Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lexa is trapped.

Every time her bandaged fists collide with the firm material of the punching bag she is harshly reminded of it. This arena, her prison. Her mind, the warden.

Thwop!

Cold sweat slips down her face and down her back, a sharp contrast to her searing skin. Her breaths are erratic, each one pushing past her lips and leaving her lungs aching.

Whack!

With each blow her movements become harder, faster. She moves her whole body with her arm, practically hurling herself at the bag. For each time her sore fists pummel into the leather, faces flash behind her stinging eyes. Some don white collars and stethoscopes draped around their neck. Others are dressed in simple pedestrian clothes. Although they vary greatly, from papery wrinkled skin to smooth youthful glows and everything in between, their expressions are all the same. Pulled into tight expressions of sorrow, their eyes gleaming with either unshed tears or sympathy or both. But all she sees is pity. Weakness.

Mouths of all different shapes and sizes form the same words over and over. A solemn mantra that throbs in her ears despite the silence that envelopes her.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry.

Empty apologies from empty faces lifted from empty hearts. How are two meager words supposed to soothe her? She is not an open wound, and they are not the stitches. They think they’re putting her back together. But they only succeed in ripping her apart.

They know nothing.They don’t know what it was like. What it is like.

Thwump!

This time, in a desperate attempt to silence their voices and shoo their faces, she lunges forward with both fists. They collide simultaneously with the bag, sinking in to leather that is slick with her sweat and blood. Instead of backing away and throwing more punches, Lexa’s fingers stay in place and grip the punching bag. Her short nails dig in, leaving small crescent-shaped indents. For a brief instant, her aching muscles still and her damp cheek falls against her hands. All she hears are the ragged breaths she draws in and out.

As quickly as she had relaxed she is tense again, springing away to warily circle the punching bag as if it may sprout arms and legs and attack her at any second. There is no time to let her muscles grow soft. She cannot take breaks. Although her body is throbbing in protest, her mind is urging her to keep moving. Keep fighting.

As always, she listens to her head and not her heart.

“Agh!” Letting loose a short, angry yell, Lexa lunges forward, fists whirling. In rapid-fire succession her knuckles strike the punching bag, moving so fast they seem to blur before her own eyes. The training room fills with the sounds of skin connecting with leather, and the occasional grunt as she propels her entire being into every blow. She feels the familiar fire surging through her veins, drowning out the searing pain of her overworked muscles. She welcomes it like an old friend.

Thwumpthwumpthwumpthwumpthwumpthwump.

Her head is a whirlpool of lost faces and broken words, swirling and swirling and swirling. Pounding inside her mind and threatening to break down the barriers she had worked so hard to erect. It’s like powerful waves thrashing relentlessly against a dam. A dam she is determined to not let collapse.

Invisible flames lick against her skin, leaving blazing trails in their wake. Rattling breaths are ripped from her lips. Sweat streaks her face like war paint. Her fists feel like they are being ripped open, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care.

Her arms are no longer connected to her body. They continue moving, faster and faster, driving into that stupid punching bag and causing it to tremble on its chain as if its afraid of her, of the ruthless beating she is giving it. Her entire being is screaming for a ceasefire.

Her vision blurs.

Dots of bright scarlet appear under her bandaged knuckles.

She wishes she can stop. But she can’t. 

It’s the only way she can get peace.

Among the myriad of faces racing through her foggy mind, one in particular jars her. It’s just a flash, so brief she’s not even positive it was there; a face that she had locked away for an interminable amount of time.

It’s the only one who whispers something different to her. Three words, not two, and they hit her with even more force than she is hitting this damn bag.

I love you.

Lexa punches harder.

-

Clarke is free.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the graduating class of 2015!” Principal Jaha’s booming voice floods the crowded gymnasium. Not even a millisecond later his declaration is met with resounding whoops and cheers as every single student—well, former student—grabs their caps from their heads and tosses them high into the air. It’s a classic scene out of every high school movie, and Clarke loves it.

“Crazy, isn’t it?” Next to her, Clarke’s best friend Octavia leans in close to be heard over the deafening shouts of overjoyed teenagers. Clapping and unable to contain the wide grin spread across her face, Clarke looks at her and nods.

“I know! Feels like yesterday we were walking in here for our first gym class,” Clarke calls back, and Octavia grins. Both of them remember that class all too well. Back when they were just little bright-eyed freshmen touring the halls, Clarke and Octavia had the same first-period gym class. That day they were playing wiffleball and wound up on the same team. (By fate of the popsicle sticks, Octavia calls it.) When Clarke went up to bat, Octavia chose that exact time to station herself directly behind her so she could flirt with the catcher, some guy whose name they have long forgotten. Octavia apparently was not aware Clarke was a lefty, and Clarke was not aware of her poorly chosen flirting position, and the hard swing of the bat led to a very bloody nose and a trip to the nurse’s. Afterwards Clarke bought her a McFlurry from McDonald’s and they’d been best friends ever since.

“It’s been one helluva ride.” Flurries of hats fall down all around them like giant snowflakes. The eruption of mingled cheering and laughter warms Clarke’s heart. Despite its trials and tribulations, she knows she’ll find herself missing high school and all of the psychotic yet amazing people that had come with it. At that thought, Clarke’s bright smile wavers slightly.

There’s one person missing on this day, someone she had used to dream about wearing a cap and gown next to. A familiar heavy weight settles on her chest, but before she can get lost in her depressing thoughts she feels a tug on her arm. “Hey! Earth to Clarke! We’re gonna go jump the roof, c’mon!” On the opposite side, Clarke’s other best friend, Raven, appears, grinning from ear to ear. Matching her infectious enthusiasm with only a slight bit of effort, Clarke allows herself to be swept up in the mass of teenagers swarming for the exit.

Stumbling over her own feet and others’, Clarke sprints across the football field with the rest of her class. Raven and Octavia are laughing besides her, gripping her hands and pulling her along. The thundering of one hundred pairs of feet hitting turf pounds in Clarke’s ears, mingling with the loud, raucous laughter of ecstatic grads. Every year, the graduating seniors of her high school go up on the roof and tear off their gowns, throwing them to the ground into the waiting hands of applauding parents and teachers. It’s supposed to symbolize leaving behind the fragments of high school, but soon developed into just an excuse for the teenagers to pull articles of clothing off of each other. After that, they drop through a hatch in the roof and onto mounds of mats that will be waiting for them in the gymnasium. Thankfully, it is a small school, so the ceiling isn’t very high. There had only been one (or was it two?) incidents of injuries in all the years of the ritual, but Clarke is still reluctant to ignore her fear of heights for this one time.

“Up ya go, Griffin!” Gripping the steel rungs of the ladder that scale the side of the school, Clarke feels Octavia’s hands practically shoving her upwards. “Hurry your little ass, people are waiting!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Clarke swats at her with her foot good-naturedly and starts to ascend. Her eyes barely peek over the edge of the roof before someone—presumably Octavia again—gives her a good push and sends her tumbling over. Grunting, Clarke jumps to her feet and prepares to give her friend a good reprimanding, but finds she and Raven have already joined the large mass and are eagerly pulling their maroon gowns off. Sighing and smiling at the same time, Clarke runs towards them while pulling her own garment over her head, leaving her in shorts and a t-shirt like most of everyone else. Their school had never been big on formal dress.

Leaning over the railing at the edge of the roof, Clarke’s eyes sweep the crowd, scanning it for one particular face. At first she she doesn’t pick out her mother’s familiar brown hair, and for a split second her stomach drops. She must’ve had a late shift at the hospital that was just far more important than my grad—Oh! Her bitter thoughts are abruptly halted by Abby Griffin’s beaming face bobbing in the crowd of overjoyed relatives. Her mom is waving, waiting for her daughter to toss down the gown. And so Clarke does. It billows out in the breeze and lands directly in Abby’s hands. Marcus Kane is standing right next to her mom, matching her smile, but Clarke isn’t sure how she feels about that.

Once more a hand is on her arm and pulling insistently. “Let’s go, princess, let’s go!” Octavia is impatient as always, and rolls her eyes when Clarke hesitates at the opening in the middle of the roof. Kids are jumping down with shouts of glee, and she hears the muffled thuds of their bodies hitting the mats below. It’s not high up at all, but even this height makes Clarke’s stomach clench. The last time she was off the ground she had the comfort of a warm hand clutched in her own, an achingly familiar voice whispering reassurances in her ear right before the rollercoaster plummeted down, but all Clarke focused on were the sturdy fingers she clung to like a lifeline…

“Hup, hup, hup! It’s not a bad jump, Clarke, just go for it!” Raven’s wild eyes are there now, tearing Clarke out of her sorrow-tinged thoughts. “Imagine we’re jumping right into our bright and fun-filled futures!”

“Preferably also alcohol and party filled,” Octavia chimes in, and then Clarke doesn’t even give another thought before grabbing their hands and leaping down. For an instant, she’s weightless. Panic seizes her—what if she miscalculated where the mats were and becomes a pancake on the floor?—but then her body hits a soft surface and she starts breathing again.

Then she starts laughing. It bubbles up out of her as her friends grab her hands and pull her up off the ground, and then she’s surrounded by Raven’s eager babbling about the dilapidated convertible she found and is fixing up, and Octavia’s smirks as she fantasizes all the hunky boys they’ll see at the club this weekend.

In that moment, she can’t imagine one thing that could possibly go wrong this summer. After all, she has nothing to lose. 

Chapter Text

“Oh, stop holding back, Griffin! We all know what you can do!” Clarke rolls her eyes at Raven’s encouragements over the rim of her shot glass before tipping her head back to let the cool liquid run down her throat. Wincing slightly at the familiar burn, she practically slams the now empty glass onto the tabletop. Her eyebrows arch challengingly at her friend, who gives her a triumphant grin. Raven thought she wouldn’t do it, so of course she did.

In the back of her mind, a memory flickers, struggling to surge upwards and be reminisced. The very first time alcohol touched her lips, it wasn’t Raven she was sharing a drink with. She remembers that night so clearly; the sting of the foreign liquid in her mouth, followed by a tingling warmth that is initiated half by the vodka and half by the mischievous brown eyes watching her.

