the best breakfast, but not very often, because he’s probably busier than you are, all things considered.
You load some of everything onto your plate and sit at the counter. Gustus walks in a few minutes later and brews you a cup of coffee, then sits down across from you.
“How are you feeling?”
You chew for a moment before shrugging. “Like I drank half a bottle of your vodka last night.”
He smiles slightly. “Well, you did.”
You nod and drench your pancakes in more syrup.
“Clarke seems to think of you fondly,” he says after a few minutes.
You roll your eyes. “I kissed her, okay?”
He grins, and you haven’t felt this young in a long time. You’re probably still a little drunk, come to think of it. He stands and turns to go, you assume, go over his security team’s plans for the week, but he swivels on his heel and knocks his knuckles against the counter twice before saying, “For whatever it is worth, Heda, I believe you deserve good things.”
You deflate a little; you feel sick and hungry and very emotional and exhausted all at once. It isn’t easy to accept, but Gustus probably knows you better than anyone, so you say, “Thank you, Gustus.” Then, “That will be all.”
He nods and takes his leave.
//
This really hadn’t been your plan, but whatever.
“Hey,” you say, wearily sitting down on a bench in the large, open lobby when Lexa picks up on the second ring.
“Hello, Clarke,” she says.
It’s been three days since she kissed you, and you’d texted, but she’s a kind of a—charmingly—shitty texter and and then you’d had a shift and she’d had whatever important meetings or something she does, so you haven’t gotten to see her.
“It is late,” she says. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah,” you say, even though you lean forward and press the heel of your hand into your eyes so you don’t cry. You hope she doesn’t hear the hitch in your breath when you say, “Everything’s fine, I just—“
You don’t really know how to finish that sentence.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Clarke?”
“I—I’m just tired,” you say. “I just finished a shift.”
“Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t sound like she believes you. She’s a politician and you’re a terrible liar, so you think that’s probably to be expected. “Do you have plans?”
She’s kinder than she wants people to think, you know, and you’re pretty sure she doesn’t want to care about people, but she does. “No, I was just going to go home, I guess.”
She’s quiet for a few moments before she says, “Gustus ordered far too much Indian food tonight, if you would like to have some at my house.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” she says simply.
You smile—you thought you’d have had to make pretty much every first move, but apparently not. “Do you have anything vegetarian?”
You can almost feel Lexa pulling a face before she says, “Unfortunately, the majority of what Gustus picked up is vegan.”
You laugh. “Awesome. Text me your address, then, and I’ll head over.”
“Okay,” she says. “Um—there are many guards, but I will inform them all you will be coming. Your nationality is American, yes?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
You hear her fight a laugh and then she says, “Excellent. I will see you soon, then.”
You say quick goodbyes and then grab your bag from the locker room; you check to make sure Jasper and Monty haven’t killed anyone in the ten minutes it took for you to call Lexa and clock out—they’re competent interns but they’re interns.
Luckily, everything seems fine, so you grab your purse and debate swinging by your place for some clothes, but you’d already changed your scrubs after surgery, and, well, Lexa’s already seen you in scrubs, so you know she won’t care.
So you put in her address on her phone and follow your GPS and start laughing a little when you drive by a few very obvious foreign embassies until you get to her address. You roll down your window at a big gatehouse and give them your driver’s license. The guard looks and smiles a little, opens the gate and waves you through.
Apparently, Lexa lives in a really, really big house, and you park your car in front of it because you don’t really know if there’s, like, a parking lot or something, but when you get out she opens the front door with a little smile before you can even knock.
She’s in leggings and a big cardigan over a white tshirt, and her hair is down and tumbling down over her shoulder; she doesn’t have any makeup on and you think she’s probably the most beautiful you’ve ever seen her.
You move to give her a hug in habit—you got in the habit of hugging people you care about as often as you can when you were a medic—and she stiffens for a moment and you feel bad; you try to remind yourself to ask, but sometimes you forget. But then her body softens and she pulls you tight to her, fits her face into the crook of your shoulder for a few seconds.
“Hi,” you say when you let her go.
“Hello, Clarke,” she says, then gestures for you to go inside.
“Wow,” you say, glancing around an actual marble foyer, complete with a chandelier and two large, mirroring staircases, “sweet place.”
She looks at you critically for a second before she smiles a little. “It is not actually mine, but it is quite comfortable.”
You follow her into her kitchen and smile when you see that she’s already laid out a lot of food and two plates with some very ornate looking chopsticks on top of napkins beside them.
“I have wine and beer and a selection of harder liquor if you would like.” Her words start to pour out a little faster, like she’s nervous, and it’s cute; it makes your heart feel a little lighter. “I did not know if you have work tomorrow, or plans in general? But sometimes after my more—trying days, I do indulge.”
You laugh a little and say, “Beer sounds great.”
She nods and takes off her sweater—her cheeks had tinged pink when she’d gone on her little ramble—and you see a half-sleeve tattoo that covers the upper half of her right arm. It’s unbelievably sexy, for some reason, and very unexpected, but that really shouldn’t be your priority right now, because you’ve done the whole comfort sex thing and it’s not really worked out for you well. Plus, you like Lexa a lot, and she’s standing in front of you with a beer held out a little shyly, like this is all unfamiliar for her too—to actually let herself care about someone.
“Thank you, Lexa.”
She nods solemnly and sits next to you, not flinching away when your hands graze as you reach for some food.
//
Clarke does not work tomorrow but you do, but you can’t help but nod when she suggests some red wine after you’ve both had two beers. You move to your couch and she helps you turn on your television and flicks to a program about seals; you don’t ever use your television, but you don’t mind.
