A/N:Hey! I just want to say thank you so much to everyone who wished me well a few days ago. I'm feeling much better after a few doses of antibiotics and steroids. Remember how I said I'd wait until Monday to post? Well... I decided to post early and hopefully I'll find a way to get back to Monday updates. We'll see...

This chapter is all about Clarke and her backstory because I feel it's important to include. Character development and all that good stuff, right? Anyways it's late and I'm full of Vicodin and Prednisone so if this chapter has any errors, I apologize in advance. But thanks again to all you lovely people out there. It really made my day! 3

Clarke was always supposed to be a doctor. Just like her mom, Abby Griffin, who made it a daily chore to teach her daughter all that she could about the medical world. Clarke could name every bone in the human body, and where it was located, by the age of eight. By age twelve, her mom was quizzing her on different diseases and syndromes and the various ways to diagnose them.

Clarke, however, despised everything medical and had no plans to actually pursue the career path. If it had been up to her, she would have spent her free time painting and sketching, instead of learning the symptoms of appendicitis. But according to her mother, "art is just a hobby and impossible to make a living off of."

She refused to tell her mother about her disinterest, afraid she would be utterly disgusted by the confession. So, she continued to learn, only wanting to please her mom, despite her growing anger towards the woman.

In the little free time that she had, Clarke took to her easel, which she had to beg for from her mom. Even then, she didn't get one until she turned thirteen. She could have spent hours sketching and drawing if she had been allowed to, which rarely happened. Anytime Abby would walk into Clarke's room and find her daughter drawing, she would sigh heavily and ask why she would want to spend precious time on such a childish hobby.

Senior year of high school, Clarke was pressured into applying at schools like Harvard and Stanford, both of which turned down her application, much to her mother's dismay. Clarke saw the rejection as the perfect opportunity to apply to some of the most well-known art colleges. After sending in copious applications with all of her best pieces of work, the waiting game began.

Before any of the art programs could send her an acceptance letter, one had come from Vanderbilt University on the last day of high school.

Her mother had guaranteed a surprise when she got home, and while walking to her house from the bus stop, Abby had pulled her car up beside her and declared they were going out to dinner. Clarke excitedly got inside the vehicle, her mind wandering to what the 'surprise' could possibly be.

Dinner started wonderfully, Clarke being allowed to order whatever she wanted, because "she had deserved it." Unbeknownst to what she could have done, she ordered a pricy steak and french fries (because french fries were her favorite and she wanted to order them, even if the side dish looked odd next to the expensive cut of meat).

Halfway through the meal, Clarke's mom said it was time for the surprise and reached into her purse for a manila envelope, shielding the mailing address from Clarke's view.

"Honey, I just want you to know that I am so proud of you and I know you worked so hard-" Her mother began, staring at the ceiling as if looking at her daughter would be enough to bring happy tears to her eyes.

"Just show me!" Clarke shouted a little too loudly for a restaurant setting.

"Okay, okay," Clarke watched as the envelope turned, revealing a familiar letter 'V' emblem and the words 'Vanderbilt University' in off-white letters.

If Clarke had any appetite left, the sight of the acceptance letter took the remnants away when her stomach twisted into multiple knots.

"You got accepted! I sent in the security deposit today. You'll move into the dorms in August." Abby beamed.

Yeah, she was done eating.

Clarke's face must have mirrored the lack of excitement, making her mom's expression to go blank, too. Clarke reflected back on the numerous college applications she had just sent. The ones that were basically useless, now.

"You decided for me?" Clarke managed to ask, at a loss of words.

"Yes! It's already so close to August and I don't think any better opportunities are going to come along. Clarke, this is in the top twenty best medical colleges. You're not happy?" Her mom rambled, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

Using her elbows, Clarke pushed her plate away and buried her head in her hands. All she could manage to do after was shake her head, too upset to look at her mom. Her mom, the one who just ripped all of her artistic dreams from under her. "Clarke, what's wrong?"

Mustering up all her courage (and eighteen years of anger towards the woman across from her) she lifted her head and glared at Abby.

"I don't want to go to Vanderbilt." She whined, her hands still pushed against her cheeks to hide the redness building in them.

"Oh, trust me, if I could have gotten you into Harvard, I would have. But don't worry, this will-" Abby started to say, but was cut off by an obnoxious groan from Clarke.

"I don't want to be a doctor!"

Her mother's face twisted in bewilderment, trying to discern the statement from her daughter.

"What do you mean? You've always wanted to be a doctor!"

"No, mom, you wanted me to be a doctor." Clarke didn't understand how her mom could have been so oblivious for the last ten or so years.

"I-I don't understand." It was Abby's turn to be speechless.

"I applied to some art colleges." Clarke confessed, years of distress from hiding her love of drawing spilling into the words.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I want to be an artist, mom. It's what I've always wanted to do." She explained, watching her mother's expression dive deeper into confusion and disappointment. Its the exact look Clarke always imagined her to have when she confessed.