Her fingers tighten around the shot glass. Clarke mentally slaps herself in the face, reprimanding her brain for being so damn sappy. This is a celebratory time, not a wallow-in-her-bitter-sorrows time.

“That’s more like the Clarke we know. Who woulda guessed the princess still had it in her?” Raven winks and nudges her in the ribs. “This is some well-deserved partying, especially for you.” She gives her a pointed look that Clarke promptly ignores. There are a dozen things Raven could be referring to, but Clarke is pretty sure she knows which one in particular.

Before she can reply with an undoubtedly defensive response, Octavia barrels through the doors of the bar, throws her hands up in the air, and yells, “I’M HERE, BITCHES!” Her derogatory and so-utterly-Octavia greeting is met with hollers and clinking glasses. Clarke shakes her head in amusement as Octavia saunters over, grinning wickedly. She was never one to pass up the opportunity for a grand entrance. “Next round’s on me.” The youngest Blake sibling slaps some money down on the counter, flashing her ID before the startled bartender can even react. The poor guy, obviously a newbie, nods wordlessly and mechanically starts pouring out more shots. Thank God for Monty and his uncanny knack for fabricating flawless fake ID’s, Clarke thinks.

“Not bad, Blake,” Raven praises, lifting her now-full glass to the brunette. With a smirk Octavia drops into an exaggerated curtsy before turning her attention to Clarke, who’s amusedly watching the exchange. She never grows bored with these two and their banter around. Octavia narrows her eyes at her, immediately sensing something is off. Clarke shrugs innocently, but knows that her friend can tell there’s something on her mind. “Clarke, you look like a freakin’ kicked puppy. That, and the fact you’ve only had two shots, is making my Clarke is being sentimental and shit about lost love sense go haywire.” Octavia pulls herself up on the adjacent stool, leaning her chin on her hands as she nudges her own shot towards Clarke. “Here, Princess. This will console your teenage angst better than I can.”

“I am not a kicked—” Clarke begins defensively, but her protests fall on deaf ears as Octavia’s eyes widen at something over her shoulder. Frowning, both Clarke and Raven follow her gaze, which Clarke can only describe as dumbstruck; a word that is rarely if ever used to describe Octavia. Under the dim lights of the sparsely filled bar, Clarke only spots familiar faces: Monty tossing ice cubes into Jasper’s wide-open mouth, Monroe victoriously slamming the eight ball into a pocket while Miller tosses his pool stick aside in defeat, Bellamy lingering off to the side with his arms crossed begrudgingly over his chest. Originally, he hadn’t been supposed to find out about his sister and her underaged friends’ post-graduation plans. But when he had come home earlier than expected last night and crashed their planning of illegal shenanigans, his suspicious gaze tore the secret from a guilty Octavia. After much, much convincing, pleading, and admittedly guilt-tripping (“Come on, Bell, just let me have this one night, don’t we both deserve it after everything we’ve gone through?”), Bellamy’s resolve softened under Octavia’s puppy eyes and the added pressure of the rest of her friends basically counting on his approval. He had made it clear this was a once-in-a-lifetime thing (“Well, until we’re in college and away from his overprotectiveness,” Octavia pointed out) and that he was not happy with it one bit. Not one little bit.

Raven flashes Octavia, whose lips have now parted in surprise, a confused look. “Jesus, what is it, O? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You could call it that,” is all Octavia mutters, and without another word launches herself off the stool and begins marching across the bar. Clarke watches her for a moment, equally as perplexed as Raven, before sighing and hopping down as well.

“She’s got that look in her eyes. We better follow her before she does something stupid.” After four years of watching Octavia’s impulsive and occasionally reckless behavior, she knows better than to let her go waltzing through a bar. Especially with more than enough alcohol in her system to cloud her ability to make rational decisions, no matter how unaccustomed Octavia may be to doing such. With a huff of annoyance, Raven abandons the drink she’d been nursing and follows Clarke, grumbling about how Octavia is a big girl who doesn’t need babysitters. But, like Clarke, her protective friend side wins out and carries their feet to where Octavia is standing in front of…a man?

In the muted lighting Clarke has to squint to make out the guy’s features: dark skin, shaved head, intense eyes blackened by the shadows. His expression mirrors the same mild shock that Octavia had just conveyed, but slowly his lips curl up into a grin. “What in the world are you doing here, O?” The man asks incredulously, looking at Octavia like she is some miraculous beam of light shining in front of him. At first Clarke is caught off guard at the way the man says her nickname so naturally—only Octavia’s friends and family call her that.

“I could be asking you the same thing, Lincoln,” Octavia replies smoothly, the flirtatiousness practically dripping from every word. “How about we go and…catch up?” Her teeth are a flash of white in the darkness.

Now Clarke decides is the right moment to interrupt. She and Raven sidle up next to their friend, eyeing Lincoln. Memories fall into place in Clarke’s mind, vague but still there. She remembers Octavia’s summer fling last year with a guy visiting friends in D.C., a guy she is now 100% sure was named Lincoln. Him and Octavia tried to keep it casual, knowing he would have to go back home eventually, but from the way her friend had gushed about him and his “smokin’ bod and dreamy eyes”, Clarke knew it had become a little more than that. At the end of the summer, Lincoln went back home, much to Octavia’s despair. For the beginning of senior year all she’d done was pine after her lost romance. Or apparently former lost romance.

Startled, but not looking entirely surprised to see that Clarke and Raven had followed, Octavia turns to them almost apologetically. “Oh, ah, right. Lincoln, do you remember my best friends? Clarke—” she indicates to the blonde, who simply raises her eyebrows “—and Raven.” The other girl gives a small wave. Lincoln offers a polite greeting and smile, and Clarke can at least recall that she had approved and liked him when he had dated Octavia last summer; plus, if she hadn’t, Octavia would not be as willing to let him show his face around them. But even if he had passed the best friend test last year doesn’t mean he can fly under the radar this time around.

She straightens slightly and stares Lincoln dead in the eye, not even having to look at Raven to know she’s doing the same thing. “So, Lincoln…?”

Almost sheepishly the man shoves his hands into his pockets. “Arbore.”

“You’re a bore?”

“Arbore,” Lincoln reiterates, stressing the R so much he practically growls. Clarke merely laughs, amused at having ruffled him a little. Lincoln seems to realize she was teasing, and visibly relaxes. Oh, how she loves watching potential love interests squirm.

“Okay, Lincoln Arbore. I kinda remember you. I guess. Last time you were up here visiting friends or something, yeah?”

“That’s correct.”

“And what brings you back to lovely Washington, D.C., huh, Lincoln?” Raven fixes him with prying eyes, but unlike most of Octavia’s previous love interests Lincoln meets her gaze evenly, his expression remaining amiable.

“Actually…I’m scoping out places in the area. I didn’t go to college after graduation last year and now I might look to put down some roots ‘round here. Now I have a potential job offer at a nearby company. ” He then turns to Octavia, and even protective Clarke decides he’s a good one when she notices the warmth of the look he gives her. Sometimes a summer fling is all some people need to find a love that stands the test of a separated year.

Though her best friend may be, Clarke knows she is not one of those people.

Octavia’s eyes widen. “You—you’re moving here?!”

“Maybe. Probably. I mean, it was a maybe but I think I found a pretty good reason to stay a bit.” Lincoln’s level of intense heart eyes is way too much for Clarke right now. She’s all good with them doing their long-lost star-crossed lover thing and all, but the sexual tension here is getting seriously uncomfortable. Obviously Raven is as nervous they’re going to start ripping each other’s clothes off as Clarke is, because she pointedly clears her throat.

“Ooookay, lovebirds. Get your sappy shit and doe eyes outta my face before I barf.” Raven’s face morphs into one of comical disgust. “C’mon, Clarke. Let’s leave Octavia with Romeo here and let ‘em catch up.”

“Sure. Alright guys, have fun, ah… catching up,” Clarke chortles, earning a glare from Octavia that causes her and Raven to crack up as they return to their respective seats. And greatly missed shot glasses. With a slight wave of her hand Raven has the newbie bartender fetching them two bottles of beer. Clarke hesitates slightly, her hand barely grasping the ice cold bottle. Her friend simply rolls her eyes before taking a long swig of her own. Although Clarke can handle her liquor fairly well (especially for an 18 year old), it’s been a little bit since she’s just…let herself go. Senior year had been a particularly stressful time for Clarke, with all the balancing college applications, putting up with Raven and Octavia (which at times was quite taxing), and sorting out familial and personal issues. It hadn’t left much free time for partying, which was a stark contrast to what Clarke’s junior year had been like.

Fed up with Clarke’s dubiousness, Raven sighs. “Clarke, I am seriously buzzed right now and in no shape to give you a logical pep talk but screw it because I’m gonna anyway.” She tilts forward and clears her throat for dramatic effect. “Just get fucking drunk.” Then she leans back and folds her arms smugly over her chest. “Bam. Mic drop. You just got hit with some Reyes wisdom mothafucka.”

By now Clarke thinks Raven is slightly more than just buzzed, but feels her lips tilting upwards. “Alright. Alright, fine. It’s summer. Everything’s perfect. I have no care in the world.” As the words leave her mouth, Clarke isn’t entirely sure if she’s trying to convince her tipsy friend or herself. Maybe both.

Raven grins widely as Clarke tips her head back and pours the bottle’s contents into her mouth. She winks when Clarke finally sets it back down, now nearly half empty. “You know, since we’re eighteen now, this would be entirely legal in England.”

At this Clarke finds herself laughing at loud, holding her beer up to Raven. “Cheers to that, Reyes.”

Clink.

“Cheers, Princess.”

-

Flashes of pain spark behind her eyes.

Clarke feels like her head is splitting open. Groaning, she forces herself into a sitting position and surveys her somewhat blurry surroundings. It feels like someone has crawled inside her head and is playing whack-a-mole against her skull. Her body feels sluggish, like it’s made of Jell-O. Her hands sink into a soft surface…a mattress. Faint rays of sunlight stream in through the window beside her, and Clarke flinches away from the light like a vampire. If she blinks hard enough she can just make out the outline of a person slouched in the chair next to the bed she’s currently sprawled on.

