It starts like this: a loose coil in a collapsable compartment slices open the skin of Raven's palm. She doesn't even feel it at first, too focused on the faulty wiring above her head, but she hears Finn walk into the apartment and then "Holy shit. Holy shit, Raven, is that blood?"
So maybe it starts like this: Finn, panicking, practically shoving her through the Med Bay entrance with a dirty rag around her hand, still dripping blood onto the clean white floors. Whoops. She slouches down onto the nearest open table, kicking her heels against the metal sides.
"God, Finn, chill. It's a damn paper cut." He glares at her, but his glares are pathetic to an extreme degree so she just laughs in his face and waves him off with her rag hand.
Raven is still smiling, a little, when he comes back with an older woman, her messy, dark blonde hair tucked under a scrub cap and sharp eyes flicking over her quickly. "All right, what happened—Raven, is it? My name is Doctor Griffin." She flips the hand over and unravels the rag efficiently, taking a long look at the cut. Its deeper than Raven thought it was, and she feels a small bubble of nervousness spread through her stomach. That's her good hand, her working hand; she needs that hand, what if she can't—
"Looks like you got lucky." At the Doctor's words, the tension bleeds out as quickly as it came. "No tissue damage, but you will need stitches."
"Awesome," Raven says, and she's pretty impressed with the fact that her voice doesn't even wobble. "That's awesome—let's do it. My shift is in an hour."
Finn protests immediately. "Wait, no, doesn't she need like, transfusions or something? Painkillers? Bed rest?" He leans in to hover over her shoulder and she rolls her eyes at Dr. Griffin, who's watching with a raised brow and a knowing gaze. "She lost too much blood, she's probably dizzy or, or weak, or something. She looks a little weak."
The Doc smiles slightly and waves a hand over to an intern in the opposite corner, somewhere over Raven's shoulder. "Collins, right?" Finn nods, still mother henning in the background. "Why don't you wait outside and I'll get Clarke to stitch her up. She'll be fine."
Raven smirks at her boyfriend, sharp, and a little mean. ('She looks weak.' Bullshit.) "Go home, Finn. It's just stitches, I'll find you later." If she's being honest with herself, she maybe just doesn't want him to be here in case it hurts more than she's expecting. (She's never gotten stitches before. She has no real frame of reference—but fuck if she lets somebody see her cry.)
He looks at her, a little bit hurt, before nodding and lifting her other hand to his lips in a gentle goodbye kiss before walking out. She wants to laugh, because jeez, what a drama queen, but then she glances up at the intern who's untying her scrub mask and walking across the med bay towards her, and the laugh dries up in her throat in a blink.
If she were in an old Hollywood Earth-vid, she's pretty sure this part would be in slow-mo. With, like, angels in the background.
The girl— because she's gotta be, what, seventeen, eighteen? Somewhere around Raven's age (at least she hopes)— comes to a stop in front of the table. She's got suture supplies in one hand and surgical gloves in another, but Raven isn't really thinking about that at all because she's practically standing in between Raven's spread legs holy shit.
"Hi," she says, sweetly, and her voice is deeper than Raven expected, almost husky. It's …pretty hot, actually. "I'm Clarke. Let's take a look at that cut, hmm?"
"Uh. Yeah. Sure."
A single curl of white blonde hair (Raven doesn't even think she's ever seen that color in real life on the Ark, everyone on Mecha is so dark, but this girl is like staring into the sun, madre de dios) has fallen loose from her low bun and her eyelashes are so long, and her grey blue eyes are so pale and Raven thinks she might stop breathing a little when Clarke pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth as she cleans the cut on Raven's hand. It doesn't even sting. Well, it might, but Raven's not really paying attention.
"So, you're, uh—" she scrambles around for something to say. "You're a doctor?" Raven feels the blush creeping up her chest but steadfastly ignores it.
Thankfully, Clarke doesn't look up from threading the needle and just smiles slightly when she answers. "Yeah, well, in-training. I'm almost done. I'm hoping to be a surgeon before I turn 18."
She doesn't bother to hide her impressed look. "Damn. That's awesome." Clarke blushes a little and Raven thinks her heart actually skips a beat. "Why the age marker?"
