You really should know better than this. Clarke thought, sipping gingerly at the glass of coconut water in front of her. You're not nineteen anymore. She sighed, forcing herself to finish the drink and then grimacing at the sloshing in her belly as she stood up to put the glass away.
"Good morning." Octavia bounced into the kitchen, looking tired but infinitely better than Clarke imagined she did. She just groaned.
"Would you keep it down? Not all of us have a superhuman tolerance for alcohol."
Octavia grinned.
"I feel like waffles. You feel like waffles?" She asked. Clarke gagged.
"This better not be a family thing. I swear to god if Bellamy wakes up looking like you I'm going to-"
"You're going to what?" Bellamy asked, shuffling into the kitchen behind his sister. He looked exactly like Clarke felt, tired, sick and a little self-loathing. It gave her a strange sense of vindication.
"Well, we'll never have to find out. You look like shit." She didn't even try to disguise the cheer in her voice. He glared at her.
"I feel like shit." He muttered, pushing away the glass of water Octavia shoved at him. "Where's the coffee?"
"I was getting to that." Clarke turned to get a pot brewing while Octavia rifled around behind her, digging out a couple mixing bowls and a waffle iron. "Octavia, I really don't-"
"You're getting waffles. Both of you. Trust me, if you don't eat you're only going to feel worse."
"Is that even possible?" Bellamy wondered aloud. "I haven't been this hungover since that time with the-" He broke off as he noticed Octavia listening intently. "Nothing. Never mind." She rolled her eyes.
"You're no fun. I have lots of stories. Actually, just last week Clarke and I were at Phoenix, and we-"
Clarke clamped a hand over Octavia's mouth, knowing exactly which story she was going to tell.
"No." She told her friend, looking her firmly in the eye. "You will not tell that story. Ever. To anyone." It was Bellamy's turn to look alert and intrigued. Clarke removed her hand from Octavia's face and the brunette sighed dejectedly.
"Okay fine. God, it's like living with a bunch of senior citizens."
"We don't live together." Bellamy reminded Octavia, shooting Clarke a wary glance. "Besides, I doubt senior citizens ever wake up with hangovers like this."
"Hey, you don't know what goes on in those nursing homes. It's like an STD jungle." Clarke told him. She was shocked when Bellamy cracked a smile, a wide one. She turned back to the coffee pot, hiding her own. "Okay, coffee." She poured herself a huge mug, not bothering to add cream or sugar before sipping carefully at the scalding liquid. It burned her tongue, but she didn't care. Both Blakes rushed over to follow suit, and soon they were all quiet, slurping their coffee and watching the timer on the waffle iron count down.
"So," Octavia broke the silence. "What's on the agenda for today?"
Clarke shrugged.
"I'm meeting that Collins kid tonight." Bellamy reminded them. Clarke had to will her shoulders not to tense at the mention of Finn's name. Octavia glanced over at her, gauging her friend's reaction.
"Oh, yeah." Clarke said. It was Bellamy's turn to look at her, and something in his face made Clarke wonder if she wasn't disguising her discomfort as well as she'd thought.
"Oh." Octavia frowned. "Finn, right. Where are you guys meeting?"
"The Alibi Room?" His eyes flickered towards Clarke as though needing confirmation. She nodded.
"I guess I have to go to the hospital." She mused. "To quit." She added, when Bellamy looked puzzled. His confusion turned to interest.
"Still want to do that?" There was no judgment in his voice, just curiosity. Clarke nodded.
"I already have the post-celebration hangover. Might as well." She said, sighing. The waffle iron let out a little ping and Octavia busied herself pouring the batter.
"You know," The brunette said. "You're going to have to tell your mom about this." Her voice was gentle, but wary. As though she thought Clarke wouldn't have realized. Clarke feigned horror.
"My mother?" Octavia didn't seem to pick up on the sarcasm in her voice. "My mother the chief of staff at the hospital? I'll have to tell her?" Clarke laughed as her friend threw a spatula across the room. Laughed even harder when her quick reflexes and Bellamy's much slower ones resulted in the spatula smacking him squarely across the face. The shell-shocked look on his face coupled with the smear of batter left on his cheek were too much for the girls, who dissolved into hysteria.