Every movement sends a throbbing pain shooting through her head. Ignoring it, Clarke grits her teeth and continues pushing upwards until she can swing her legs over the side. When she manages to rise to her feet, she wobbles unsteadily and nearly topples backwards. The dull pounding in her skull is a bitter reminder of the night before. One problem is, Clarke realizes in a panic, the last thing she remembers is sharing a beer with Raven. A single beer and a couple shots would not be having this effect on her. Clarke likes to tell herself she is very capable at handling her alcoholic beverages, but sometimes they do get the better of her.

Hangovers are certainly one aspect of her former party days that Clarke does not miss. She also doesn’t want to admit that’s basically the only aspect.

She turns toward the motionless figure nearby. The sunlight illuminates a mop of dark brown hair, and at first she assumes it’s Raven. That seems the most logical choice. Then the person lets out an achey moan and raises their head, and Clarke is caught off guard. Freckled face, shaggy hair, and Clarke can now see the broad stretch of a masculine chest that most definitely does not belong to Raven. It’s Bellamy. Bellamy, Octavia’s wildly overprotective brother who let them in that bar essentially against his own will and common sense. Who sulked on the sidelines and scanned his laser-eyed stare across every inch of the bar, tensed and ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble. Who frowned disapprovingly as Clarke chugged her beer and then practically threw himself at Lincoln Arbore when he started kissing Octavia and had to be dragged away by Monty and Clarke.

She couldn’t possibly begin to fathom a comprehensible explanation for Bellamy groggily waking up in an empty room besides a very hungover Clarke. “Uh…Bellamy?” Clarke begins tentatively, almost afraid of how he’s going to react to their current state. Possible scenarios are swirling in Clarke’s dazed mind. They got drunk and bought a ticket to New York and now they’re in a hotel miles away from D.C. They got drunk and pissed off some local barflies who beat them up then got them thrown in jail and some long-lost relative bailed them out. Worse, they got kidnapped and are now being held here against their will. Or perhaps the most horrifying one of all: they got drunk and…did it.

Clarke shudders at the very thought. It’s basically equivalent to sleeping with a brother. Not to mention the dozens of best friend rules that it would be breaking. Right when Bellamy had met them, Octavia had made it very clear to Clarke and Raven that her brother was off-limits.

“And don’t even think about trying to get some with my brother,” Octavia had firmly stated. Clarke hadn’t cared—a different boy had been on her mind at the time—but Raven had pretended to pout.

“Aw, but your brother is hot, O,” she had complained, waggling her eyebrows at where Bellamy was shooting around a basketball in the driveway. Her smirk intensified and she playfully cheered when Bellamy swished a basket. Octavia made retching noises and fixed Raven with a stern look, not unlike how a parent would chastise a child for stealing a piece of candy.

“Nuh-uh. Look, you can spend time with him and whatever, but strictly friendzoned. It’s gross watching you making ga-ga eyes at my brother. My brother,” she added for emphasis, as Raven still seemed slightly distracted by a very shirtless Bellamy dribbling the basketball.

“So we can still spend time with him?”

“Yeah, whatever. Just keep it PG.”

“How about nakey time?”

The look that Octavia gave Raven was enough to make her shut her mouth pretty quickly. “Right, right, sorry, just kiddin’.” Raven threw her hands up in mock surrender and backed away. As it turns out, Octavia didn’t have much to worry about, since Raven had started hooking up with some guy named Wick shortly afterwards. But sometimes Clarke still catches her throwing sideways glances at Bellamy whenever he’s around.

Clarke wants to laugh at the memory, but her pulsing headache refuses to let her do so. She winces and takes a few experimental steps towards Bellamy, who is now looking around in utter confusion. When she doesn’t keel over, Clarke quickens her pace and goes to kneel besides him.

“Aggghhh…oh, ow. My head. Ow.” Rubbing his temples, Bellamy straightens up, grimacing. His expression is tight with discomfort, and it’s evident he’s suffering from the same alcohol-induced effects Clarke is. He blinks hard, once, twice, before fixing his discombobulated gaze on Clarke. “Wha…Clarke? What are you…Where am I…Oh shit.”

She nods in sympathy. “My thoughts exactly.”

Bellamy scrambles to his feet, huffing in pain but managing to stay upright. “Jesus, Clarke. Jesus. What the hell happened last night?” He runs his hand anxiously through his tangled hair. “I don’t even remember having one drink, let alone—” Suddenly he cuts off, brow furrowed in concentration. Recollection dawns on his face, accompanied by dread mixed with something like chagrin. A hard sigh blows out through his teeth, the hand tangled in his hair moving to slap over his face. “Jesus Christ. Murphy the idiot convinced me to beer pong after I almost tore off Lincoln’s limbs. To help me ‘relax’.” He forms sarcastic air quotes around the word.

“I think it’s safe to say you didn’t refuse,” Clarke says gently. A pissed off Bellamy is already unpredictable enough, but a pissed off and hungover Bellamy is borderline volatile.She stands as well, both to get a better look at their surroundings and in case he suddenly faints or something. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust, but after a minute Clarke can determine that they are indeed in a room, and not a familiar one at that. It’s simple and appears unthreatening enough; there’s the bed and chair she and Bellamy had occupied, along with a standard dresser and desk. It would seem that no one is staying here, until Clarke experimentally opens a drawer to find neat stacks of clothes. Immediately she closes it while Bellamy roams towards the desk.

There are a few piles of papers and some pens, every single one orderly. A sticky note displays words scribbled on it in handwriting Clarke can only describe as regal.

06/10/15. Marikov. 10pm. First year. Left. 160. 5k.

Clarke frowns. Nothing except the date makes sense. She’s pretty sure that’s today’s date. Isn’t it…? Ah, shit. Clarke internally groans for getting herself into this messed-up situation. “Bellamy, what day is it?” His head whips up towards her, and for a moment his expression is blank. Then his jaw drops in realization and he reaches into his back pocket, whipping out his phone. Of course! How could either of them be so stupid? They had direct contact to their friends, who could possibly be sending out search parties at this very moment, and—

Suddenly there’s a sharp click and a resounding thud. The unmistakable sound of a door being flung open.

“Are you drunken maniacs alive?”

Clarke would recognize that voice anywhere. “Octavia?”

“The one and only.” The younger Blake steps inside the room, grinning. She looks like she expects some sort of celebration, and visibly hesitates when she’s met with hard stares.

“What in holy hell happened last night, O?” Bellamy demands, and his sister sighs, though she doesn’t try to hide the amusement on her face.

“Right. Well, c’mon. It’s, like, noon, sleepyheads.”

“Noon?” Clarke is affronted by Octavia’s nonchalant behavior. She’d like to see her wake up in the middle of a room she’s never seen before with a killer headache and a highly worrying amount of memory loss.

They follow Octavia out the door, where Clarke finds herself in a normal-looking kitchen. Sitting at the counter is none other than Lincoln. Upon seeing them straggle in with their undoubtedly haggard faces and inevitably baggy eyes, he flashes a welcoming smile. “Hey, kids. How was your nap?”

“Where the hell are we and what the hell happened?” is Clarke’s response, and she almost feels bad for being so curt. But she’s confused as hell and her head is absolutely killing her, so all resolve is pushed to the back of her mind.

Lincoln hesitates just like Octavia had, but at least he has the decency to answer her question. “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. Welcome to mi casa.” He spreads his arms, but at Clarke and Bellamy’s tired gazes he awkwardly drops them back down. Octavia shakes her head at him and starts pouring out two mugs of coffee, which she pushes towards them in all steaming glory. Clarke gratefully wraps her hands around it and sips. For some reason coffee always helps numb her hangovers.

Bellamy, however, doesn’t move a muscle.

She eyes both of them over the rim of her cup. “At least tell me you guys didn’t have sex while we were here.”

Bellamy glares stonily at her and Octavia in turn. His mouth remains set in a firm line.

Lincoln and Octavia share a sheepish look.

“Oh my God!” Bellamy shouts, and he’s about to start throwing some punches when Clarke sets a hand on his arm. His body stills, but he’s still tensed. He shoots daggers at Lincoln, who awkwardly rubs the back of his neck.

In an attempt at peace Octavia steps forward. “In our defense, you two were practically unconscious.”

“Oh, like that makes it any better,” Bellamy growls.

“Enough! Jesus, you two. Now do you care to do some explaining?” Clarke intervenes, and before she can push further footsteps sound from behind them.

A sleepy and familiar face appears. “Umm. What the fuck?”

“Raven?” Clarke gapes at the rumpled girl. Her dark hair is a rat’s nest on top of her head, and her face plainly says she’s in the same boat as Clarke and Bellamy. This whole situation just keeps on getting better and better.

Raven squints at each of them. She, like the others, is still in her clothes from the bar. At least that means multiple days haven’t passed. “Wow. You guys look like shit.”

“Brilliant observation, Sherlock,” Clarke retorts. “You’re not looking so hot yourself.”

“Please. I’m always hot.”

Thud.

All three of them visibly flinch as the sound is magnified in their delicate hungover eardrums. Lincoln had slapped his hand against the kitchen counter, looking exasperated. Octavia is just smiling to herself, obviously very entertained. They glare at Lincoln. “Sorry. I just needed you guys to shut up for a sec.” He doesn’t sound very sorry. “Long story short, you two—” he points at Clarke and Raven, who narrow their eyes “were wasted within the hour. And I mean flat out wasted. At one point Raven went up to this fat hairy guy and asked him if he was Santa Claus. Clarke, well, I don’t even know. You just kinda stumbled around pondering the meaning of life and some other deep shit. Pretty sure you hugged like everyone in the bar, too. And Bellamy passed out after beer pong with his boyfriend.”

Bellamy’s eyebrows practically fly off of his forehead. “Excuse me, my what?!”

His flabbergasted face is enough to make Octavia, Clarke, and Raven burst out in loud guffaws while Lincoln looks genuinely confused. Tears are practically streaming from their eyes. The best part is, Clarke knows exactly who Lincoln is referring to. “Do you mean Murphy?” she manages to get out between onslaughts of laughter. “Tall dude, needs a haircut, played beer pong with Bellamy?”

