Hey friends. How're you doing? I hope you're well. Here's chapter four - as always, I'm trying to get better at writing relationships, so if you have any advice or crit about that I'd much appreciate it! Next chapter is the big date, dun dun duun! Thanks for reading :)

Chapter Four

Clarke had finally – finally! – finished a watercolour. She leaned back, stuck her arms up and did a little victory wiggle in her chair. Across the reception, Wells glanced up.

"Chill, princess," he said over his coffee cup. "You're drinking rat pee at 2am, how happy could you possibly be?"

"Very!" Clarke declared. "Check it out!"

She turned her sketchbook towards him. It was a perfectly ordinary picture; the coffeeshop she'd been in with Lexa, viewed from the inside, table scattered with crumbs and cups and two figures on the leafy path outside, surrounded by greenery and flowers and a cloudy sky.

Wells's expression did not change; but then again, Clarke didn't think she'd ever seen it change. "Very nice," he said, and turned back to his book.

Clarke waited a moment, holding her sketchbook, but he didn't look up again. The conversation was clearly over. She stifled a laugh at his behaviour and put her book down. Perhaps it was a bit of a stretch to expect her stoic coworker to share her joy at her achievement.

Clarke herself beamed at her picture. It had worked. It had finally worked. Mr. Wallace had been right; watercolours needed her to relax, to let it flow. The trees were softer now, greens and browns blurring together. The café was done in gentle colours; soft reds and yellows, the cold colours like the white of the coffee cups warmed with shadows of blue. Although it had crossed her mind to draw Lexa and the blue-haired girl, she'd frowned at the sudden burst of jealousy this thought ignited. Instead, she'd shamelessly inserted herself into the picture instead. It wasn't clear – the figures were just shadows, facing away from the viewer so you could only see their hair – but Clarke knew. She smiled down at the shadow couple.

"Rounds," Wells said.

Clarke jumped out of her reverie and looked at the clock. Twelve already?

Wells was holding out his fist without looking up from his book. Wordlessly, they played a quick game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. Wells chose rock. Clarke chose scissors.

"God damn it," Clarke muttered as she got to her feet.

"You're always scissors," Wells said.

"Really?"

"Always."

Clarke gave a bemused smile as she headed out into the dark corridor. When did Wells get so funny?

The home was perfectly quiet and still. She bounced along in her squeaky shoes, peering in through each of the doors to make sure all the residents were safely asleep. She was still riding high from her date with Lexa; mastering watercolours as well was enough to make her dizzy with happiness. The fact that she still had half a chocolate muffin in her bag for later – well, that was just heaven.

Everything, it seemed, was coming up roses. Lexa was texting her now, really texting her, with actual sentences. Clarke had the next day off, and she was hoping Lexa would remember and ask her out somewhere. If she didn't, then Clarke wasn't off again until Saturday, but that was fine because Friday was payday, and Clarke could ask Lexa out, instead of the other way around. Clarke refused to ask her out now, when she had no money to pay. That would just be rude.

Clarke's stomach rumbled at the thought of money. She'd already made fantasy lists of the foods she was longing for – after she'd paid Raven rent, of course. If there was anything left over, then she could even take Lexa out somewhere nice; it made Clarke uneasy that Lexa paid for things. Still, Clarke mused, she'd do the same if their roles were reversed.

A light flickered up ahead. Clarke paused, startled. It flickered again.

A prickle of fear made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She stepped over to the nearest door and checked inside. The two residents were sleeping soundly. Back out in the corridor, the light kept flickering.

"Hello?" Clarke said, then blushed at her own stupidity.

What, is the lightbulb going to answer you?

Someone thumped on the next door. Clarke jumped out of her skin. It kept going: bang, bang, bang. Her heart thundered right along with it; there were hardly any residents who could get up themselves and bang on a door. Could it be an intruder? Some visitor who'd gotten lost during the day? No, that was stupid; visiting hours were ages ago.

Clarke took a tentative step forward. The door handle began to rattle. She jumped again, but took another step anyway. If there was something wrong, it was her duty to look into it.

She crept closer and closer, the door shaking all the time, until finally she was close enough to see the number on the door. She sighed. Of course. Number 63.

"Mr. Wallace," she called, managing to sound both exhausted and annoyed. She reached for the door. "Stop what you're doing; I know it's you-"

The door burst open and smashed into Clarke's face on the way. White hot pain exploded behind her eyes and she staggered, a hand flying up to protect herself. Unfortunately, having her view blocked by an aggressive door and a hand meant that she completely missed Dante Wallace, masked, launching himself out of his room. He went sailing through the air, black robe flapping, and landed on a soft and unsuspecting Clarke. They tumbled to the ground together, Clarke's butt taking the brunt of their hard landing.