"I just thought you might not have thought this all the way through." Octavia said, when the laughter had died down. "No need to be a bitch." She added, tongue in cheek. Clarke smiled.
"That wouldn't really be my style." She said. Octavia rolled her eyes.
The three of them finished breakfast in relative silence, and despite her terrible hangover and the budding anxiety of having to tell her mother that she was throwing away years of medical education, Clarke felt strangely at ease. Octavia had felt like family since the very first lunch in that hospital room, and Bellamy, though Clarke was still fairly sure he was an asshole, was starting to feel like he'd always been a part of this.
The rest of the day was not quite as peaceful. Dr. Mbege, Clarke's boss, didn't take the news well at first.
"But, why? You're the top in our program." The disappointment on his face cut into Clarke like a knife. He had been an amazing mentor, and was fast on the way to becoming a friend. But it didn't sway her.
"My heart just… isn't in it. I used to come to work and love seeing patients, loved solving the puzzles and reading charts and the feeling of that last stitch at the end of an operation… just knowing you've changed somebody's life." She smiled as she remembered what it all used to mean.
"And you don't feel that anymore." Mbege finished, his frown softening. Clarke nodded. "Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed, you could have had an amazing career in medicine. But having watched you this past year, well, I've got a feeling you'll be amazing at whatever you do." He smiled, and Clarke suddenly found herself blinking away tears. She hadn't realized how much his opinion mattered to her until that moment, and his encouragement meant more to her than she'd anticipated.
"Thank you, Dr. Mbege." She managed. He just touched her lightly on the arm, a silent goodbye.
"I think you can probably call me John now."
He turned to go, but his smile fell abruptly off his face.
"What?" Clarke asked, apprehensive. John tried to push his features back into a smile, but it was forced and tense, and it only served to make her more nervous.
"Nothing. I just… I don't envy the conversation you're about to have with the Chief." He said, nodding at something behind her. She didn't have to look to know it was her mother. "Good luck." He murmured, disappearing into the throng of nurses and patients down the hallway. Clarke turned towards the sound of heels clicking on tile, feeling a little like she was facing the executioner.
"Clarke!" Her mother smiled, a little warmth shining through the formality. Clarke smiled.
"Hey, Mom." They didn't hug, never did in the hospital. Abby had decided that once Clarke became a member of her staff it wouldn't be appropriate. It occurred to Clarke that she actually wasn't a member of the staff anymore, but Abby didn't know that.
"I thought you were on the late shift today." Her mother said, frowning as though wondering if her perfect memory could have failed her. Clarke shifted uncomfortably on her feet.
"I am. Was. Actually, do you have a minute to talk?" She asked, forcing herself to meet Abby's eyes. Her mother nodded, but there was more suspicion than curiosity in her expression. They ducked into an on-call room, and Clarke, anticipating an elevated volume, closed the door behind them. At that, Abby raised her eyebrows.
"What's going on, Clarke?" Her tone was wary. As the chief of staff at the biggest hospital in the province, Abigail Griffin had learned to be very perceptive.
"I-" Just rip off the bandaid, she thought. "I'm leaving the surgical program. I don't want to be a surgeon." The words tumbled out recklessly, as though if she really thought about what she was saying she would never be able to do it. Abby stared at her, lost.
"I don't understand. You're almost finished your internship, and I know has all but saved his cardio residency for you. Why would you leave?" Her brow was furrowed as though in confusion, but there was also enough frustration in Abby's voice to tell Clarke that Abby understood perfectly.
"I know, and John, I mean Mbege, he's been great. But I just don't want to do it anymore, I don't love it anymore." Clarke hated that her voice had taken on that petulant tone that seemed to emerge whenever her mother was around. She was a grown woman, and she was more than capable of making this decision for herself. She stood up a little straighter. "I'm going to try and sell my art." She said. It had sounded like a solid proposal in her head, had been good enough for her. But the way her mother's eyes were flashing told Clarke it hadn't sounded as good out loud.