"That's a hobby, Clarke. No one makes a living off of drawings anymore." Abby responded. Clarke had heard it countless times in her life. "I've already paid the security deposit. There's nothing you can do now."

At that point, Clarke zoned out, nodding along as her mom lectured her on how much more successful doctors are, and how she shouldn't pursue her childish dreams, because that's all they were. Childish dreams.

Not long after, they left the restaurant, abandoning Clarke's half-eaten meal, and her previous excitement.

Still, Clarke wouldn't give up that easily. An entire childhood of bitterness and resentment suddenly felt like too much to suppress anymore. So, doing what any spiteful, rebellious teen would do, Clarke left. She packed up all her things in one night, bled her savings account of all its money, and took the first flight to Chicago that she could find.

She arrived in The Windy City with little besides the clothes on her back and her collection of art supplies. Her first week was spent in a sketchy motel until she found an equally as sketchy apartment complex to rent. Before she knew it, she was flipping burgers at a fast food joint, desperate to pay off her maxed out credit cards, and regretting every decision she had made. She refused to speak with her mother, too afraid to answer calls or even read the text messages that she sent. All she could picture was the pathetic look of disappointment on her mom's face and how much more upset she must be about losing her daughter (and a costly security deposit that Clarke wouldn't be using).

Clarke thought, for sure, that she was dying, considering that parts of her life had flashed before her eyes. The medical side of her brain had already assessed and reassessed the situation, weighing options and ideas in her head. She had heard Lexa say at one point or another that the bombs would cause intense radiation outside, which is why they needed to stay inside.

Clarke narrowed her eyes at the crack in the window, trying to decide if radiation would be able to seep through the crevice. Immediately, she listed off radiation poisoning symptoms in her head, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to remember them.

Now that she was thinking about it, she did feel a little nauseous, but that could very well be from her anxiety over the new discovery.

Still, upon recognizing the danger, she whipped her head around to see Lexa, fast asleep, in her warm bed. She knew that she needed to wake the brunette, but after their earlier conversations, Clarke was not looking forward to any more talking. Plus, Lexa didn't seem like the kind of person that enjoyed being woken up.

Despite this assumption, Clarke tip-toed over to the sleeping girl and reached out a hand to shake her, but stopped halfway to the girl's shoulder. She had never been so close to Lexa and now that her hand was inches away from the brunette's muscled shoulder and intimidating tattoos, she wished that streak would have continued. Her eyes scanned over the exposed part of Lexa's arm, falling on what looked like a circular scar, about the size of a nickel. Her eyes narrowed at the mark, wondering what caused it.

The only explanation that came to Clarke's mind was a bullet wound.

Clarke knew she was in a bad side of her town, but, a gunshot wound?

Before she could ponder further on the origin of the scar, her eyes were drawn to another, identical scar, peeking out from under Lexa's wavy hair.

Two gunshots?

As soon as the thought came, it was replaced by another when she saw a third, similar scar next to the others.

Deciding that getting shot three times was too unrealistic, Clarke shook the thought from her head and brought her attention back to the task in front of her.

Careful not to touch any of the odd scars, Clarke rested her hand on Lexa's shoulder and shook it gently, her heart racing with trepidation about how the brunette would react (and not at all about the fact that her hand was suddenly warm and tingling the second it touched Lexa's arm).

Almost immediately, her green eyes snapped open, and seconds later she was sitting up and glaring at Clarke as if she'd just offended her. Genuinely fearing for her own safety, Clarke backed up a few steps to be out of the brunette's reach.

"Why did you wake me up?" Lexa asked grumpily, pushing a few stray hairs behind her ears.

"I have a question." Clarke stated simply, her heart pounding harder at the look of disgust on Lexa's face. The other girl's expression only became more unhappy at this statement.

"It better be a damn, good question." Lexa muttered, rubbing her eyes to get them to focus in the dim lighting. Clarke couldn't help but notice the way the brunette hair fell over Lexa's face, messy from sleep, and somewhat greasy from not being washed for a few days. Clarke still believed that the appearance looked good on the girl. She could only hope that she looked that good after not showering for a week.

"How long would we survive in here if there was a crack in the window?" Clarke spoke incredibly fast and she could tell that Lexa's newly awake brain had a hard time comprehending the inquiry.

When the intention of the question was clear, Lexa's eyes widened in shock.

"There's a crack in the window?" Her voice was hoarse from sleep, but still managed to carry a hint of fear that had never been heard before. Clarke nodded, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

Lexa was out of the bed and standing under the skylight in record time. After a few moments of careful inspection, she took to rummaging through a few cabinets until she found a roll of silver duct tape. She climbed the ladder to the window and tore off large pieces until the crack was covered in a generous amount of tape.

Clarke eyed the handiwork skeptically. If her life was in the figurative hands of a few strips of tape, she didn't feel very secure.