Clarke stared up at the flickering light above her, wondering dazedly if she was in heaven. A chuckle came from the tangle of human on top of her.

"I'm glad you find it funny," she groaned, gritting her teeth and straining to sit upright despite the weight of the old man. She heaved – he was not large, but still considerably taller and heavier than she was – and managed to roll him off her so he was lying on the floor instead.

"You can't go jumping around like that at your age, Mr. Wallace," she muttered, changing position to placate her sore butt. "You'll hurt yourself."

Dante was undeterred. "I got you… good this time," he laughed from the floor, having to pause for breath between words. "Bet you weren't… expecting… that."

"I sure wasn't," she agreed wholeheartedly. She pulled him upright and leant him against the wall. "Have you hurt yourself? Any bruises? What the-?"

She removed something from under her butt. It turned out to be the spooky mask that Dante had been wearing, and a plastic scythe, broken in the middle from the fall.

"Where did you get these?" She demanded.

Dante grinned. "Wells g… got them."

"Wells?"

Dante nodded. "He always… helps me… prank you."

Clarke was outraged. Quiet, unsociable Wells had been pranking her all year? "That little bitch," she muttered under breath, amused.

Dante giggled at her expression. "Mirabelle," Dante pointed a shaky hand behind them. "Selena… helped, too."

Clarke turned and found two of the other residents, whom she'd checked on and found to be peacefully sleeping a minute ago, grinning at them both from the window of their room. "Traitors," she growled, shaking a fist at them, but a smile tugged at her mouth nevertheless. "How long have you been planning this?"

"Weeks!" Said Mirabelle, beaming.

"It's nearly Halloween!" Said Selena, flicking the lights on and off again just because she could.

"Ohh," Clarke groaned. "Hell day. I forgot."

"You don't like Halloween?" Dante's mouth flew open. "It's my favourite holiday!"

"Because of the tricks or the treats?" Clarke arched a brow. "Come on, Mr. Wallace. That's enough excitement for one night. Let's get you back to bed."

She heaved him to his feet – it was damn lucky he hadn't hurt himself – and shuffled him back into his room.

"I don't want to," Dante panted, trying to walk with her but not having the strength. "I can't sleep! I sleep all day! Never do anything."

Clarke felt a pang of guilt. I wonder what it's like to be here all day. At least I can clock out.

"Just for now, Mr. Wallace," she said. "You need to be in your chair, at least. I could take you for a walk if you liked."

He grumbled, almost childish, but eventually agreed. Clarke settled him into his wheelchair, retrieved his slippers and tucked them onto his feet, and they set off, making sure the rebel girls next door were in bed as they went.

They finished Clarke's rounds together, checking on all the patients while Dante babbled on about Halloween. By the end of it, Clarke had learned a little too much about his past, strange costumes: dressing as "a naked Apollo in his prime, covered in olive oil, as was the Greek tradition", was by far the last thing she wanted to imagine this sweet old man doing. Besides which, how was being naked even a costume?

Finally, they squeaked back to the reception desk, where Wells was still reading. He looked up as they entered.

"Mr. W!" He called. "How'd it go?"

"Great!" Dante beamed.

Clarke threw the broken scythe at Wells. The plastic made a very satisfying thud as it connected with his head. "I hate you both," she announced, making them grin even more.

"Ah, what's this?" Dante said, suddenly distracted. He grabbed Clarke's sketchbook. "Clarke! You kept practising with your watercolours! Oh my! This is good!"

A bubble of happiness swelled in Clarke's tummy. "You think?"

"Well, no. But I'm glad you kept practising!"

The bubble burst. Wells laughed.

Dante smiled, too, to take the edge off his comment. He touched Clarke's wrist. "It's not about whether it is good or bad, my dear," he said, blue eyes bright. "It's about the fact that it is better. Much, much better. You should be very proud. I know I am."

He was so sincere, his comments so sweet, that Clarke was surprised to find her eyes burning. She sniffed quickly, blinking away tears. Dante spared her by looking back at the painting, touching the shadowy fingers with gentle, artist's fingers.

"Who is she?"

Clarke jumped. "Who?"

"This girl."

He was pointing at Lexa's picture. Clarke blushed. He hadn't asked about the other one – did he know it was her? How could he tell?