Clarke sits quietly for a few moments, glancing over at your tattoo, and she’s less vibrant than normal, so you know that she had had a bad day. You know she has been through war and lost someone—that much you understand—and sometimes you wish you had someone that would listen to your sadness. You have Anya and Gustus, but Anya lives far away and you don’t get to be tender with her, not really; Gustus has a professional responsibility to you.
But you are none of those things to Clarke, so you softly say, “I got this tattoo when I was seventeen, just before I went to war.” She turns to you, an eyebrow raised. She nods, so you continue. “They are like rites of passage in my culture, so I have more, but this will most likely always be my favorite.”
You think of Costia, how she’d helped you decide—you had no real choice in the matter, but it made you feel better to pretend you did sometimes—how she’d let you crush her hand while you got the whole thing done in one sitting; how she’d cared for it and had made sure it healed before you want off to war.
Clarke nods and very slowly—so you would have enough time to move away—grazes her fingers over it. You have not allowed someone to touch you that softly in years, and it feels unexpected in a way that makes your lungs feel bigger. She seems to have that effect in general.
“What was it like?” she asks.
“I was—well,” you say and scoot closer to her. She turns the television down and faces you, eyes slightly glassy and so earnest. “I was chosen for this position now when I was very small. We all take exams, and I showed proficiency for mathematics, strategy, linguistics, politics. They are abstract when we are young, of course, but I was accepted into a very prestigious school in the capital.”
You take a sip of your wine, and Clarke gulps some of hers down. You hide a little smile, because she’s still in her scrubs and it’s just kind of cute.
“From there, I continued to pass exams. When I was ten I began physical training. I met Costia when I was eleven; she was selected for the training program to be a doctor, like you.”
Clarke smiles a little.
“Our ways are harsh,” you say, and you know you sound bitter without really meaning to, but you had your childhood taken away from you. “However, I had a mentor, Anya, who now is a general in our military. She was like an elder sister to me.”
Clarke smiles slightly.
“When I was eighteen, as per requirement, I went to war. And—” You shake your head, and you think Clarke understands, because she reaches out and takes the hand still enclosed in your cast, traces over your fingers gently. It makes your whole arm tingle. “I saw many people die,” you say.
“Yeah,” Clarke says, staring at your hands.
“But I did not,” you say, “and I came back and went through school, then I traveled here to study law. Now I try to wage peace, although sometimes force is necessary when it comes to conquering falafel.”
Clarke’s gaze shoots up and it takes her a moment before she lets out a snort with a big smile, and a joke was certainly worth that.
She takes another large gulp of wine and you hold up your finger and go to get another bottle, because at this rate you think she’ll need it. She’s making you irresponsible, making you feel again, and it’s painful and scary and you had promised—after Costia, you had promised—to never let another person get put into a situation like that for you again.
But it’s been ten years; you are different, and your world is different. And so is Clarke.
Clarke smiles in thanks when you refill her glass, and she laughs a little when you refill yours too. “We drink a lot in my country,” you say.
She nods amusedly before sighing. “I lost a patient today.”
You watch her carefully, because she is sad. “I am sorry.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” she says. “He’d been shot; he was dead thirty seconds after he got into my ER. But I—” She looks to you and shakes her head. “Do you ever have flashbacks?”
“I have PTSD,” you say.
You don’t elaborate—you cannot take the subway, and you hate fireworks and the smell of gasoline—but she seems to accept that as an answer. It’s one of the things you like most about Clarke: she understands when you offer information but doesn’t pry.
“When Finn died,” she says, “he was shot and I—today, I just—it was so close and I wouldn’t stop chest compressions, even though my patient was dead. There was just—there was blood everywhere and I couldn’t—”
You put a hand gently on her leg.
She meets your eyes. “I am a good doctor,” she says. “I am a great surgeon, one of the best in the world already. I know that.”
You nod—you are a brilliant strategist; it has nothing to do with ego.
“But sometimes it’s just—I can’t—I wanted—”
She’s going to start crying, and you are very unexperienced with this type of thing. “Your job is not to save everyone, Clarke,” you say softly. “You help as many people as you can, like I do. We cannot save everyone but what we do is still important.”
When she blinks two tears trickle down her cheeks, and you put down your wine glass to brush them away gently.
She leans forward and presses her forehead against yours, gives a tiny nod.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You’re welcome,” you say, and when you kiss her it is soft and chaste and without any pretense. Her lips are soft and she tastes like wine and she is very lovely.
When you back up she smiles a little bit and nods in understanding—tonight will not be about sex for either one of you.
“Soon,” you say.
Clarke laughs. “As soon as I’m not a huge mess, I’ll let you know.”
You smile. “You are not a mess. You are simply very human.”
Clarke stares at you for a moment and then scoots so that her feet are propped up on the coffee table. She presses into your side and leans her head into your shoulder, kisses the soft skin there.
Eventually you suggest going up to bed because she’s falling asleep on you, and you give her pajama pants and a t-shirt and occupy yourself in the bathroom for long enough a period of time for her to change, even though she laughs but calls out when she’s done.
She flops onto your bed, which is very large, and you crawl in neatly after her. You scoot far enough away that you aren’t touching, because that seems like the respectful thing to do, but Clarke giggles from behind you.
“Come here,” she says, and you stay still for a moment so maybe your heartbeat will calm down before squirming your way as gracefully as smoothly toward her.
Once you can feel how warm she is, you stop, and you feel her laugh against your neck this time as she scoots forward to press her front against your back. She wraps an arm around your waist and rubs your stomach once.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes,” you whisper. “I haven’t been held in a long while.”
You’re not sure why you admit it, but Clarke doesn’t ask. She just kisses the back of your neck—which sends shivers all along your body—before saying, “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Clarke,” you say, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest against your spine is the most comforting thing you have fallen asleep to in decades.