Lincoln nods, which only draws out more laughs. Bellamy is scowling so hard Clarke fears it will become permanently indented onto his face. “Jesus fucking Christ. John Murphy is not my fucking boyfriend. He’s barely my friend. I’m straighter than a goddamn ruler.”

“Sure ya are,” Clarke says tauntingly.

“That’s more than you can say,” Bellamy replies hotly, but immediately adds, “Sorry. I needed some defense here.”

Clarke’s jaw almost drops. Low blow. She hadn’t expected that one. But she doesn’t care; it’s just Bellamy getting riled up and offended by them thinking he and Murphy are dating. She settles for flipping him off and returning her attention back to Lincoln, whose gaze has almost become…interested. Like he’s been struck by some wild idea. “You were saying, Lincoln?”

“Anyway, since Octavia and I were the only ones sober enough to count how many fingers we had, we piled you three into my car and drove you here. Octavia told me it was closer than going back to your respective homes. So, yeah.”

Clarke sighs, more at ease now that she at least knows how she wound up here. It makes sense, after all; she, Raven, and Octavia were the infamous party trio, and blackout drunk nights are not uncharted territory for her. The only part she is mildly surprised about is the fact Octavia had left a bar still relatively sober.

That alone says a lot about this Lincoln guy.

“Damn. Looks like we still got it, eh, Princess?” Raven smirks and nudges her. Clarke rolls her eyes but offers her a smile. Meanwhile, Bellamy’s forehead is scrunched, like he’s internally analyzing the story and making sure it all adds up. When he apparently decides it does, he’s fast to make a break for it. “Welp, now that everything’s sorted, I guess I can get back home.” He checks his phone and his eyes widen at the time. “Oh, shit! It’s almost one, I’m supposed to go help Monty with his computer or some geeky tech stuff. It’s been, uh, fun. I’ll see you guys around.” Before he vanishes out the front door, he makes sure to fix Octavia and Lincoln—but especially Lincoln—with a heated glare. Which is basically Bellamy’s way of telling his sister she’s in trouble.

Then the door clicks behind him and he’s gone.

There’s a moment of silence following Bellamy’s hasty departure. Clarke makes an attempt to break it by clearing her throat and striking up conversation with a guy she hardly knows yet crashed at his house after a drunken night. “So, Lincoln. You live here all by your lonesome?” She lets her gaze wander around the house, which is surprisingy clean. A doorway leads into what appears to be a living room, while Clarke now knows the hallway behind her leads to the bedrooms. It’s a good-sized one-story, and pretty nice, and honestly not what she had been expecting when Lincoln had said he was ‘scoping out places’. She spots a gym bag by the door with running shoes and boxing gloves poking out of it. There’s a word written across the side in silver Sharpie, but it’s hidden by one of the very well-used looking gloves. WO something.

Lincoln shakes his head. He turns and grabs a drink from the fridge, something slushy and green that looks slightly revolting to Clarke but he takes a long sip anyway. Oh, so he’s one of those fitness guys who drinks kale smoothies for fun. She almost laughs at loud at that and the contrast it is to Octavia, whose idea of healthy is pizza with broccoli (“It’s green, so it’s nutritious!”). She doesn’t miss Octavia’s mildly horrified look as Lincoln sets the drink back down before he replies. “No, I don’t. The room you were in is my friend’s, actually. She and I are sharing the rent for this place.”

Clarke arches an eyebrow at the she, casting a quick glance at Octavia to gage her reaction, but she looks unfazed. It appears she knows more about Lincoln and his housing arrangements than Clarke had thought.

Noticing her skepticism, Lincoln just laughs. “Oh, no, don’t worry, I would never. She’s like a sister. Most definitely not into me. Or any other guy, for that matter.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in. When it does Clarke’s mouths forms an O of understanding. Well, that makes a slight difference, then.

Once again Raven’s elbow meets Clarke’s ribs. “Ooh. Just out of curiosity, does she happen to be single?”

“Raven.” Clarke gives her a dirty look. She doesn’t feel like becoming the latest of subject of the Raven Reyes Matchmaker Service. Again.

At that Lincoln ponders for a moment, like he’s deciding exactly how to answer a question that would typically be a simple yes or no. “Well, yes. But—”

“Wow, what a coincidence! Clarke is too!” Raven’s grin has only gotten bigger.

“Oh my God, you are impossible,” Clarke groans, shoving at Raven’s shoulder, who dances just out of reach, cackling. “You’re not fucking Cupid.”

“Good point. I’m fucking Wick.”

Lincoln chokes on his kale shake.

“Always keepin’ it classy, Reyes,” Octavia says, but high-fives Raven.

“Remind me again why we’re friends?” Clarke grumbles.

Recovering from having green smoothie stuck in his windpipe, Lincoln decides to pitch in. “Alright, alright. Listen, Clarke, Raven—do you guys need rides home?”

“It seems like you’re kicking us out, Lincoln,” Raven remarks, at the same time Clarke says, “Yes.” Raven snorts and adds, “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”

Clarke sighs.

-

The next day, after Clarke had spent her previously hungover day with Advil, ice cream, and Netflix, she gets a call from Octavia. Reluctantly, she answers. She half expects an invite to another bar that Clarke will force herself to fervently decline. “Hey, O. What’s up?”

“Clarke! Listen, you up for a night out?”

She groans inwardly. She totally saw this coming. “Um, actually—”

“Great!” Octavia says excitedly, effectively cutting her off. “Before you start whining, we’re not going out drinking. Lincoln asked me to come with him to his friend’s, like, performance or something. He said I could invite you and Raven!”

Clarke frowns. Okay, maybe she didn’t see this coming. “What sort of performance are we talking here? I swear to God, Octavia, if you drag me to another strip club…”

Her friend breaths a laugh on the other line. “Sorry, not this time. I think he said a fight or something. Maybe it’s a play about the UFC. I’m not sure.”

“A fight?” Unless provoked (usually by Raven stealing her secret stash of Doritos), Clarke is not a particularly violent person. The most fighting she’s ever witnessed is on Game of Thrones.

“Yeah. Look, I gotta go, pick you up at nine?” Octavia sounds hopeful, and Clarke can’t refuse. She exhales in defeat.

“Alright. I’ll be there.”

Chapter Text

True to her word, Clarke gets a text from Octavia saying she’s outside at exactly 9:00pm on the dot. Since she and Raven share an apartment, they walk out at the same time. Like Clarke, Raven has dressed fairly casually, in dark jeans with heeled booties and a low-cut tank top that could fit in at both a bar or a ‘performance’, whatever the hell Octavia meant by that.

Neither of them are very clear on what exactly Lincoln and Octavia are dragging them to, which makes Clarke nervous. Her friend has shown herself to not be entirely trustworthy with chauffeur duties at times.

Tossing Raven a “Lookin’ good, Reyes”, the two make their way to where Octavia is waving impatiently from the window of an idling convertible. They slide into the backseat and barely have time to say hello to Lincoln before Octavia peels away from the curb. Clarke sees that it is not Octavia’s car they are in, so it must be Lincoln’s. She takes note of the nice leather seating and is once again impressed by what he can apparently afford. If he turns out to be some kind of illegal drug smuggler I’ll kick his ass.

“So are you guys planning on clarifying what exactly we agreed to go to?” Clarke begins casually, looking out the window at the lamplit streets of D.C. whizzing by. Octavia tends to put a tad too much pressure on the pedal.

The car takes a sharp right turn, and Raven curses. “Christ, O, I at least wanna make it there alive!”

“Sorry. And yeah. Lincoln, care to enlighten them?” Lincoln shifts in his seat so he can turn to look at them. “Remember my housemate I told you guys about?”

They nod.

“Right, so, she fights.” He pauses, like he’s trying to figure out what to say next. It takes him a few moments, and Clarke and Raven remain staring at him blankly. Finally he just gives up and sighs. “Screw it. I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you. Let’s just say she fights in a…a ring, and it’s not exactly 100% law-abiding. It’s—”

He starts to say more before a very bewildered Clarke cuts in. “Hold up. You guys are taking us to an illegal fight club?!” Of all the crazy locations they could be headed, this one hasn’t even crossed Clarke’s mind once. Besides the whole occasional underage drinking (which she is very mature about!), Clarke considers herself a good citizen. Never in a million years would she willingly step foot inside a place that encourages people to beat each other into pulp. Illegally. “No way! Oh my god Octavia, how did you agree to this?”

Raven just exclaims, “That’s awesome!”

At the wheel, Octavia groans. She slams the brakes at the last minute at a red light, pitching everyone forward with collective oof’s. “I trust Lincoln. He needs to be there for his housemate tonight, and if the guy I’m dating is sharing a house with someone who beats the crap outta people, I kinda wanna see it in action.”

Lincoln hurriedly continues, trying to reassure Clarke’s panicked disbelief. “Look. She’s not some maniac who goes around jumping people. She’s a good person who’s just been through bad things and this is her way of…dealing.” He shrugs, like that should explain everything. Clarke can at least understand that part, and she does remember a few times in the past when things were dark and hard and falling apart and all she wanted to do was get out all of her frustration somehow. Of course, she never did it literally (although her pillow did suffer some brutal beatings), but apparently this girl did. And Clarke can’t really hold her accountable for that.

Still, Clarke shakes her head, incredulous. “So why do you have to go to some highly illegal fight club to watch her beat people up? And feel the need to bring us along for the show?”

“Whoops. That was me, sorry guys.” Octavia tosses them an apologetic look. “If I go to a fight club, so do you two. Just the way it is.” Octavia’s reasoning is something Clarke and Raven have learned to never question.

Besides her, Lincoln chuckles. “Yes, that pretty much sums that up. As for me going in the first place, I’m her trainer, per se. But I’m also her friend. Friends don’t let friends illegally fight without being there to support them, right?”

“That’s some pretty twisted friend logic, Lincoln, and yet for some reason I completely agree,” Raven says. “But for real, are we actually going to an illegal fight club? Like, Brad Pitt-style? Because now I can check that off my bucket list.”

“What the hell kind of bucket list do you have?” Clarke asks, mildly horrified.

Raven simply smirks, and Clarke decides she doesn’t want to know.