"Oh, well," the sterile needle flashes until the fluorescent lighting, "my mom was the youngest surgeon on the Ark, at 20. It's kind of dumb, but it's nice to have something to beat." Clarke's grin turns sly. Raven swallows audibly.
"Oh. Cool. That's—uh, cool." She kind of wants to slam her own head against the metal table and just die quickly.
The other girl just smiles and cradles Raven's hand between hers, needle poised above the open wound. Its stopped bleeding, thankfully, and she can't really feel any pain yet because the skin around it has gone numb, but she must look a little wary because Clarke whispers "Don't worry, I'll be quick," and swipes her gloved thumb once, softly, across Raven's wrist before she starts.
It hurts. A lot. But then Clarke glances up at her again from under her lashes, smiling in reassurance, and Raven forgets about everything else for a while.
So maybe, really, it starts like this: Raven falls in love.
Finn and Raven break up the day after the Unity Day celebration. Raven brings it up first, because she loves Finn, she does, but she's not cruel enough to pretend that they way she loves him will be enough. She's not selfish enough to drag him along beside her when she knows he's not the one she wants.
She can't tell him who she really wants, either. Not just because its salt in the wound— although it is, or it would be— but because under Ark law, her thoughts are starting to border on actually illegal. (Why sanction love when it doesn't reproduce? Marriage is a duty, a responsibility towards the acquisition of a singular viable offspring. There is no such thing as disregarding your duty when you're on the Ark; everyone knows this.)
When Raven was small, and her mama was sober, they used to make jokes about her wild streak. Tia used to laugh with them and call her "little outlaw" when she started taking apart the wiring under the heating vents and crawling in the closets to check the lighting cables.
Raven was 7. She'd figured if they didn't want her to mess with it they shouldn't have made it so easy. "Te gusta romper las reglas, mija?" her mama would laugh, and pat her braid.
You like to break the rules?
Now, its ten years later and she's staring at the ceiling of her empty bunk, running her fingers over the scar on her palm where the stitches once were, thinking of soft hands, and pale skin, and blonde hair, and, well… it's not so funny, anymore.
She gets over it. Not…entirely, per se, but she does her job and tries to ignore it, lets the scab heal over until all that's left is the ache under her skin, nothing like the raw open wound of realizing you've fallen in love with the wrong person. That's not to say Raven deals with it in a healthy fashion, but, really, what are they expecting. She's not a damn saint.
There may be a little …stalking in the beginning. Just a little. Nothing weird. Raven just happens to detour past the Med Bay on her way back from the Engineering Station, ignoring the fact that its about a fifteen minute addendum to her walk home at night.
Wick and Finn ask her, once, why she shows up for dinner rations so late. She says she likes to take the scenic route, so she can catch a glimpse of the stars through the glass panels in the walls. Finn raises a derisive brow at that (he can always tell when she's lying), but she can't tell him she doesn't need to see the stars anymore when she's already seen the sun up close.
On a completely unrelated side note, injuries become a lot more frequent in the mechanic's line of work. So frequent, that Raven knows more about Clarke than she ever actually thought she'd get to know.
(The effort of faking so many migraines and stomachaches and sudden coughs are definitely definitely worth it.)
She knows now, that Clarke has just turned seventeen. That Clarke loves Earth history. That she loves the Ark's music archives, especially the jazz era (Ella Fitzgerald, especially). Raven knows now that she and her father, the head engineer, are incredibly close; and that she likes art almost more than healing, and that her stitches are perfect and neat to an absurd degree—because as the daughter of Abigail Griffin she can't afford to be sloppy, and that she thinks Raven is amazing for training in Zero-G, and that when she's nervous, she bites her lip, and when she's embarrassed, her whole face blushes, even her neck, and Raven stares at it sometimes and wonders if the blush goes hot all over her skin—
Clarke studies her, out of the corner of her eye, sometimes. Raven might not be the doctor, but she knows the signs: dilated pupils, fast pulse, blush-stained cheeks. She gets it. Raven knows she's not ugly, hell no, but having this girl, this fucking— gorgeous, whip smart, incredible girl stare at her like that, and be unable to do anything about it, or say anything, god, it kills her.
