Waking is something you've come to despise. Each rising of the sun merely a bearer of bad news and you hate it. You think it cruel, unkind and heartless. And so when you feel a gentle hand on your shoulder and the caress of soft words you hold on to the dream you think you must have been living, if only so that the truth will be kept at bay, drifting far out of reach of your waking mind.

If only for just a few more moments of blissful ignorance.

"Lexa," you feel the fingers brush through your hair softly, a quiet press of lips against your forehead, "wake up."

And so you do.

And as your eyes take in the white of the walls, too dark, too bright and too cruel you think your eyes water, a power of their own, and as you look up to see Abby kneeling by your side you think you feel your heart clench and your chest freeze and when you turn your head and look to the figure lying on the bed you want to thrash out and scream and tear your eyes from their place in your head.

Clarke lies broken, her hair shaved from the side of her head, bloodied bandages wrapped tightly around where the surgeons had cut and sawed and broken her mind, all in the hope that her brain would cease to swell. You see her face, swollen and broken and you see her arm, a cast holding it steady and safe by her side and you think you cry and shake and destruct when the memories come searing into your mind.

You know you sob and choke on your breaths when Abby takes you in her arms, ever careful of your own injuries and holds you close, her own tears bleeding with yours.

"They have to check on Clarke," she whispers quietly, "just for a moment." And so you nod, loosen the grip you held on Clarke's hand through the night and you let Abby wheel you out as nurses file in quietly behind you.

"I spoke to the lead surgeon when you slept," she whispers softly, her hands brushing away both your tears, "the doctor said she'd make a full recovery," Abby continues through both your tears, her eyes hardening to the news you know she so often recounts in her own world as a surgeon, "physically, at least," and as you see her eyes fall and her lip tremble you brace yourself for the but. You brace yourself for the next.

"But," and you think your world crumbles into shards of anguish, "they don't know when she'll wake up."

And it breaks you, and as you feel your heart thump in your chest you think it the cruel heat of a too close flame that burns and sears into your flesh, that chars your bones and stings through your veins.

But you think you must have heard wrong, the words must have been muffled by her tears, "How long?" you whisper once you find your voice and you hate the way it sounds. It must be ruined and unfamiliar.

"They don't know," she repeats and you are sure Abby's lips tremble and her tears begin to fall anew and you are sure yours must follow suit. But Abby holds your gaze, makes sure you have focused on her and she brushes her hand against your cheek once more, "when she wakes up," and you are sure Abby must see your eyes darken, must see the doubt and the pain because she squeezes your hand firmly, "When, Lexa. When she wakes up. Do you hear me?" and so you nod. Your voice too far removed to give breath to your thoughts.

"When she wakes up, Lexa," Abby pauses once more, takes a breath and holds it before releasing it to the world in a long broken staccato of pain.

"She might not remember what happened."

The words cut deep into you, and you think your veins freeze and your blood curdle.

"She might not be the same."


Waking in the cold of a too early morning is something you hate. Is something you despise and when you feel the frozen pull of consciousness tug at your mind you reach out and try and take a hold of a thought, of a dream and a prayer, anything so that you can continue to live for a moment longer in the familiar embrace of ignorance. And it's times like this that you dream of Clarke. You dream of her smile and her laugh and her eyes as they live fiercely in the sun. You dream of her fingers as they leave burning trails across your skin that leave you breathless and wanting and aching. You dream of her. And so, as your mind retreats further and further away from her image, you call out her name, you reach out and you beg and plead for her to stay just a moment longer.

But it lives in the past and you know yourself in a cruel, lonesome future.

And so you wake.

You wake to the frantic beat of your heart and the firm grip on your shoulder and a warm body leaning over you. And when you open your eyes you see worry and pain and understanding and acceptance.

"Lexa," you feel the squeeze, "you're ok. It was just a dream," And Costia pulls you to her, soothing words falling from her lips telling you that you aren't in a car, that you aren't pinned in your seat and that Raven's bloodied, broken leg doesn't lie strewn across your feet and that blood doesn't drip into your eye clouding your vision a red and bloodied mess, and that Clarke doesn't try and hold her head together, doesn't try and stop the pain that must ring out through her mind.

And when Costia holds you tight? When she loves you and stays with you through your dreams?