“Illegal? Slightly. Fight club? No, I wouldn’t call it that. It’s actually at this local gym that turns into a sort of fighting ring every few nights,” Lincoln explains, like it’s perfectly normal for a typical gym to double as your local neighborhood fight club. “The fighters are an elite group of men and women who either have anger issues or need something to take their anger out on, all while making some decent cash. Or are people who are training for the big leagues.”

“Gym?” Raven asks. “Like, treadmills and weights and shit gym?”

Lincoln laughs. “Yes, exactly. Called Grounder’s Gym. It’s a very well-respected and quintessential fitness center, which makes it that much better for having some good old-fashioned matches every once and a while.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow, still unimpressed. She’s heard of Grounder’s, and has driven past it countless times—it’s where a lot of guys and girls from her school sometimes go to work out. She really hopes that’s all they were going there for. “Wow. You make it sound like they go there to play poker or something.”

Lincoln frowns, and he’s about to reply when Octavia announces, “We’re here!”

“Ooh, time to watch sweaty dudes beat each other up!” Raven says excitedly, jumping out of the car much more enthusiastically than Clarke does. She’s tempted to hop into the now occupied driver’s seat and just make a break for it, but then Octavia seems to sense what she’s thinking and grabs her hand, all but pulling her towards the entrance.

Grounder’s Gym looks nowhere out of place on the street, and the sign emblazoned with the name is pleasant enough; there’s no blood dripping down or obscenities graffitied anywhere. The only thing slightly off is that the shades are drawn, even over the door, making it impossible to see in. “I don’t like this, guys,” Clarke whines, but doesn’t even bother protesting when Octavia guides/tugs her up to the door. Her two friends ignore her, but Lincoln at least offers what’s supposed to be a reassuring smile before he yanks open the door.

At first, it’s pitch black. Clarke isn’t afraid of the dark, but her throat threatens to close up in panic. Oh, God. Lincoln is really a dangerous criminal who is going to keep us hostage here for a ransom. She’s about to start throwing punches, because if she’s going to die she sure as hell is going to do down fighting, but then a light flickers to life above them. Immediately Clarke tenses up, expecting someone to jump out at them, but then Lincoln speaks.

“Hey, Artigas. I hope you don’t mind I brought some friends along. They’re trustworthy, don’t worry.” Lincoln steps forward, and Clarke just now notices there’s a man standing in front of them. When she takes a closer look at him, she realizes he’s more of a boy than a grown man. Dressed from head to toe in black, the boy—Artigas—is lean, with a sharp face and overlong dark hair pulled into a man bun. He narrows his eyes at Clarke, Raven, and Octavia, obviously skeptical. Several moments pass with his gaze scouring them, and Clarke refuses to squirm. She tilts her chin up challengingly at him.

“Any weapons, ladies?” Artigas says at least, his tone wary. When they shake their heads, he moves to search them, but Lincoln blocks his way.

“They’re clean. Have I ever let you guys down before?” Lincoln tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting up. Artigas still looks reluctant, but sighs. He draws his hand back from where he had begun reaching towards Raven, who has on her Touch me and I will end you warning face.

Artigas gets the message and puts his hands up in surrender. “Right. I trust you, Lincoln, but Indra might not be as…welcoming. Is she a fighter?” He gestures towards Clarke. Clarke arches a brow, caught off guard. He thinks she’s coming here to fight? Sure, sometimes she can be a little…defensive, but there’s nothing wrong with standing her ground. Maybe it had been the formidable look she’d made sure to fix him with to make sure he didn’t come near her or her friends. She isn’t sure if she should be flattered or offended.

“Hardly,” Lincoln responds, amused. “Now is it alright for us to head in?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. But don’t say I didn’t warn you about Indra.” Artigas concedes, stepping aside from the black curtain he’d been figuratively guarding. Clarke wonders what kind of fight club hires a boy who can’t be a day over seventeen as the bouncer. She’d never really thought she’d be in a situation where she’d even be asking herself that question in the first place.

Thanking him, Lincoln goes ahead and pushes the curtain aside. It seems an overly dramatic entrance for Clarke’s liking as she and the others follow him into Grounder’s Gym. When she lays eyes on the ‘fight ring’ that Lincoln had been explaining earlier, her eyes widen. It’s nothing like she’d thought it would be. In her mind she’d conjured up an image of a mass of sweaty, dangerous-looking delinquents, all gathered around a dirty floor occupied by bloody people making each other bloodier. Instead, Clarke is greeted by a sight that could almost pass as…civilized.

The entire interior of the gym has been transformed into, yes, a ring. Where there would usually be fitness machines is a large circle made of white tape covering the floor, and the treadmills and such have been pushed off against the walls. A makeshift railing made of metal tubing and rods, presumably from benchpresses, separates the ring from the audience. A flood of sound rushes into Clarke’s ears: people shouting and hollering and even scattered laughter, glasses clinking and feet stomping and hands clapping and the occasional grunts and hard thuds that Clarke pretends not to hear. The air smells like smoke and alcohol and sweat and blood.

Clarke hates it already.

There is indeed a mass of people, but not as many as she had pictured, and not nearly as sweaty. But there is still a good-sized crowd that Clarke and her friends have now become a part of. As Lincoln plows ahead and forges a safe passage for them to push through, Clarke glances at each face and person she bumps into. Most of them look about her age, and there’s only a few that could be over 30. Surprisingly, not all of them are sporting the typical attire and expressions of people Clarke would normally associate with fight clubs. They just look like normal, young people mingling.

Normal, young people mingling at an illegal fighting ring.

Still, Clarke finds herself keeping her gaze trained on Raven’s bobbing head in front of her, determined to not let any of her friends out of her sight. As if sensing her gaze, Raven swivels her head around to grin at Clarke. “This is cool, isn’t it?” She has to yell to be heard over the commotion. “It’s like a club but without bad music and creepy guys!”

Clarke wouldn’t exactly rule out the latter as she catches a couple leering gazes meeting hers. “I guess so. Where’s Lincoln and Octavia?”

“Up ahead. Come on!”

Clarke has to quicken her pace significantly to keep up with Raven. After bumping into quite a few people and mumbling halfhearted apologies, they find themselves nearly running right into the other two, who are standing directly behind the railing with front-row seats to whatever violence is currently taking place. The sounds of flesh hitting flesh and grunts of pain are much, much louder now that they are so close. Clarke has to suppress a wince every times hears a thump. It’s even worse when there’s the occasional resounding crack.

“Lincoln.” She steps past Octavia to stand besides Lincoln, which gives her a full view to the fighting before her but she forces herself to keep her eyes on him. “Where’s this housemate you dragged us here to see?”

Another nauseating crack is heard from the brawl in front of them. A man cries out in pain. Lincoln shows no reaction whatsoever, and Clarke gets the feeling he’s been here enough times to grow numb to it. She, on the other hand, keeps her hands in tight fists and eyes averted. He doesn’t answer immediately, and she wonders if he even heard her. He’s looking intently at the spectacle before him, eyes narrowed like he’s scrutinizing something. Clarke is about to wave her hand in front of his face or something when there is a very loud, very sickening sound she can’t describe any more than as a crunch. The agonizing wail that follows is enough to tear Clarke’s gaze away from Lincoln and to the ring.

Although her mother is a surgeon, and Clarke herself spent a good amount of her childhood watching her wheel a bloodied body to the E.R. or joining her mother when she put on a surgery documentary, the sight she is met with now still makes her stomach churn.

There is a man sprawled on the floor. There is blood everywhere.

Gushing from his nose, oozing from a nasty cut under his eye, dripping from a deep cut in his lip and leaving a sharp contrast of bright scarlet against the white tiles. Half of his face is pressed against the floor, and the eye that can be seen is swollen shut and already turning a horrendous purply black. Clarke’s medical side—nurtured by her mother and many high school biology courses—kicks in as two men dressed in black haul the bloodied man up and sling his arms over their shoulders. His nose is definitely broken, and it doesn’t look like the first time. She trails her analytical gaze down his bare, bloodied chest, and she can tell by his stuttered breaths and bruised torso there are cracked ribs. A possible broken wrist as well, judging by the telltale limpness of his left hand. The two guys carrying him do not seem to be doing so carefully, jostling the injured man between them and causing him to cry out before his head drops onto his chest, unconscious.

Clarke doesn’t move her stunned, horrified gaze until the three of them disappear behind a door messily marked as RESTRICTED. When she finds the strength to get words out of her dry mouth, they are directed at Lincoln. “Who the hell did that to him?” The question comes out as a whisper, but she knows he can easily hear her because the entire room has fallen silent. She doesn’t know if it’s out of shock or politeness or what, but when she casts a glance at the people around her she is met with blank faces. Like Lincoln, they are also accustomed to injuries. Even ones that make it seem there is more blood on the outside than on the inside.

Once again, Lincoln stays quiet, his gaze still oddly intense. She feels a hand on her arm, and looks back to find a white-faced, wide-eyed Raven. Her friend’s face reads both Oh my god we just saw some guy get dragged away practically bleeding to death and I want to get the hell out of here but at the same time want to stay and see what happens. Or maybe those are just Clarke’s current emotions. Clarke nods, hoping Raven understands, and thankfully she does because her grip slackens.

“He needs help,” Clarke mutters, again directing her words towards an impassive Lincoln. “I doubt you guys keep any actual medical personnel around here. Let me go help him.”

Silence.

Clarke tries not to look at the pool of crimson staining the floor. “Alright.” Clarke is actually about to jump this ramshackle metal railing when a firm hand is on her shoulder. She glances back, sees Lincoln staring at her.

He shakes his head and finally, finally speaks. “No. There are people here with medical experience. This happens sometimes. Usually when she’s had a rough day.”

Clarke furrows her brow, squints up at him. “What are you talking about?” His stoic response is a slight tilt of his chin, towards the ring. Clarke gives him a weird look but follows his gaze. She now realizes she hasn’t even seen who had done this to that poor guy, and now finds herself mildly interested to see who had packed enough power to do that to a grown man.