So she steps back. Not too far, but just enough to keep her sane. (and safe)
Raven knows other things, now, too: like how Clarke's best friend, a tall, dark skinned boy named Wells (Wells Jaha, of course Raven falls in love with what amounts to Ark Royalty, claro que si, of course she does), who sometimes visits her while she's working, is completely and utterly in love with her. Raven knows this because when he sees her, his face does this thing where his smile stretches too wide and his eyes never leave Clarke's even when she's talking with her hands (which she only does when she's excited) and Raven also knows this because she sees that same look in the mirror every time she gets back from her visit to the Med Bay. Every damn time. It's pathetic.
She also knows that Clarke doesn't love him back, because that longing on his face is pretty familiar, too.
And it will always be familiar, because on the Ark, nothing ever changes. It can't. Raven will love this girl from a distance, because that's all she'll ever be allowed; but if she can be near her, be close to her, just for a few moments in a day—she'll take whatever she can get.
She won't beg. That's not who she is. Raven just…gets past it.
Finn gets arrested a few weeks after her eighteenth birthday. She doesn't have time to see Clarke for weeks, too busy training and grieving and panicking. Then Abby finds her, looking wan and pale in the low lighting outside the Engineering Station, and says "Clarke's gone, too. I need your help."
It all kind of goes downhill from there.
CLARKE:
The first time it actually comes up in conversation, its kind of an accident.
Finn tries to kiss her in the bunker, and she lets him, just for a moment (just because she's selfish, and grieving, and if she closes her eyes she can make the firm press of Finn's mouth into something softer, smoother, and the hand cupping her face won't be so large and heavy, instead the fingers will taper off into familiar, dexterous, nimble digits and callused palms, the skin just a few shades darker, the lips just a little fuller, and—)
It does nothing except make her miss what she's never actually had.
She steps back.
"I'm sorry. I'm, I'm so sorry. Finn, we can't—" she doesn't know how to put it into words, but she feels the thick weight of guilt underneath the grief that comes from kissing someone when you want to be kissing someone else. "Its not that I don't like you, its just—"
He furrows his brow as he follows her when she turns away. "Who is he?" Finn asks after a long time. His fists are clenched at his sides.
She doesn't correct him, the secret so ingrained into her bones she doesn't even think she can, not yet, not now. The ground is new and different, but some things are just too rooted in fear. "It's not— I'm sorry, Finn. It's just, complicated." She sighs and repeats herself as she makes her way towards the ladder. "I'm sorry."
He calls out to her as she's leaving, but Clarke doesn't look back.
She thinks that's the end of it, and she's stupid, really (Finn doesn't do things halfway, she should know this) but the next night when Clarke comes back from a scouting trip with Monroe and Miller, she arrives to find the entire camp in a loose circle around the bonfire, spread out in front of the dropship. She can hear muffled shouts and cheering and for a moment she thinks: what, are we this greedy for entertainment? We have to resort to bread and circuses? (and then she remembers her co-leader is a closet greek history nerd and sighs in acceptance of the inevitable). But the kids don't sound like their having fun, in fact—
"—never touched her! What the fuck, Spacewalker?" Bellamy's voice is pissed, and Clarke pushes her way through the crowd in time to see Finn taking another swing. The firelight flickers across his face and she can't make out his expression, but he's yelling.
"You just had to drag her along. Couldn't keep your dirty hands to yourself—" Bellamy ducks away from another wild punch, obviously not in the mood for games. Finn looks livid, and a little drunk, too. She notices a lot of moonshine tins in people's hands with resignation. Looks like the party started early.
"We don't even like each other half the time, what are you talking about?"
The crowd is jostling at her back, yelling taunts and cat-calling, and Bellamy glances over to the side just in time to see her standing there in utter confusion, before Finn gets in a lucky hit.
"—Then why is she in love with you," he shouts, panting, as Bellamy holds his hand to his face and curses, trying to shake off the hit. The crowd falls to a hush at the words, and Clarke's feet start moving without her realizing it, and then she's suddenly stepping forward and spinning Finn around in time to punch him in the face. She throws her whole body into it—she's pretty sure something cracks under her fist.
He stumbles back and drops like a puppet with his strings cut.
"Holy shit," says a voice from behind her in the shocked silence, sounding suspiciously like Jasper. "Did she just break his nose?"
Monty's voice echoes in agreement. "Holy shit."