"Clarke." Her mother said. It was as though Clarke's hangover had been laying in wait, subsiding long enough for her to put herself in a terrible position. She felt a sudden wave of nausea, rushing over to the sink and throwing up her breakfast of waffles and black coffee while her mother tapped her foot behind her. When she was finished, she rinsed out the sink, and then her mouth. She turned slowly back around, taking in Abby's bemused face with a sigh.
"Are you sick?" Her mother asked, concern flitting briefly over her features. Clarke decided she might as well be honest.
"Hungover." She said. Abby seemed to be fighting the urge to roll her eyes. To Clarke's great surprise, she succeeded.
"So you come into the hospital hungover, drag me into an on-call room and tell me that you're throwing away your entire future to fulfill some childhood fantasy, and you expect me to take you seriously?" Abby asks. Clarke thought she had been prepared for the worst way this conversation could have gone. Clearly, she was wrong.
"I know it's a lot to swallow. And it probably seems out of the blue, but it's not. I've been miserable in this internship for months, I just didn't know why until yesterday." The explanation wasn't much, but it was all Clarke really owed her mother. Still, she stayed, waiting.
"You're supposed to be miserable during your internship." Abby proclaimed, her voice growing louder. "It's meant to weed out the people who aren't cut out for this. But you're not a quitter, Clarke. Don't be immature. No one loves their job all the time, that's why it's called working. You can always continue to paint as a hobby, but that's what it is. A hobby." Her words rang of finality, but it didn't matter for once. Clarke scoffed.
"How many hours did you work this week?" She asked her mother.
"I'm the Chief of Staff, Clarke. Your workload won't come close to mine." Abby deflected.
"Alright, how about Dr. Mbege then? I know you know." Clarke insisted. Abby's eyes flashed, but she answered.
"Somewhere around seventy, I believe." She said, lips pursed. Clarke nodded.
"Seventy. And that's average. I know, because I've been in this hospital with him for most of those hours. This week, and last week, and the week before that. I don't have time for painting, or drawing. I don't even have time to sleep. I can't spend seventy hours a week for the rest of my life doing something I don't love." Clarke said. The sadness crept into her voice. She hadn't realized how much she'd wanted to do this for her mother, for her father. But it wasn't enough. She scrubbed tiredly at her face.
"Look," She murmured, suddenly much too tired to fight with her mother. "This obviously isn't a good time. I shouldn't have ambushed you like this at work. I just didn't want you to hear this from John, or someone else."
Abby's mouth twisted into a grim line.
"You've already spoken to him?" She asked. Clarke nodded again. "Well. Then I guess there isn't anything else to say." Abby gave Clarke one last look of bitter disappointment, then pulled open the door, leaving Clarke standing alone and exhausted. Deciding it was all a bit much, she tumbled sideways onto the closest bed, not bothering to shut off the light. It didn't take long for sleep to come, and when it did the last thought Clarke had was of how much she loved to draw freckles.
A couple hours later, she woke up feeling terrible enough to grab a couple of banana bags from a sympathetic looking Jasper in Pharmacy. He handed over the IV bags with a sad smile.
"So," She said, stuffing the liquids into her bag before anyone saw. "I guess you heard the news." He nodded, the mad scientist goggles he wasn't supposed to wear at work bobbing around his neck.
"You're leaving us?" He sounded so forlorn she almost laughed.
"I'm just quitting my job, Jas. I'm not dying. We'll still see each other all the time."
He frowned.
"That's what they all say."
"All who?" She asked.
"Well, that's what Atom said."
She sighed.
"Atom moved to Boston. You live like five minutes from me."
He considered that for a moment, narrowing his eyes at her.
"Fine. But if you start bailing on Trivia night I'm going to tell everyone that the pair of underwear hanging above the bar at Murphy's are yours."
Clarke gaped at him.
"Jasper, how-"
"I have my sources." He said with a grin. "Now go home. You look horrible, and I'm going to have to tell Dr. Tsing that I accidentally poked holes in those banana bags."
Clarke smiled gratefully, retreating with a wave. She would deal with telling the rest of her friends later. For now, all she wanted to do was get out of the hospital. The fluorescent lights were only aggravating her hangover.