You hate yourself and you feel guilt rise within, a vile, bitter, cruel thing.

It's moments like this where you can't stand the worry that lives in Costia's eyes, if only because you were dreaming of Clarke and her touch as it wends a careful path across your skin, and her smell that lingers comfortably in place, or her taste and her sounds and the way she looks and breathes as her chest heaves, as her body contorts and twists in pleasure.

And you think Costia deserves better.

You know she does.

And so you turn to her, let a quiet I'm ok fall from your lips and when she smiles quietly, when she presses her lips to yours softly you try and forget.


You let your feet walk you, your thoughts drifting from moment to moment, a memory sometimes lingering too long, too unpleasant and you try and lose yourself to the noise of the city, of the cars that pass and the people that talk and the birds overhead. You let the cool of a warming sun grace your face and you pull your jacket ever closer, if only to shield yourself from errant thoughts.

You stop briefly to let a man exit before you push open the doors, walking quickly to the lift that waits to take you up. And when you feel the press of bodies, when you hear the quiet apologies you merely shrug, merely offer a soft it's ok and then you exit, ever thankful to be free again. You pass Anya, already in her office and you see her eyes follow you, you see her gaze concerned and careful as she watches you. But you ignore it. You know Gustus would have told her what had happened, you are sure she will let you avoid the topic when she brings up what bothers you at a later date and so you unlock your office door, let the soft thump of it close behind you and you sit back in your chair, your eyes following men and women through the glass of your office as they pass, the quiet of your office that you find yourself in all that keeps you company for a dull while.


"Lexa," Your eyes raise from the report you read to meet Anya's and so you motion her in, "Gustus told me what happened." You think you appreciate Anya's forwardness, her disregard for uncertainty and the lack of softened words. "You want to talk about it?" she asks then, already sitting in the chair before you, a small stack of reports already being laid out in front of you, a clear indicator that you can change the topic, can avoid the truth and live in ignorance for one more day if you wish.

But maybe you're tired of being ignorant. Maybe you want the truth to live freely just once and so you look at her, let your eyes meets hers and you open yourself, "I saw Clarke," it's simple, a repeat from a previous day and when you look into Anya's eyes you see them darken, you see her take a steadying breath.

"Are you sure?"

Are you?

"Yes."

"What are you going to do?"

What are you going to do?

"I don't know."

"You could call Abby. Ask her if Clarke's actually here," and Anya pins you with a careful look, her eyes searching and calculating, and you don't miss her words — If Clarke's actually here — Shouldn't you call Abby though? Didn't you tell her you would call again? Wouldn't it be wise to know?

"I'll call Abby." And so Anya leans back reaching for a report in one hand while passing you another, the topic coming to an even conclusion.


Your eyes drill painfully into the name that lingers on your screen and you trace the edges of the icon, you let it burn itself into your mind. And just before your finger presses down you pause and glance out your window and you let the sun burn brightly for a long second.

"Lexa?" you smile for a quiet moment when you here her voice and you know you've missed it. You know you've missed her.

"Hey," you don't even know how you should broach the topic that lingers, "how are you?" you think you can start by being polite.

"I'm good," you hear her smile, you hear the the quiet clutter and clang of cutlery and you frown for a moment.

"You aren't busy?" you worry your lip, "I can call back."

"No, no, I'm just on my lunch break," you hear her move something further away, "I'm glad you called again," and you know you hear a longing and a love that still clings desperately to her words and you know you feel a stab of pain and guilt.

"I'm sorry." You don't think you will ever stop being sorry.

"Don't be, Lexa," you think her too kind, too understanding, "you needed time." You did.

"I just—" the words die in your throat, a stinging taunt that lingers too long. But you think Abby deserves to know how you really are. She deserves to know and so you embrace the pain and you force the words out, "I'm not doing well," and you are sure it comes out a whisper, a quiet, ragged breath and you hear her gasp slightly and you are sure you sense her clutch the phone tightly and lean closer.

"I'm here, Lexa," you hear the whisper through the unfurling storm of your breaths, "talk to me."

And so you do. You break and you wipe frantically at the tears that fall from your eyes when you tell her of Costia, of your waking nights and your tired dreams and your longing and love and loss and hate. And as you stoke at the uncertainty and the pain you hear her offer words of comfort and understanding or merely moments of silence and quiet solidarity and acceptance when you need it.