The bloodied man’s opponent is definitely not what Clarke had been expecting. Instead of a big, hulking mass of a person, all Clarke sees is a woman. Not even. A girl stands in the middle of the ring, looking out in the crowd but not really looking. She’s tall, long brown hair pulled into a severe ponytail. All she’s clad in is a black sports bra and black athletic shorts, and although Clarke can see that she is well-muscled she does not have the slightly comical bulging biceps Clarke had conjured up in her mind. It’s not her height or toned physique that gives off an air of intimidation, though; it’s her eyes. Being in the front row, Clarke can see the harsh glint of green as they sweep across the silent onlookers, as if daring anyone to come near her.

There are streaks of blood on the gauze wrapped around her hands. Clarke knows it isn’t hers.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Now Lincoln looks down as she addresses him. “Your housemate.” She looks back at the girl, who has begun walking to the far wall, where a woman with dark skin and short black hair is standing. The way she moves is lithe, and reminds Clarke of the way a predator stalks its prey. She makes a mental note to (despite the fact she lives with her best friend’s boyfriend) stay out of this girl’s way.

“Yes. I’m…” He sighs. “I’m worried about her. The last time she beat someone that bad, it was because someone close to her had died. The guy she fought spent a month in the hospital. I don’t even want to know what happened this time.”

Both he and Clarke are now staring at his housemate, who seems to be in the middle of an urgent conversation with the dark skinned woman. The woman seems aggravated, using her hands a lot as she speaks. To Clarke, it almost looks like a reprimanding.

She should get a lot more than a scolding for almost killing a guy.

“Guys, maybe we should go.” Octavia leans forward to be seen by both Clarke and Lincoln. Besides her, Raven nods in agreement.

Lincoln looks at her almost apologetically. “I’m sorry, O, but I have to stay. Here, you guys can take my keys and get back home. I can walk.” He starts to pull his car keys out of his pockets but Octavia stops him, shaking her head with a sigh.

“What? No, no. It’s okay. Just…is there a place, like, away from this?” Her eyes scan the room, and Clarke doesn’t miss how they carefully skirt over the ring containing the blood and the fighter.

After a moment Lincoln nods. “There are bathrooms over there. Nobody ever uses them. But if anyone does bother you, just say you’re here with me.” He points over towards the area where they’d first entered. “I promise I’ll be right over. I just need to make sure everything’s all right.” He plants a quick kiss on Octavia’s cheek before she and Raven begin to walk away, pushing through the crowd of emotionless faces.

Clarke’s feet start moving with them, and then they stop. She glances back, at the blood, at Lincoln’s worried face, at the girl with the steely green eyes. Clarke has never been the one who leaves when things get messy, and right now she’s strangely intrigued by what the aftermath of this might be.

Raven notices Clarke’s abrupt halt. “You coming, Princess?”

Clarke hesitates only a beat before replying. “Actually, I think I’m gonna stay with Lincoln. Meet up with you in a minute?”

Raven bites her lip, obviously not keen on leaving Clarke in a mob of strange people in a fight club, but she sees Clarke’s face and knows there’s no point in protesting it. “Fine, but keep your phone on and my number dialed on your screen at all times.”

“You’re at the top of my speed dial list, Reyes.”

Raven grins before turning and disappearing into the throng after Octavia.

Clarke returns to Lincoln, whose knuckles are white on the railing. “So what now?” she asks casually, and he looks a little surprised to see her still standing there.

“She fights.”

“What? She just did!” Clarke notes how Lincoln still hasn’t even told her the name of his lovely housemate.

“That was just a warm-up. Some poor sucker from the crowd who challenged her. Now is the real one. Look.” He nods towards where the girl and the woman she had been talking to are now standing in the center of the ring.

“Apologies for the slight…delay.” The woman doesn’t have a mic, but her booming voice travels through the crowd easily. It breaks the tense silence that had formerly gripped the gym. “Now it’s time for the real fight. Our champion, Lexa Woods, against newcomer Adrianna Marikov!”

For some reason, the name Marikov rings a bell for Clarke. She frowns, unable to figure out why.

The moment the name Lexa Woods leaves her mouth, the crowd is in an uproar. It’s obvious that this Lexa is a fan favorite. The girl in the ring, however, remains impassive, leading Clarke to believe that maybe Lincoln’s housemate is the newcomer, Adrianna Marikov. If so, she feels bad for the girl, having to go against the so-called champion. (How can there be champions in an illegal fight club, anyway?) Then she remembers the bruised and battered body of the unconscious man being dragged out, and thinks that if she is the newcomer she may be more than capable of holding her own.

In her ear, Lincoln says quietly, “That’s Indra Grounder. Owner of the gym, runs this whole thing. Trust me, you do not want to mess with her.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Clarke gestures to the phlegmatic girl still standing motionless next to Indra. “Is your housemate Lexa or Adrianna?”

“Hm? Oh. She’s Lexa.”

“After seeing the looks of the last guy who went against her, I can’t say I’m surprised she’s the champion.” Clarke lets her eyes wander towards her again, studying the girl. She holds herself stiffly, tensely. Coiled, like she's prepared to either run or fight at any given moment. 

“She’s just top in her weight class. Been undefeated this entire year," Lincoln tells her matter-of-factly. 

Admittedly, Clarke is a little impressed. Slightly unsettled still by the outcome of her previous fight, but she respects the girl for fighting her way to the top of a sport that is dominated by men. Clarke just wants to know why she’s at the top.

On the opposite side of the room, a door opens and another woman steps out. There’s no way she’s a teenager. She’s shorter than Lexa but brawny, large muscles rippling as she strides forward and takes a place at Indra’s other shoulder. She flicks her short black hair out of her face, which is square and smushed, like she’d been whacked with a frying pan.

Indra steps back, out of the ring, and the two women face each other. They shake hands, but Adrianna bares her teeth threateningly. Lexa simply remains emotionless, and they go to their respective sides of the circle.

There’s no bell. No, “Fight!” They simply begin to circle each other, gauging their opponent. Lexa’s eyes are cold, calculating, while Adrianna’s are just fiery.

Clarke has a feeling, just from Adrianna’s behavior and the fact she’s a ‘newcomer’, that she will charge in with nothing but her raw strength. Lexa seems like someone who is more…strategic. Her prediction proves correct when Adrianna rolls her neck, gnashes her teeth, and barrels right across the ring with her arms outstretched. What does she think this is, a bull fight?

Lexa stands as still as a statue, simply watching the wild woman charge her. Right when they’re about to collide, Lexa nimbly sidesteps. Although her expression remains devoid of any emotion, Clarke thinks she sees a slight smirk flit across her lips.

It vanishes when Adrianna’s fist suddenly flies out. It’s about to collide hard with Lexa’s stomach when she throws herself backwards, and knuckles just barely graze her. A few people let out ooh’s, and Lincoln’s grip tightens on the metal railing. Clarke realizes it must not be easy watching someone he referred to as his sister almost get beat up on a day to day basis.

As Adrianna rounds on Lexa, she immediately takes advantage of her unbalanced footing. Now Clarke can see what’s she’s doing; make Lexa think she’s just relying on brute force and then turn it around on her. Clever. However, it seems at the same time Clarke figures it out so does Lexa. The girl immediately finds her footing and without a millisecond of hesitation sends a hard right hook flying into Adrianna’s cheek. Her fist connects with the same stomach-twisting crunch that Clarke had heard earlier, and Adrianna’s head snaps to the side. Blood spurts from her mouth. Another fist lands in her ribs, taking advantage of Adrianna’s momentarily dazed state. The bigger girl staggers, eyes rolling and spittle flying grossly from her lips.

Now Lexa moves away, eyes stonier than ever, lip slightly curled. Her face shines with sweat. Her opponent’s shines with blood.

The cheers and hollers are deafening in Clarke’s ears. They only grow louder when Adrianna swipes a hand across her split lip, snarls, and swings her fist. It barely fazes Lexa. The brunette quickly ducks, and pops back up just as Adrianna is winding up again. This time she doesn’t dodge, but her arm flies out to catch the punch on her gauze-wrapped forearm. It makes a sound like a wooden board hitting a watermelon. Clarke winces in sympathy although if it hurt her, Lexa doesn’t show it.

Briefly, a stunned look comes over her opponent’s face, and then Lexa’s foot is driving into her chest with a well-placed roundhouse kick. For an illegal fight, Clarke is somewhat in grim admiration at Lexa’s obvious skill and technique. She had figured coming in here all she’d see were a bunch of people punching blindly at each other. But there’s something in the way Lexa moves and carries herself, graceful and controlled. Even her punches are quick and precise. It’s extremely strange how she can seem so…methodical while she is beating someone up. To Clarke, it doesn’t seem like that kind of finesse belongs in a dark gym where people cheer when blood is drawn.

“When does it end?” Clarke nudges Lincoln, who’s not even watching the fight at the moment, but texting Octavia. At least that means her two friends are still alive in this place.

Lincoln pockets his phone, returning his attention to where Adrianna suffers yet another unyielding blow from Lexa. There’s an odd look in the girl’s eyes as her punches multiply and quicken; cloudy, almost, like she’s not even in the fighting ring but somewhere only she knows. Her jaw is clenched, and that intense, dark look in her eyes makes Clarke’s spine tingle. It’s like she’s not even aware of the pain she’s inducing on her opponent, who has given up her feeble attempts and is now solely focusing on dodging the rapid attacks.

“Just like any other, you know, somewhat legal fight. Knockout or concede.” Lincoln is visibly troubled. “She’s ruthless tonight. Something’s wrong.”

“And she’s not usually?” 

“Well, not as ruthless,” Lincoln corrects himself, but there’s no humor in it.

All it takes is one last punch driven into Adrianna’s side and she falls like a marionette with broken strings. Her listless body slumps to the floor, just inches away from the puddle of blood no one has even bothered to clean up. Her own face, due to a split lip and bloody nose, is creating another red pool.

The only sign Lexa shows that prove she was in two fights is the crimson staining her wrapped hands. Her chest is heaving, sweat making her tan skin gleam, and that darkly intense gaze is gone, only to be replaced by steely green chips of ice. Lexa’s name is chanted, increasing in volume as Indra comes up, takes her wrist, and holds it up in the air. A sign of victory. 

The crowd’s mantra melts into shouts and yells of glee. It’s so wild and vehement in a way Clarke has never seen before. But there is something about the triumphant hollers and skin-chilling experience of watching the fight that sends a rush of adrenaline through Clarke. She pushes it away. She shouldn’t feel that after watching something so animalistic and wrong.