She was barely through the front door when she heard it. Moaning. A lot of it. She slowly made her way toward it, pausing outside the bathroom door. The voice was definitely male, and it occurred to her that Bellamy moaning alone in the bathroom probably meant he did not want company. She turned to go, trying to be quiet, but her phone suddenly burst to life, piping Misty Mountain Hop at full volume through the hallway.
"Shit." She muttered, fumbling to turn it off. When she finally managed to silence it, she noticed the moaning had stopped.
"Clarke?" Bellamy's voice floated out from under the closed bathroom door. She bit her lip.
"Uh, yeah. Hi. I was just going to leave you alone, I'll go to Octavia's so you can-"
"No!" He sounded almost panicked, and Clarke stopped inching her war toward the front door. "Don't leave."
She stared at the wall, confused and a little nervous.
"Are you still drunk?" She asked. There was silence. "Are you shaking your head?"
"Oh. Yeah."
"Yeah you're still drunk, or-"
"I'm not drunk, I was shaking my head. Look can you-can you just come in here?"
She hesitated, wondered what exactly he wanted from her. She couldn't say she would be completely adverse to jumping his bones then and there, but it also wasn't a good idea. She didn't actually like him that much. Besides, Octavia had told her not to.
"I don't really want to." She finally said.
"What? Clarke, come on-"
"I just-it's not a good idea. Why don't I let you finish up in there and we can talk later?" She didn't know what to do, felt ridiculous and awkward having this conversation through a closed door.
"What the hell are you talking about? Would you please just open the door?" Bellamy asked, his voice an irritated timbre. With a deeply anxious sigh, Clarke pushed on the handle, swinging open the door. She expected to find him standing in the shower, one hand on his dick while he leered at her.
In hindsight it didn't sound much like Bellamy.
Instead, the shower curtain was almost completely drawn, only Bellamy's face stuck out to greet her, his neck bent at a strange angle pressing his head against the wall. She paused.
"What's going on?"
He grimaced.
"I kind of fell."
"You kind of fell." She repeated. He glared at her.
"I hit my head on your stupid bar and then I got my hair caught in the stupid curtain ring." He explained. It was clear that he was in a terrible mood, and she felt bad for him, she really did, but Clarke couldn't help the laughter as it burst from her chest. She clutched her stomach, doubling over as Bellamy went to fold his arms across his chest and then realized he couldn't without bashing one of his elbows into the wall. She didn't stop laughing until she saw the long smear of crimson across his forehead, covered mostly by a mess of damp curls.
"Oh." She said, sobering instantly. Bellamy, who had been fixing her with an impressive glower, sighed.
"Are you finished?"
She nodded, feeling guilty. She approached the shower carefully, not wanting to get an accidental eyeful of Bellamy. He seemed to realize what she was doing, and the scowl on his face turned to amusement.
Her hand reached out automatically to brush the hair off his forehead, and she hmmed as she inspected the gash in his head. It was bad enough that she almost certain it would need stitches.
"Any chance you can wait to give me a full physical until I'm no longer attached to your shower curtain?" He asked. She blinked.
"Right. Hold on." She inspected the grommet in the curtain that his hair was currently tangled in. Her hands were steady and strong, but delicate enough to work the stray curls loose from the ring of metal. "There." She nodded at him, and he straightened his head. There was wonder in his smile as his head pulled easily away without tugging on the curtain. He let out a sigh of relief.
"Thanks."
Clarke just smirked, handing him a towel. He took it, wrapping it around his waist before pushing the curtain aside and stepping onto the mat. It wasn't until then that she could see the amount of blood pooling on the floor of her shower. The smirk dropped from her face immediately.
"Oh, Bellamy." She murmured. He glanced back at it, then shrugged.
"It's fine. Honestly, the crick in my neck is worse." Clarke didn't buy it for a second.
"Sit down."
He gave her a bemused glance, but did as he was told. Once again, her fingers brushed over his scalp, this time running across the cut on his head. He flinched a little, and Clarke let her hands drop. She inspected the rest of his head for injuries before coming to a diagnosis.
"You're going to need stitches." She told him. He looked surprised.
"You're joking."
"I'm not. Stay put while I get my suture kit." Giving Bellamy a stern glance, Clarke began to root through the under-sink cabinet. She emerged with a small first-aid kit, fighting a smile at the look on his face.