You think you talk for longer than you should, and as you glance at your clock you wince briefly at the time that has passed but you think yourself thankful and loving when she brushes off your offer to let her go, to let her enjoy the hour she has.

"I'm sorry," you whisper again as your thoughts slowly collect and sift through your mind.

"I love you, Lexa, ok? I'm here for you," you think you love her too, "anytime," she finishes quietly.

And you know that you next question could build you up, could destroy you and leave you littered across the vastness of your mind.

And so you whisper to her once more, "Abby," and you feel the beating of your heart and you think you feel your hands shake for just a moment and you think you feel the blood that beats wildly through your veins, "Clarke," you pause again, wet your lips and brace yourself for rejection and acceptance, "is she here?"

"Yes."

All it takes is one word. All it takes is one realisation, one second before you break and you cry and you lose yourself.

"Why?" you choke out.

Abby hesitates for a careful moment, "she started remembering things almost two years ago," you don't recognise the pained whimper that escapes you, "just pieces, just moments and feelings and places."

It hurts. It hurts so, so much.

"Why? Why is she here?"

You think you must sound desperate and broken and tired of pleading and not knowing.

"She thought it would help her remember. She thought it would help her remember the years she lost, let her move on with her life." And you think you hear the tears that fall from Abby's eyes and you know you hear the pain and the loss that lives within her.

"I miss her," the truth comes free before you can stop it, before you can force it down and live in ignorance, "I miss her so, so much." And you hear the pained sob that leaves Abby's mouth and you hear the sniffle and the careful drying of eyes.

You let the truth hang bitter and stale in the air before you and you think you've spoken too much, uttered wrongs and you open your mouth to take back the words, to say you're just tired, to lie and tell Abby you're ok.

But before you let the words out into the space between you both you hear Abby breathe in deeply, you hear her steady her breaths and then she whispers.

"You could call her," It's hopeful, pained, accepting and understanding and full of something that belongs in the past, locked in a chest of faded memories and long gone beats of your heart, "for closure. For both of you." and you think her words over. You think over the memories that you have and the loss and the pain and the love that still claws firmly within the beat of your heart and the pulsing of your veins.

All you want is to hear her voice once more.

All you want is to see her smile once more.

All you want is…

"Ok."


You leave much earlier than you should, and as you pass Anya's office you feel her eyes drill into your back and you are sure her eyes follow you as you walk to the lift. But really, all you can feel and comprehend is the torn piece of paper clutched firmly in your hand and you know you need to breathe the sharp bite of the outside air, you know you need to feel your feet take you somewhere else. If only so that you don't do something cruel and stupid and senseless.

You push through the open doors and you stare up into the sky, you search for the sun and when the rays burn radiant and painful you let your eyes linger for a moment. And you pray and hope it will calm your mind.

But your mind isn't so kind.

And you know the world isn't so caring.

You hail a taxi, and you force yourself in, hurried breaths leaving you senseless and shivering and you watch as the cars race past and you watch as the lights change from red to yellow to green and you think your mind wanders and tears and rages and breaks softly and slowly. And when the taxi pulls up at the destination you stop. You let your eyes focus on the building that stands before you and you try and steady the frantic beating of your heart.

You let your feet take you to the door and you grip the handle tightly, your hands shaking and your fingers cramping.

And it hurts. The paper burns your fingers and you feel the itch and the wilting of your resolve that you have left as it seeps away.

You hate this feeling. It's the raging of a storm too close to escape, too much to bear.

And so, with your mind screaming out, you push open the door and you walk forwards.

Gustus greets you then, surprise flitting across them before they narrow softly in thought, "Rough day at work?" and you shrug, merely nod your head and you grimace when you feel the crumpled piece of paper in your palm.

"I…" you swallow hard for a moment, "I need a drink," you see him look to you carefully, his eyes kind and searching for just a moment before he nods, his arm outstretched, guiding you to a far corner, away from the few that sit at this odd hour.

"Want to talk about it?" he asks, already placing a glass before you, and when you look up, when you let your eyes meet his and you see the caring and the kindness and the memories that you both share you think you break and you feel your shoulders shake and you feel your eyes sting and so you push your fists to your eyes, you squeeze your hands so, so tight and you think your head shakes, and shakes, and refuses to believe.