Indra drops Lexa’s hand, or maybe Lexa yanks it away. She turns away from Indra, from the people calling her name, but before she can take a single step there’s a high-pitched shriek and a flash of movement from the formerly immobile figure collapsed on the floor. Adrianna hurtles towards Lexa, and all Clarke sees is her squashed-with-a-frying-pan face contorted with rage before a flying foot lands, with an evidently large amount of force, in Lexa’s ribcage. Clarke can practically hear the significant crack.

There’s a hiss of pain from Lexa. Before she can retaliate Adrianna sends knuckles into her cheek. Just as Lexa had done to her not even five minutes ago.

Besides Clarke, Lincoln immediately stiffens and his expression becomes one of panic. Without even a second of hesitation he launches himself over the railing and towards the tussle. Indra has already taken action, shoving Adrianna back with more force than Clarke had originally believed her able to muster, and has the livid woman against the wall in a matter of seconds. When Lincoln was talking about some of the fighters having anger issues, this must be what he had meant.

Clarke feels helpless. Standing there watching as Indra wrestles a writhing Adrianna into the arms of a very burly man who forcefully escorts her out of sight, watching as Lincoln darts to Lexa’s side and shouts at Indra to get her medical attention. It’s clear that Lexa, lying on her back, is dazed, possibly even unconscious. Clarke can’t tell because she’s not doing anything.

Screw it.

She can’t stand there knowing she can do something to help. She doesn’t even know this crazy fighter girl, hardly even knows Lincoln, but that doesn’t matter. In a totally impulsive move she hops the railing and runs over to where Lincoln is kneeling besides his roommate. Indra is snapping at black-clad men to get medical personnel, but they look slightly lost. Clarke figures their only ‘medical personnel’ is still busy cleaning up the guy Lexa beat.

This time, the crowd isn’t silent. Hushed murmurs travel through from person to person. Only one voice stands out to Clarke.

“Lincoln! Clarke!” Octavia doesn’t even try to keep her voice down. “What the hell are you doing?” This is mainly directed at Clarke.

“Helping,” Clarke replies over her shoulder, crouching down next to Lincoln. Though her back is turned, she can practically see Octavia’s eyeroll.

“Damn Clarke and her fucking annoying heroic tendencies,” Raven mutters, just loud enough for her fucking annoying heroic friend to hear and flip her off before focusing her attention back to the girl in lying on the floor.

“Go back with Raven and Octavia,” Lincoln says forcefully. “You guys should leave now. I’ve got it from here.”

“No. But I will need your car keys. Your friend here needs to go to the hospital.” Clarke looks down at Lexa, who already has a nasty bruise blossoming over her eye that will definitely result in one hell of a shiner. There's also a cut above her eyebrow deep enough to possibly need stitches, but it doesn't look fresh; more like an old wound that had been reopened.

The girl’s breathing is fast and uneven, and every intake of breath causes her face to twist in pain. Sure sign of rib injury. From seeing the pure power behind that kick to the chest she had endured, Clarke isn’t surprised.

But Lincoln shakes his head. At the same time, Lexa’s eyes fly open, and their wide vividness, now so close, startles Clarke. They’re an unusual color, kind of a stormy gray-green, but more of a—

Whoa, Clarke. She immediately shoves all of these very much random and unwanted thoughts from her mind. This is not the time to be figuring out what color crazy fighter girl’s eyes are.

Right now they are staring directly at her, and then Lexa rasps, “No. Hospital.”

Her voice is strained, and Clarke knows she is probably using up all of her effort to keep any evidence of pain out of it. But Clarke has dealt with stubbornly tough people before, as well as stubbornly tough people with broken ribs, and she knows it’s taking all of Lexa’s willpower not to cry out every time she inhales.

“Listen, you’ve definitely got a fractured rib or two. We have to make sure no pieces broke off and are going to endanger your organs.” She meets Lexa’s defiant stare levelly, and even when they narrow stonily at her she refuses to look away. “You know, the things inside you that keep you alive.”

The only response she gets is gritted teeth and a harsh, “No.”

“But you need—”

“Clarke.” Lincoln cuts her off. She lifts her head and sees him give an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Then he stands. “Help me get her to my car.” 

Chapter Text

The drive to Lincoln’s house seems unbearably long to Clarke. It’s also the most awkward car ride with the strangest group of people she’s probably ever had. Lincoln drives with a barely conscious Lexa in shotgun and Raven, Clarke, and Octavia all pack into the backseat, pressing uncomfortably against each other. They’re both slightly ticked off at Clarke having to play doctor savior, although Octavia soon remembers she’s the reason they’re stuck in this situation in the first place. But Raven doesn’t refrain from muttering bitingly sarcastic comments to Clarke and complaining that there’s a NASA documentary on she just can’t miss.

Raven, in summary, is a mechanic. Of course, she prefers to refer to herself as a ‘badass mechanical engineer Clarke Griffin could not live without’. For as long as Clarke has known her she’s been always tinkering with something and springing up little contraptions. She even fixed up her dad’s old 1986 Corvette to run as smoothly as it did when he first bought it. She always says she just wants to create, a trait that brought her and Clarke closer together. Except while Raven’s hands get streaked with grease, Clarke’s get streaked with paint.

Finally, after what feels like ages of tense silence, the car pulls to a smooth stop at Lincoln’s. Clarke and the other two immediately get out of the car, anxious to escape from the claustrophobic space and breathe some much needed fresh air. Clarke turns to Lincoln, who’s standing in front of Lexa and arguing with her.

“You can barely walk,” Lincoln says firmly, obviously aggravated. His housemate is leaning against the car for support but shakes her head, eyes hard and face set. Clarke isn’t surprised she’s the kind of person to refuse any type of help and do everything themselves. She, too, used to be like that, until she figured out that sometimes needing others was okay.

“I’m fine,” Lexa growls through gritted teeth, her face slick with sweat and chest stuttering up and down. She looks like she’s going to collapse at any moment, but she’s fighting it so hard. Yet Clarke is having trouble finding sympathy after watching her demolish not one but two people who were both practically twice her size. Even if the second went all psychotic and got in a surprise attack.

Lexa moves to take a step to prove her point, but instead only proves Lincoln’s as a violent breath is pushed out between her lips in pain. Lexa fights valiantly against him but eventually very reluctantly allows Lincoln to sling her arm over his shoulders and assist her inside. As she passes Clarke, she refuses to meet her eyes or anyone else’s. Out of the corner of her eye Clarke catches a glimpse of dark ink swirled on the bicep of the arm dangling at her side. She looks mad, but Clarke figures she’s angrier at herself than anyone else.

Once inside, Lincoln helps Lexa onto the couch, where she fails at stifling a groan as she lays down horizontally. At her sides, her fists clench and unclench. “What are they doing here?” she demands, tilting her head slightly to glare accusingly at Clarke, Raven, and Octavia. Blood drips from the cut above her eyebrow, but she merely wipes at it in irritation.

“Good question,” Raven replies, earning her a glare from Clarke.

“Because I’m the only one here who actually has medical experience, which you, like it or not, are in need of.” Clarke steps forward, once again matching Lexa’s deadly stare unwaveringly. “These two just decided to tag along.”

Raven huffs. “Um, no, Lincoln was just our ride.”

Octavia shrugs but doesn’t pitch in.

Lexa isn’t convinced, and her laser-like gaze has Raven and Octavia shifting uncomfortably and looking anywhere but at her. Clarke simply purses her lips, not at all affected by the injured fighter’s attempts at intimidating her. “I’m Clarke Griffin, by the way. That annoying one over there is Raven Reyes, and the unusually quiet one is Octavia Blake. Even if you don't like us you might as well know our names.”

“Ah.” Lexa shifts, winces, and pulls her eyes away to stare at the ceiling. “The long-lost girlfriend.”

“That would be me,” Octavia says tightly. Clarke can already see her plain distaste for Lexa. Octavia isn’t one to hide her feelings. If she doesn’t like you, you will definitely know it.

There’s some commotion from the kitchen, and Lincoln appears with a roll of gauze, a bag of frozen peas, a wet cloth, and a box of Band-Aids. “Sorry. This is all we have.” Clarke nods and catches the items as he tosses them to her. Raven wanders into the kitchen and starts rummaging through the cabinets, and Octavia follows after sharing a brief glance with Lincoln. They are annoying already with their telepathic couple ways.

When Clarke reaches forward, Lexa immediately recoils, eyes flashing dangerously. “I do not need your help,” she spits, although the slight flinch in her face says otherwise. “I am no stranger to cracked ribs. They heal on their own.”

Narrowing her eyes, Clarke sits herself down on the coffee table in front of the couch and leans forward, elbows on her knees. This might be harder than she had anticipated. She waves Lincoln over and hands him the roll of gauze, which he takes with a confused look. “Fine. Lincoln can bandage you up. But you need to let me check for something worse than a cracked rib. Any broken pieces can puncture your lungs or something else vital.”

What she gets in return is a deep scowl. “I have had cracked ribs before. I know what they feel like.” Lexa snatches the gauze from Lincoln. “I am fairly certain I would know if a piece of bone was embedded in my lung.”

Clarke sighs, exasperated. “Jesus, I’ve known you for like twenty minutes and you’re already giving me a headache. Fine, risk a punctured lung, I don’t care. At least get your ass up off the couch and put some gauze on your torso.”

Lexa’s glare is piercing, as if she is trying to sear a hole directly through Clarke’s forehead. Clarke rolls her eyes. “You know, if looks could kill, you’d have a lot of blood on your hands.”

Lexa arches an eyebrow, and to Clarke’s utter surprise her lips twitch upward ever so slightly. There’s a dark humor to it and Clarke suddenly understands how literal her words are when Lexa lifts up her arms, brandishing her bloodied hands. “I already do, Clarke.”

“Lexa, what have I told you about bringing blood into the house?” Lincoln springs into action, ripping the scarlet bandages off of his housemate’s hands and tossing them into the trash. From the kitchen, Raven snickers as she eats a bowl of cereal. Raven’s one of those people who will raid your pantry right after she meets you because if she wants food, she will get food.