When Lexa was back on the floor, she turned towards Clarke and nodded as to confirm that the problem was solved.

"Do you think that'll fix it?" Clarke asked, glancing at the newly-gray window. Lexa was already walking back towards her bed before Clarke had finished speaking.

"Don't know." She mumbled back, sitting on top of the mattress and yawning. It amazed Clarke that Lexa could be so nonchalant about a possibly deadly situation, while Clarke could barely stop her hands from shaking.

"Okay, well, if you start to get nauseous or throw up or get a headache, then-" Clarke rambled, tapping into her 'doctor brain.' It must have been all of the medical training that made her so inclined to care for others before herself, but she could feel a pit in her stomach form at the thought of Lexa getting radiation poisoning.

"Then what?" Lexa's hands fell from running through her hair and smacked against the bed, testily. "It's not as if there is anything we could do at that point." Her voice reclaimed it's nonchalant nature, probably noticing that she had been a bit rude, previously. Or maybe she could care less about how rude she was to Clarke. (Clarke assumed it was the latter option.)

Slightly taken aback, Clarke's jaw slackened, and she couldn't help but feel aggravation fizz inside her chest. "Then, I can figure out how to treat it." She shot back, crossing her arms over her chest, mimicking Lexa's rude tone. Lexa scoffed at this.

"What makes you think you're qualified to treat it?"

Clarke pondered on the question, momentarily. She guessed she wasn't qualified to treat it. But she was as good as anyone else, and all that they had. "I'll have you know, I got accepted into Vanderbilt University's medical program." A content smile came to Clarke's face when she said it, but nothing about the statement made her feel proud. Instead, her thoughts flashed back to the pathetic look of disappointment on her mom's face at dinner and only made her feel the guilt that she always felt when thinking about her mom.

Again, Lexa scoffed, breaking Clarke from her thoughts just in time to see Lexa roll her eyes.

"Then what are you doing in Illinois?" She squinted her eyes in doubt. The question seemed to end the conversation, causing the room to fall quiet. Clarke knew the answer, but didn't know if she wanted to say it, especially to a girl that she didn't particularly enjoy talking to. She'd never said it aloud before, too afraid that the words would make it too real to handle.

"I decided I liked art better." She finally spoke, her voice sounding smaller than she had anticipated. When she reestablished eye contact, the brunette was holding back a smile, ready to speak again, but looking as if she was contemplating whether or not to say it.

"That makes sense. You're a good artist."

Clarke's face immediately started to burn and her eyes widened in embarrassment. She knew that the statement could only mean one thing. Lexa had looked through her sketchbook. And if she had looked through the sketchbook, she almost definitely saw the drawing of herself. The intense pink rising to her cheeks seemed to make Lexa's smirk impossible to hold back.

Clarke had no response (and she couldn't bear to look at the brunette's complacent grin any longer), so she just turned away from Lexa and stared at the food cabinet, desperate for a change of topic.

"I haven't had anything to eat today." She voiced, hoping to get the point across that she wanted to eat, without needing to ask. It must have worked, because Clarke could hear Lexa stand from her bed and pull out a set of jingling keys from her pocket.

Moments later she was holding a couple pieces of bread and a mini water bottle out for Clarke to take. "I'm going back to bed." Lexa sighed after Clarke accepted the food.

Both girls retreated to their corners of the room, leaving Clarke to sulk in her humiliation from the earlier comments. Her body ached for a cold shower, even with the frigid air around her. For a brief moment, she considered pouring the water bottle on her head, but knew that would only cause her more embarrassment, so she refrained.

Clarke's eyes trailed back to the, yet again, asleep brunette and she sighed. She was already sick of the shelter she was in, and it'd only been a week.

The bread suddenly tasted sour in her mouth, and the notebook laying on her 'bed' seemed to be staring holes in her back. She pulled a blanket over her legs, pulling the sketchbook closer in the process. Giving in, she grabbed the sketchbook for the second time that night and flipped to a blank page, her mind unexpectedly full of ideas.

She consumed the page with oranges and reds, using black to outline trees and grays to color the top of the page. When she finally let the drawing pencils fall from her newly stained hands, she observed the art in full. It had been based off of the scene that she was able to see from the window when the bombs had fallen, and getting the overwhelming visual onto paper made it somehow seem less confronting.

She stared at the picture for what felt like hours before shutting the notebook and allowing herself to fall back onto her pillow and slip into a restless sleep (filled with tossing and turning that transferred the streaks of color from her hands to her face, which Lexa would probably find a way to make fun of when they both woke up).

A/N: Ah, Clarke, the rebellious teen. Sooo, we know about Clarke. I wonder who we'll learn about next chapter. *cough* It's Lexa *cough* This chapter was kinda short again, but I just really wanted to get it posted. Maybe next chapter will be longer? Don't hold me to that, though. Also! I'd love to hear your theories on Lexa's backstory if you have any. Comment what you think! Until next time!