"Oh, just," she floundered as to how to explain to a man of his era that it was a girl who she'd gone on a coffee date with whom she eventually wanted to bang. "Just a couple I saw leaving a coffee shop. I thought the window made a nice frame."

"It does, it does," Dante agreed. Then he winked at her. "A great frame for the couple."

Clarke's eyes went wide in furious warning. She glanced at Wells, but he was smiling to himself, seemingly absorbed in his book.

"Come on, Apollo," Clarke said to Dante. "Let's get you back to bed before you cause any more trouble."

She got about two steps before her phone, abandoned on the reception desk, gave a hopeful little beep. Clarke lunged for it. It was a text from Lexa.

Lexa, 00:23

Let me take you out tomorrow night.

Clarke bit her lip, trying desperately to contain a grin. Dante twisted in his chair to look at her.

"Another invitation to the coffee shop?"

Clarke put her phone in her pocket and gave him a good push. "None of your business."

Clarke checked her bank account.

The ATM screen went blank for moment, although it was shocked that she was even asking. Eventually, with much hesitation, flickering, and wheezing electronics, the screen lit up.

$3.45

Clarke said, "Huh." It was difficult to be disappointed by the small amount when she was actually deeply surprised that it was not even smaller. Quickly, as though afraid money was bleeding from her account cent by cent, Clarke snatched her card back from the machine and hurried into the shop next door to stock up on ramen and pasta.

Back at Raven's, her stock of food looked even sadder than her bank account had implied. With a sigh, Clarke put a packet of ramen on the stove to boil. The smell, far too familiar after the last week, made her grimace.

Only four days til payday, she told herself, then brightened considerably. And tonight, Lexa is taking me out. I shall wash the taste of ten cent ramen from my mouth with champagne and lobster.

She was joking – she'd have been happy even if Lexa dropped her off to walk through the McDonald's drive-thru in a cardboard box – but it made her miserable lunch easier to stomach. She took it to her room, still trying to avoid Finn, and surveyed her wardrobe while she ate.

Jeans. T-shirts. Blue sweater. Sneakers. The denim jacket that Lexa had made fun of her for wearing too often. A beanie with a hole in that Raven had given to her.

It was hardly first date material.

Suddenly, Raven's head popped around the door.

"Are you eating ramen again?" She demanded.

"Oh, you know me," Clarke smiled. "I just love ramen."

Raven looked at her as though she were mad. Maybe she was mad.

"Isn't your date tonight?" Raven thankfully moved on. She cast a disparaging glance over Clarke's threadbare wardrobe. With classic Reyes tact, she said, "I hope to God you're not thinking of wearing any of this shit."

"Erm…" Clarke blushed, not willing to admit that she had nothing else and she needed help.

Raven put her hands on her hips. "Well, if you haven't got anything else then you can borrow something of mine. Get a shower. I'll help."

Clarke felt a rush of love that came from being perfectly understood. "Thanks, Rae."

Raven raised an eyebrow. "Get a move on, Cinderella."

Clarke finished her ramen and jumped in the shower. She washed her hair, put a facemask on, and, after a moment's consideration, shaved.

Not that I'm expecting anything, she tried to convince herself. It's just good to be prepared.

Out of the bathroom she checked the time – 4:30. Lexa was coming at 7. No problem.

Clarke dried her hair and put it in a loose braid so it'd be nice and wavy when she released it later. She put some make-up on, just a touch of foundation, eyeliner, and mascara; not because she didn't like it, just because it was all she had with her.

Raven found her half an hour later, sitting in her underwear and smearing the walls and floor with blue nail polish as though she'd given up entirely and poured out the whole bottle in a vain effort to get just some of it onto her nails.

"Very art nouveau," Raven said approvingly.

"No," Clarke grumbled, getting polish on her skin instead of her nail for the fiftieth time, "It's impressionist. 'Desperate idiot tries to make self look good.' The impression that you get is that she's failed."

Raven laughed. "Relax. Here, I got you a drink. Your toes are fine, and your left hand is ok. I'll do your right; that's always the pain in the ass."

Clarke meekly accepted the drink and Raven's brusque ministrations. There was nothing else for it; once Raven had chosen a project, she didn't rest til it was finished, and finished perfectly at that.

With a steady hand and a practiced eye, as careful as though she were painting her beloved truck (although why anyone would want a sky blue metallic truck was a mystery), Raven finished the second layer on Clarke's right hand.