"This is ridiculous." He muttered. Clarke snorted.
"I'm not going to argue with that. Hold still."
She managed to clean the blood away and stitch up the deepest part of the gash, which was fortunately on his forehead. His eyes narrowed when she hummed sympathetically.
"What?" He asked. She bit her lip.
"That's going to scar."
The horror on his face was enough to have her suppressing another chuckle.
"You're joking."
"I'm really not. But… I won't tell if you don't. Maybe you got that scar last night and don't remember how."
He considered her with surprise.
"Thanks, princess. I think I'll take you up on that offer." His voice was low, and the look he was giving her was enough to have Clarke backing slowly out of the bathroom.
"No problem." Her face felt hot all of a sudden, and it wasn't from the steam. "I'll let you get dressed." Clarke murmured. Turning on her heel, she rushed out of the bathroom, resisting the urge to fan herself as she recalled the way he'd looked wearing nothing but a towel.
When Bellamy found her a few minutes later, she was sitting on the couch, an IV line running from her arm to the banana bag hang off the coat rack.
"Uh," He said, eyes flicking between Clarke and the coat rack. She suddenly realized exactly how bizarre this would look to him.
"Oh. Hey. I was just rehydrating." She wiggled her arm a little. He still looked confused. "It's just electrolytes and stuff. I haven't been able to shake this hangover, so…" She trailed off when he continued to stare. Eventually, he cleared his throat.
"You went to the hospital then?"
Clarke smiled.
"I'm officially unemployed." She gave a little sarcastic fist pump. His answering smile was less than convincing. "The IV thing is still weirding you out isn't it?" Clarke asked. Bellamy scrubbed tiredly at his face.
"No, I mean yeah. I'm just still a little dazed from the fall."
Clarke got to her feet, careful not to tug on her IV. She stood in front of him and held up a finger.
"Follow my finger." She told him, wagging it back and forth. His eyes tracked the movement easily. "What's your name?" He raised an eyebrow, but answered.
"Bellamy Ignatius Blake."
"Ign…" Deciding to let that go, Clarke continued. "When is your birthday?"
"October 11th, 1986."
She hadn't realized he was that much older than her. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that his birthday was in less than two weeks. For whatever reason, Bellamy picked up on her surprise.
"Is that a problem, princess?" He asked, amused. Apparently a mixture of head trauma, copious alcohol consumption and embarrassing himself in her shower had made Bellamy feel a little more comfortable around her.
"Ah, no. It's just soon. And stop calling me that."
He grinned when she sat back down on the couch with a huff.
"And you don't have a concussion. You'll be fine." He sat beside her, also taking care not to disturb the bag of minerals that was currently on it's way to making her feel human again.
"But will my ego?"
Clarke scoffed, though she was impressed he'd finally cracked a joke. She wasn't sure she was comfortable with exactly how much she liked this side of him.
"I think your ego will be just fine." She said, glancing at him knowingly. His expression turned a little more serious.
"Seriously, though, thank you. For patching me up."
"No problem."
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Clarke leaning back and closing her eyes. She was already feeling better, between her earlier nap and the IV.
"Did you talk to your mom?" Bellamy's voice pulled her out of the half-sleep Clarke had slipped into. She opened her eyes. He was watching her, an almost academic interest on his face.
"Yeah."
"How did that go?"
Clarke just blew a puff of air out of her nose, nostrils flaring, but Bellamy got the idea.
"Sorry." He murmured. She waved her hand airily.
"It's not like I was surprised." She scrunched up her face, mimicking her mother. "You're supposed to be miserable, that's why it's called work. Don't be a quitter, Clarke." Her face dropped back into an exhausted pout. "To be fair, I did throw up in the middle of telling her."
Bellamy snorted.
"So, what are you going to do now?" He asked. Clarke opened her mouth to tell him about her painting, but her eyes fell onto the wall clock and she jumped up in surprise.
"You're supposed to meet Finn in twenty minutes! You have to go."
"Oh, shit." Bellamy leaped to his feet. "I'll, uh, see you later." He gave Clarke a little wave before running for the door.
"Yeah." She stared after him, blinking as the door slammed shut behind him.
What was she going to do now, indeed.