Clarke ignores them in favor of leaning over Finn, who's still down on one knee and moaning in pain.
"Have fun setting that yourself," is all she says, before she steps around him and heads towards the ship doors. The crowd parts for her like water, still in awe, but the rage bubbling under her skin is starting to turn into humiliation, so she just rushes through the opening and away from prying eyes. Once she's inside, the tension bleeds out of her shoulders, and she can feel herself droop.
"Fuck," she whispers. It echoes in the empty metal space. (She misses her dad. She misses Wells. She misses Raven. God, she misses Raven.)
Footsteps clatter up the walkway. She doesn't turn around to look who it is, because she already knows. Clarke grabs a poultice from the supply table and starts wrapping it so she doesn't have to look at him.
"Nice right cross, Princess."
"Hm. Thanks."
"Probably hurt like hell." He sounds grudgingly impressed.
She flexes her fist and shrugs. Her knuckles are bloody.
Bellamy clears his throat. "So, um."
She finally turns around in time to see him shuffle his feet, his right hand scratching at the back of his neck. Clarke has never seen him look so awkward.
He swallows and continues, doggedly. "You, uh, what he said—that's not. You're not—are you?"
"No, Bellamy." Clarke takes pity on him and turns around fully, in order to hand him the poultice. His right eye is starting to swell a little. "As much as it might shock you, you're not exactly my type."
He exhales in relief, forcefully, and leans back against one of her makeshift med-tables. "Well, alright, then. Figured I'd just, I dunno, check."
He ducks his head and tries to apply the poultice with a wince. She rolls her eyes, taking it from him so she can do it herself, and studiously ignores his questioning gaze. He clears his throat again.
"So, uh. Do you wanna talk about—ow, shit, Princess."
Clarke pulls back slightly from where she'd pressed down on the bruise, keeping her expression innocent. "Not really."
He waits for her to finish cleaning the small split in the skin above his brow before he tries again. This time he sounds…sympathetic.
"So, you and Collins," he starts, as she turns back to pick up the compress from the supply table again. "I was under the impression you two were…"
Clarke sighs as he flails a hand vaguely, trying to express what 'they' were without actually saying it. She appreciates his sudden attempt at subtlety in a way that she didn't think would ever be directed at Bellamy Blake. Suddenly the weight of the last few days bears down on her, and she's just so tired, she doesn't even try and stop the words from spilling out: "Finn… isn't exactly my type either."
He doesn't respond for a moment, then: "Well, Princess, you're type seems pretty specific. You got a checklist on hand?"
That makes her snort a laugh. She pulls back the compress to check the swelling, the redness barely noticeable against his smooth tan skin. (she thinks of another person, then, with tan skin, and dark hair, and brown eyes, and that worn red jacket that hangs loose over her thin frame, and how Clarke has always wanted to say something during those visits: 'you should eat more, you look tired, have you slept, are you hungry, can I kiss you, do you feel this, too?' She never did. She hates herself for that, sometimes.)
Bellamy is watching her with something like kindness. She looks away quickly.
He pushes off the table and smirks at her, his face melting back into his usual devilish grin. "He must be pretty special, then."
"She," Clarke whispers, the single word hanging heavy in the air of the dropship. Bellamy's brow furrows in confusion and then:
"Oh." A beat. "Oh."
She twists her hands in her lap, trying not to acknowledge the fact that she's just told what amounts to a complete stranger a secret that could've gotten her killed less than 6 months ago. But he doesn't react the way she thinks he will, in fact, he looks thoughtful.
He steps towards her and puts a hand on her arm. "This is Earth, Clarke. Things can be different. We're allowed to make our own choices down here."
He sounds so sure, so serious; Clarke is almost jealous of Octavia for having this kind of man at her side her whole life. If she were any less herself, she might ask him to hug her.
Instead she smiles at him, a little bit sly, and says: "Whatever the hell we want, right?"
He's got a nice laugh.
RAVEN:
She's falling from the sky like a comet, engulfed in flames, wrapped up tight in a hunk of scrap metal and duct tape that has the consistency of a tin can, and earth is shrieking towards her, and she can't see for shit, and she thinks she might be laughing, a little; wild, uninhibited — as if she still had any air in her lungs— and her only thought is: this feels too familiar to be the end. I think I've fallen like this before.