"You haven't been on a date in a while," Raven said as they waited for it to dry. "That's not like you."

"I've been busy," Clarke said.

"Stressed," Raven corrected. She glanced Clarke up and down with a shrewd eye. "When are you going to tell me what happened with your mom?"

Clarke hid herself behind her whisky and coke. "Later?" She said hopefully.

Raven sighed. "Later is ok, as long as it's soon," she said. "You can't live in my closet forever."

"Did you want to stick Finn in here?" Clarke tried to joke, but Raven's look was stern, and cold fear settled low in Clarke's stomach.

Raven wants you out. She's had enough already. But I haven't been paid! I can't –

"No," Raven punched her on the arm. "Relax! I'm not going to kick you out. Not yet, anyway; you do need to go sometime. I'm just worried about you, Griffin."

"Don't be," Clarke said, hating how desperate she sounded. "Please. I'm fine, Rae. Just give me another week or so and I'll be fine."

Raven sighed and started a clear layer on top of the blue. "You're avoiding the question about your mom."

Clarke stared at her nails, glistening with paint. Raven's hands, calloused and strong, embraced her own.

"She called me earlier," Raven said, trying to meet Clarke's eyes. "I told her you were out. I said I didn't know why you'd left – she was trying to explain it to me. I want to hear it from you, Clarke."

Clarke's eyes began to sting. She hated herself for her instant emotional reaction. She finally looked up, at a blurred image of Raven's beautiful, sharp face. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I should have told you earlier."

"It's ok," Raven said. "Tell me now."

Clarke took a shaky breath. "We had a fight about me dropping out of med school," she admitted; Rae deserved to hear it. She'd been patient enough with Clarke's secrecy.

Raven raised her eyebrows. "But that was last year."

"Yeah. She was angry because I messed up art school, too." Clarke refused to meet Raven's eyes. "She thinks I'm a fuck-up," she said. It still hurt to remember. "She said all this stuff about – about my dad. About how disappointed he'd be in me. How he was so happy when I got accepted to med school. I just…" She couldn't keep going.

Raven nodded, looking thoughtful. "That sucks," she said bluntly.

"Yeah."

Raven gave her a brief hug. Clarke clung to her tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of apple shampoo and engine oil. Raven was solid, and warm. Clarke had forgotten how good her version of tough love could be.

"Sorry I brought it up," Raven said, pulling back. "Let's get you ready for your big date."

She got up to leave, tactfully, obviously thinking Clarke wanted to be alone.

"Wait - come back." Clarke gestured at the tissue box with her wet nails, smiling through her tears. "I can't – my nails."

Raven laughed and grabbed a tissue, dabbing at Clarke's eyes for her, careful to avoid her makeup. "You idiot, Griffin," she said fondly. "Come on, they'll dry soon. Let's look at clothes."

Raven's room was a junkyard. She expertly navigated the rare stepping-stones of clear floorspace between piles of clothes, books, and bits of disembowelled machinery, leaving Clarke to stagger across, stubbing her toes and knocking things over until she reached the safety of the bed and collapsed.

Raven threw open the doors to her massive closet and looked over her shoulder at an awestruck Clarke. "We're the same size, right?"

Clarke looked at Raven's butt. "I hope so."

"Stop staring," Raven admonished, but there was a wicked glint in her dark eyes. "What would Lexa say if she caught you admiring other girls?"

"No one could distract me from you and O," Clarke said, feeling better enough to grin.

"I wish I was gay," Raven said vaguely, picking out a couple of dresses. "I hate men."

Clarke had heard variants of this many times before, usually after a lot of alcohol, and let it go. "How about jeans?" She asked.

"Jeans are too butch," Raven protested.

"You've never seen a butch woman in your life if you think that's butch," Clarke laughed.

"Put a goddamn dress on."

"I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard."

Raven rolled her eyes. "I know you wanna get rawed tonight, don't pretend."

Clarke was surprised enough to blush. "Rae!"

"It's true!" Raven threw a dress at her, then another, and another. "And we're gonna make it happen. Try these on."

"I'm not going to sleep with her on our first date," Clarke grumbled. She started trying the dresses anyway.

Gradually, as the pile of tried-on clothes grew taller and taller, and the whisky began fizzing pleasantly in Clarke's veins, she forgot about her problems with her mother. She watched Raven animatedly showing her the pros and cons of each outfit – "This is an ass outfit, Clarke. You need a tit outfit, here," – and felt a warm blossom of love explode in her chest.