Refuses to remember.


"Lexa," she breathes, her fingers digging into your hair tightly, "Jesus fuck," and you hum softly in response, a smile playing across your lips as you continue to press them hotly across her neck.

You think you press harder, your hands beginning to search but she pauses, her breaths coming in lungfuls.

"Stop," she hisses, her hands prying your face from her neck and you jerk back quickly, your eyes widening in fright—

"Oh, shit, Clarke — shit, I'm sorry, I didn't. I—" and you search for words and reassurances and apologies but she laughs, grips your face in her hands and kisses you quickly,

"No, it's not that," and she cuts you off with a squeeze of her fingers, "I want to. I do." and she blushes carefully, "just not here, in Gustus' bar, and especially not in this bathroom…" and she looks away for a moment, biting her lip carefully, "not for our first time," and you breathe out quietly, happily, reassured.

"Sorry," you whisper, a smirk playing across your eyes and she smiles back, a bashful, quiet thing and so you tug her away from the sink and kiss her quickly once more before retreating back into the bar.

And as you exit you see Gustus eye you warily, his eyes narrowed in thought, and you are sure he takes in Clarke's ruffled hair, her shirt that hangs lopsided and uneven and your own hair, braids a mess and your lipstick smeared.

"That was quick," he says then, his laugh a baritone and full.

And you think you laugh too when you hear Clarke whisper a pained Kill me, please.


Gustus watches you, his gaze thoughtful and comforting, your hands shaking before you, "I've been seeing Clarke," you whisper finally and you see is eyes widen for a moment, "she's hear, somewhere," you finish, your hand gesturing awkwardly around.

And Gustus merely hums, already filling your glass with a drink far too strong for your tastes, "I called Abby," you say then, your hands snaking out and grasping the glass carefully, and you pause before bringing it to your mouth and you let the heady smell sting your nostrils and burn your eyes, "I called Abby," you repeat and you are sure it comes out quiet and broken, and you wipe away a tear that dares to roll down your cheek and Gustus passes you a box of tissues and you smile at him mournfully, mouthing a quick thank you and then you let the burn of the drink scold your throat and wind its way over your tongue.

"What'd she say?" and it's a quiet prompt, free of judgement or opinion.

And as you recall the words Abby told you, as you recall the image of Clarke, broken and bleeding you think your whimper an involuntary, pained sound.

"She remembers," and you choke on the words, you feel them tear at your throat and it burns stronger and more cruelly than the harsh bite of the drink in your hands.

"She remembers?" Gustus repeats, a hand rubbing his chin for a moment.

You close your eyes, shake your head for a short while, if only to deny, to forget and to ignore.

"Not everything," you shrug then before taking another soft sip, "I don't know." you finish lamely.

And don't you want her to remember? Don't you want Clarke to have those memories you shared? Don't you want Clarke to still think of you and to still hold your time that you spent together close within?

Don't you want Clarke?

"I don't know how much she remembers," you repeat, and it pains you and bruises your heart when you realise she might not remember who you are, what you shared, what you both had.

"But she remembers something," And you look into his eyes, his gaze steady and comforting.

"Yeah," and you think the word tired and beaten as it escapes your mouth.

"Can that be enough?" he asks,

And you think over his words. You let them burn into your mind.

"What should I do?"

"Do you want to talk to her?"

You want to.

"It's not fair," you whisper to him then, "It's not fair," you repeat it, and you feel the red anger and burning that lives within the words. "It's not fair," you think you feel the warning of the yellow amber. You think you hear the whispered be careful meandering though your mind. "It's not fair," and you feel the green of the light as it whispers words urging you to take a leap, to do something foolish and cruel and broken.

And you think of Costia.

"I can't," You think of Costia and her smile. You think of the curls of her hair, unruly and wild in the morning, "I can't" you think of her groans of annoyance at being woken by your early morning runs, "I can't" and you think of her understanding and acceptance and the warm embrace she supports you with when you break and fall.

"You still love her, don't you." his voice is quiet, only living in the soft space that lingers between you.

"I can't" you think of Costia. You think of her pressed against you, and you think of the soft whimpers that fall from her lips.