Now comes the actual issue of getting the gauze around a very non-compliant Lexa’s waist. Clarke rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, preparing for what is bound to be an endless wave of frustration. Sometimes she wonders why she just has to be a good person and help people. Especially a rude and aloof crazy fighter girl she just met.

I should’ve just left that stupid fight club when I had the chance.

“Lincoln, get her upper body off the couch,” Clarke orders, standing and holding out a hand so that Lexa can hand the gauze over. Immediately Lexa curls her lip, fists coming up defensively as Lincoln approaches, like she’s about to fight him off.

“I am not incapable of attending to my own injuries,” Lexa growls. She shifts upwards so she is almost sitting upright, her jaw so tight Clarke fears she may break it. The muscles in her arms strain as she exerts all the energy she has into just proving she’s not weak. Admirable, but stupid all the same.

“You can barely hold yourself upright, let alone stand and get this bandage on.” Clarke arches a challenging brow, wiggling her still empty fingers in emphasis. When the other girl still doesn’t move a muscle, she lets her hand drop and places it on her hip instead. She hasn't given up yet, though. This girl will get the medical help she needs if it's the last thing Clarke does. 

“Perhaps I do not need the bandage at all.” Lexa's tone is challenging.  

“Perhaps you do because your ribs are fucking cracked.”

“You do not know this for certain.”

“You just said you know what cracked ribs feel like!”

For a moment, Clarke thinks she has her there. Lexa pauses briefly, nostrils flaring, but then she says smoothly, “Yes. I also know how having a broken nose feels like, but that does not mean I have one.”

Before Clarke can snap back, Lincoln cuts in. His eyes are slightly wide, and Clarke realizes that he and the other two girls have been following their bickering like a tennis match. “Alright, enough. Lexa, stop your tough ass act and get up. Or I swear I’ll break the coffee machine.”

Lexa must really like her coffee, because her eyes narrow at Lincoln. “You asshole. I will just go down the street to the cafe.”

“Have fun walking with broken ribs. Now get up.” This time Lincoln doesn’t give her a chance to respond before he walks over, hooks his hands under her arms, and hauls her up, supporting all her weight. Lexa makes a sound between a grunt and a yelp, her face remaining harder than ever.

After a moment of unsteady, labored breathing she leans against Lincoln, grumbling under her breath. Thankfully, Lexa is still only in a sports bra, so Clarke doesn’t have to worry about the awkwardness of lifting up a shirt. Very cautiously she moves forward, eyeing Lexa as if she may lash out at any moment. The girl obviously wants to. When she’s standing directly in front of her, she ever so slowly reaches a hand back out. Since Lincoln is the only reason she is still upright, Lexa can’t recoil this time, but her jaw is still clenched. Clarke’s eyes flicker meaningfully to the roll of gauze still clutched between Lexa’s fingers, then back up to the girl’s face. A tense moment passes before Lexa’s hand gradually comes up and drops the roll into her waiting palm. Clarke nods, just once. Wordlessly Lexa’s rigid gaze moves to focus on something behind her, stubbornly avoiding looking Clarke in the eye.

“Hold still.” Clarke reaches around her torso and presses the first layer of gauze to Lexa’s abdomen. At first her fingertips graze the skin, and Lexa’s reaction is instantaneous; a sudden, hard clench of her stomach that is obviously painful. After that Clarke is very careful to not let her fingers come into any sort of contact. She ignores the wave of heat that radiates in the few inches between them. She ignores the hostile anger that is practically emanating from the other girl, and continues to slowly wrap the gauze around and around, tight but not enough to cause discomfort. Now up close and rather personal, Clarke can clearly see the black ink she’d spotted earlier. The tattoo on Lexa’s upper arm is nothing like anything Clarke has seen before, a tribal design that is essentially reflected upon itself. The artist inside her twitches wispy fingers over sketchpads and pens that have gathered thin layers of dust in her mind. Mentally scolding herself for losing focus on a petty tattoo, Clarke forces herself to concentrate on the white material moving around and around and definitely not at piercing green eyes and mysterious ink.

When the roll is gone she fastens it, hastily steps back, gives the now bandaged torso a quick once-over, and nods in satisfaction. Instead of at least now acknowledging Clarke’s presence, Lexa says nothing, and forces herself out of Lincoln’s grip to return to her position on the couch.

Lincoln nods in gratitude. “Thanks, Clarke. I definitely couldn’t have handled her on my own.”

Lexa huffs in response and throws an arm over her eyes, only to let out a hiss of pain between her teeth and jerk her arm away from her face. When she takes it away, there’s a smear of blood on her forearm.

“Ooh, that doesn’t look good,” Raven comments, coming up to stand behind the couch. She slurps cereal noisily from her bowl.

Lexa ignores her. “Dammit,” Lexa mutters under her breath. Her stomach curls as she gets up—or, attempts to. When her bandages shift she grimaces and settles back down, features rigid in vexation. Clarke wonders if she’s always like this, if that indignant scowl ever softens. She wonders if her eyes look different when they are simply observing and not glaring at everyone and everything.

“That’s going to need stitches,” Clarke tells her, already preparing to ask Lincoln where he keeps needles and thread. “I can stitch it up for you.”

The words are barely out of her mouth when Lexa snaps, “No.”

It’s the same ‘no’ she had used back at the ring, lying on the ground and covered in someone else’s blood. Harsh. Severe. Final. Just getting her to not punch Clarke while she bandaged her ribs was stretching it far enough, and Clarke knows that this time Lexa will not agree to undergo anymore attention from ‘Dr. Clarke’.

Clarke sighs through her nose and spares a glance at Lincoln, who has his arms folded over his chest. He merely shrugs, like, What can ya do? He, too, knows that Lexa will not be surrendering this time around. Clarke decides that’s not her problem. This girl, this bruised and bloody fighter, is not her problem. Sometimes Clarke needs to remind herself that not everyone wants her help.

To what is almost Clarke’s relief, she doesn’t have to even respond. With a noticeably—however much she tries to disguise it—strenuous effort, Lexa swings herself rather awkwardly off the couch. To her credit, the only indication she is in any pain is the tightness around her eyes and low groan she utters as she draws herself to her full height. Lincoln steps forward, as if preparing to catch her if she falls, but Lexa gives him a warning glare before turning her back on all of them and disappearing down the hall. Though it’s only a brief view, Clarke can now see she has more ink spanning across her back.

Lexa’s steps are definitely strained, and Clarke guesses every muscle in her body is protesting at the movements, but by some miracle Lexa makes it far enough to her room. The resounding thud of her door shutting is enough to break the uneasy silence that has fallen. Now feeling slightly uncomfortable, Clarke shifts from foot to foot. “You know she’ll need pain meds, right? And ice doesn’t hurt. Oh, and make sure—”

“Clarke.” Lincoln holds up a hand, and Clarke thinks he’s almost about to start laughing at her. “Thanks, really, but don’t worry. Believe me, Lexa has dealt with things a lot worse than a cracked rib or two. She’ll be fine.”

Pursing her lips, Clarke reluctantly nods. “Okay, okay. Sorry. I guess it’s better that I wasn’t, ah, tending to her any longer. She seems—” Clarke struggles to find the correct word to describe Lexa’s demeanor “—intense.” It still doesn’t seem right, but it’s the best Clarke can come up with.

Lincoln nods in agreement. “Well, that is one way to describe Lexa.” He throws a backwards glance towards the hallway where his housemate’s bedroom is. Clarke can tell something’s bothering him, but she’s not sure if it has to do with Lexa or not. Either way, she also knows when she’s overstayed her welcome. Even if she did just patch up his mean fighter friend.

It seem she’s not the only one who has also picked up on that. There’s a clatter from behind them as Raven tosses her now empty cereal bowl into the sink. Octavia pushes herself off the wall she had been leaning against, a slightly bored look on her face. She saunters over towards Lincoln and presses a swift kiss to his cheek. “Thanks for taking us out tonight, babe. Fighting rings aren’t really by thing, but…it was quite the experience.” She flashes a grin, which Lincoln eagerly returns. He ducks his head to whisper something in her ear, causing her to smirk and—is Clarke seeing this right?—a slight pink to tinge the tips of her ears.

“I absolutely do not want to know whatever dirty sexual fantasies you two are whispering about over there, but I do want to get outta here,” Raven announces. Her interruption barely jars the two, causing her and Clarke to roll their eyes in unison. This is exactly what happened last year with them. Clarke knows they have a whole summer of sappy Lincoln and Octavia moments to look forward to.

Growing impatient, Raven raps her knuckles hard on the door and yanks it open, swinging it back and forth so that the hinges creak loudly. With a last parting kiss that leaves Lincoln grinning ear-to-ear, Octavia finally chooses to join them, stalking past Raven out the door and casually flipping her off as she passes.

It takes all of two seconds for them to realize it’s still pitch-black outside.

This is almost surprising to Clarke. They had left at what, 9? She checks the worn watch on her wrist. 11:30. It feels like they had been gone for ages. 

Whirling around, Octavia returns with a slightly embarrassed look. “Er, Lincoln…Can we get a ride?”

Chapter Text

oookay wow so here we are almost a year later lol..unfortunately i had to abandon this fic once school started. so i'll chalk that up to strenuous amounts of schoolwork and also who i am as a person. thanks to anyone who actually took the time to read this & comment & kudos etc. however when i tried to return to this fic over the summer i found it incredibly hard to write something that wasn't absolute trash (not that far off from its current state tho lol) and i had just lost where i wanted to go w this story. not to mention the absolute shitshow that was season 3 - following the Episode That Must Not Be Named, i still find it hard to write lexa 5 months later because i'm an emotional piece of shit. so i think whats going to happen is i'm going to try and revamp this fic - fixing it, rewriting, all that good stuff. i can't guarantee that though, it's just what i want to do and i will do my best to accomplish that. school starts up again soon though, and seeing how balancing writing and school turned out last year, odds aren't really in my favor on that one. chapters may be taken down and then reposted. or i could just wait another year and see if i've still got writers block. thats an option too.
so yeah. thats where i'm at. if anyone stuck around, you're the real mvp. hopefully i'll see you around folks.