"That's the one," she said suddenly, as Raven lifted out a silky black dress with a split up the thigh. "Can I wear that?"

"This one?" Raven held it up to herself in the mirror.

"Yes," Clarke leaned forward. "When did you buy that? I've never seen you in it. You must look stunning."

Raven's ears went a little pink. "I scrub up ok," she admitted. "I got this for Finn, in case he ever takes me out."

Finn never takes her out? Clarke decided not to comment on that. She yearned for the day that Rae had a decent guy who treated her right. And who doesn't make creepy comments about me.

"Well, you're going to blow him away," she said, trying to keep the peace.

Raven shrugged. "Eventually. Here, you might as well borrow it. It's doing nothing but sit in my closet."

Clarke took it off her and held it up against herself before the mirror. It was elegant, and very dressy. "You don't think it's a bit much?"

Raven thumped her on the arm. "Shut up and blow her away."

They shared a smile. Raven, ever the woman of action, broke the moment first by grabbing her jewellery box. "Put it on and we'll choose some accessories."

"YO!"

The front door slammed open and someone came thundering through the apartment.

Clarke jumped, holding the dress up like a shield, suddenly very scared to be in nothing but her underwear. Raven, more sensibly, grabbed a spanner from the floor.

The door burst open. A fireball in her red soccer kit, Octavia charged in. Clarke and Raven relaxed and swore simultaneously.

"Octavia!" Raven chided.

"Are you ok?" Clarke asked. Octavia had a light in her eyes, some incredibly powerful emotion that Clarke could not identify.

Octavia ignored her. "You!" She jabbed a finger at Clarke.

"Me?"

"Yes, you!" Octavia was full-on roaring. Her gesture changed; she pointed back the way she'd come. "There are fifty girls crying in the soccer changing rooms because Lexa Woods is apparently off the market and not returning any calls!"

Holy shit. Clarke was dumbfounded. She'd never imagined that Lexa would abandon her other girls. Clarke hadn't told her to – had she? She thought she'd been very clear about it at the café – Lexa could do as she liked.

"Damn, Clarke," Raven said admiringly, hands on hips. "She must be serious about you."

Clarke bit her lip, suppressing a beaming smile at the thought. She turned back to the mirror, pretending to still be studying the dress that was pressed up against her. "Oh, really?"

Raven jabbed her on the butt. "Don't act cool! We all know you're thrilled. Did you shave your legs?"

"Rae," Clarke rolled her eyes.

"What the hell did you do?" Octavia sounded equally frustrated and impressed. "After one coffee date! This has never happened. Ever. And Lexa has gone through a lot of girls."

"I didn't do anything," Clarke said, pulling the dress over her head.

"Liar," Raven accused.

"Clarke, I swear to god, if you don't tell us every single detail of what went down at that café, the team are going to duct tape me to a goalpost and leave me overnight," Octavia pleaded. "These girls are desperate."

Clarke tugged the dress into place. She considered her date. What exactly had she done to make such an impression on Lexa?

"I ate twenty dollars' worth of snacks and told her to stop flirting with me."

"Very funny," Octavia rolled her eyes.

Raven frowned. "You're not joking, are you?"

"Nope."

They looked at one another. Clarke, happy with the dress, leant over to Raven's accessories and chose some earrings.

"How the hell did that work?" Octavia demanded.

"Maybe Lexa has literally never met anyone who didn't want to sleep with her," Raven suggested.

"Oh, I definitely want to sleep with her," Clarke said. "I just wasn't going to play any games."

"Games?" Octavia asked.

"Yeah," Clarke sighed. "Every time I met her she kept acting all flirty and it was all deliberate. She wasn't interested in me at all, not really. I told her straight up-"

"Har har."

"-That if she wanted to sleep with me she could find me in a club, and if she was going to ask me on dates then she needed to drop the act and get to know me."

Raven cocked a brow, impressed. "That's my girl."

O was gawping at her. "You said what?" She demanded. "To Lexa Woods? What if she totally blew you off? She's the hottest girl on campus!"

Clarke shrugged.

Octavia continued to stare as Clarke and Raven finished her outfit, tugging the silky dress into place to show the slit up the thigh, adding a tasteful silver bracelet and an aquamarine pendant of Clarke's which matched Raven's earrings. When they were done, Clarke studied herself in the mirror, fluffing out her golden hair over one shoulder. She was far from humble enough to ignore the fact that she looked fantastic.

At last, Octavia seemed to find her voice. "Clarke," she said, with great admiration. "I didn't know you were a top."