"Sometimes, Lexa," Gustus pauses for a moment, lets his eyes search yours. He reaches across the table then, lets his hand dwarf yours, "You can't help who you love."

"It's not fair," you whisper and you look to him, you look for reassurance and guidance. You look for words of advice and of knowing and of a way forward. Of a way to live.

But when he smiles sadly at you? When he grips your hand just a moment tighter in his grasp? And when he whispers back.

"It's not."

You think you crumble and fall.


You don't remember how many drinks you have. You don't remember how much they burn and sting and scold. You are sure Gustus cuts you off quickly, his eyes always searching for you through the slowly growing number of people.

But through all the hours you think that you sit and spend in his restaurant you think you feel the constant brush of the paper in your fingers and as you trace the torn edges of it you think it a cruel and evil beast that taunts and begs for you to look, if only for a moment, if only so that the numbers can linger for a long enough second in your mind.

It's not fair.


You think you enjoy the warmth of the blankets that embrace you and you think you enjoy the press of a body against your side and you think you enjoy the light that dances across her bare back. You turn carefully, if only to avoid waking her and you tuck your hand under your chin in thought, let your eyes wander across her tired face and you think you smile at the hair that brushes her cheek.

You move closer, let you hand linger softly against her arm outstretched to you in sleep and you smile as you tangle your fingers between hers, and when she squeezes a moment, sleep slowly replaced by a lingering smile you think you squeeze her hand back. You think you would enjoy waking up next to her each day.

You think you would enjoy being with her each day.

And you think you smile at the realisation. You think your heart beats just a bit more frantic and happy as your mind drifts to the future. And when she wakes, when her eyes peak open and when you roll her over, your legs straddling her body and when her hands dig playfully into your waist? you think you know what you feel.

You think you know you want to marry her.


You glare a pained and lonely thing at the bottom of your glass. Your mind a slurred and tired beast that aches and beats painfully in your head. You let out a sigh then, look out the window and see that night has slowly crept its way over the sky. You think Costia will be home soon, will probably start dinner, will be humming a soft tune as the music carries through the home you share. And you think yourself guilty and cruel.

You think she deserves better and you know she does.

You watch as people filter through the restaurant. Some for a quiet meal, some for a burning drink to sooth a too long day. You watch as men, women and children walk past, their heads ducked and their shoulders hunched to fight back the cold for a few more moments. And your eyes catch the flicker of the light that flashes past, of cars and of the changing traffic lights.

You watch as a young couple embraces by a car, arms wrapped tightly around each other, laughter living comfortably in their eyes and you think you smile, if only for a short, pained moment and you think you remember a time when you felt like you could love freely, could ignore the world as it rages past. If only for a night.


You think you must hold Clarke painfully tight against you, you think your nails must dig into her scalp and your fingers tug forcefully in her hair, but you hear the sounds that escape your mouth, you hear the beat of your heart and you feel her as she loves you and carries you through the flooding of your emotions and you think you smile, wide and carefree as she comes to rest besides you, her face resting comfortably across your shoulder.

She smiles then, a quick wipe of her hand across her face and a twinkle in her eye and she leans closer, lets her breath brush against your mouth and so you lean into her touch, and you are sure you smile when she whispers to you, "see, much better than in a bathroom."

"Yeah," it's breathless and eager and wanting.

And you lie back, let your chest rise and steady and you enjoy the feel of Clarke as she winds herself around you, as her fingers dance across your skin. But you think yourself polite and sharing and so you roll her over, lean over her and as your eyes meet hers and as her eyes widen and darken you think you smile a wicked, devilish smirk.

"My turn."


You lose yourself to the memories that creep back, a slow, constant rushing through your mind and you hear the whispered question that lingers in the back of your thoughts.

Is it this one she remembers?

Does she remember?

And it hurts. You think your heart must beat out of time to the rushing of your pulse and you think your mind fogged and dulled and broken to the drink that sits painfully in your stomach. And perhaps if you were sober, if you weren't so confused and broken you would realise the regret you'll wake to in the morning. But isn't that why you came? To forget. To not think?

You feel a soft buzz in your pocket then, you hear the quiet hum that wafts to your ears and so you fumble meekly, let your fingers tug and grasp at your phone and you raise it to your ear.

"Where are you, Lexa?"

Costia

"At Gustus' bar" and you are sure your words come slurred, wet and foul on your tongue, "the restaurant. Whatever." you grimace when you think you hear the clang of keys, the rustling of clothes.

"Stay there. I'm coming," and you want to tell her you're fine. That you can find your way home, that you don't need her in this moment. But you think it a lie.

You aren't fine.

You can't find your way home.

Isn't she the one you need in this moment?


You don't remember Costia picking you up, you don't remember the whispered conversation between Gustus and her and you don't remember the soft embrace she holds you with when she pulls you into your apartment.

You don't remember when you throw up into the sink, as she holds your hair back.

You don't remember the running of the water and the warmth of the bath or the gentle caresses she gives you as she pushes you firmly, surely into the scolding water.

You don't remember the tears that fall quietly down your face.

"I'm sorry," you whisper once she pushes you down onto the bed, the sheets being pulled around you both, "I'm sorry."

You see her turn to you on her side, her hand resting under her head and she smiles sadly at you, "It's ok."

But it's not. It's not ok when she looks at you with love and understanding. When she understands your need to hurt and feel.

"I spoke to Abby," you whisper to her then, and you think you see her eyes narrow for a moment in thought, and you know you should tell her what had happened. You think you owe her this much.

You think she deserves better.

"She gave me Clarke's number," and you are sure your voice breaks, you are sure you turn your face from hers, the blood burning across your cheeks and the guilt that lives slowly rising and boiling.

"What are you going to do?" her hand reaches out, a soft comfort across your shoulder.

"I don't know,"

You know what you want to do.

But what you're going to do?

You don't know.

"It's ok, Lexa. If you want to call her, to talk to her," and you know the look that will live in Costia's eyes. You know the understanding and the acceptance. And it makes you seethe, makes your breaths come stronger and broken and pained. And so you roll over, you let the pain fuel you and you glare at her for a moment.

"It's not ok," it comes out crisp. It comes out cruel and guilty.

And you see her flinch from you. You see her eyes widen in shock and you think your guilt rises stronger.

"Why aren't you angry?" you think it must come sudden, thoughtless and piercing.

"Angry?" she asks, leaning up on an elbow, her gaze ever constant, "I'm not angry, Lexa. Why would I be?" and you shake your head, "I was there, Lexa. At the end. I know what she meant to you. You haven't hidden her from me," she finishes, her hand a forceful pressure against your shoulder. "I just want you to be happy, Lex, I understa—"

"No! You don't!" You turn to her fully, you let your anger burn just a moment brighter. "Stop saying you understand and that it's ok and that you only want me to be happy," and you are sure your words come more slurred now, the drink raging back to the forefront of your dulled senses, and perhaps if you weren't so confused, weren't so broken you would consider your words, you would regret them, never say them.

You see her eyes flash for a moment and you think you feel her fingers dig into your shoulder just a small amount tighter.

"What do you want me to say? That I'm jealous? That I don't want you to see her? To think of her?" you open your mouth to retort, to say something more but she cuts you off, her eyes killing the words you think were growing on your tongue, "I know you still dream of her. You wake calling her name, Lexa," and the words cut into your heart. They sit painfully on your chest and pull your shoulders down with the weight and the burden and the guilt.

"Why don't you hate me?" and you know it's a broken, cruel whisper, a choked sound that digs cruelly into the space that lingers between you both.

"Because, Lexa," and she reaches out softly, lets her hand wipe away the tears that have fallen, that have spread, "I love you." But you think you shake your head, you think you don't deserve what she gives and what she takes and what she endures and so you think your mind denies her words and denies what lives in her eyes. And so she pushes you back down.

"I love you, Lexa."

She leans over you, presses her lips to yours, settles herself over your body.

"I love you."

She lets her hand wander, lets her fingers skim the waist band of your sleep clothes.

"Despite what you think."

You gasp as her fingers move softly, carefully.

"I love you."

She presses firmer, lets the rising of her chest press against the heaving and frantic beating of yours.

And you gasp and whimper and close your eyes as she kisses you deeply, lets the words she voices linger and wind their way through your body.

And as you near, as you crest and as you crumble around her fingers you don't notice the small box that sits by her bedside lamp, you don't notice the warm velvet and its familiarity and you don't notice that the wetness that clings to your cheeks and that stains your soul falls from Costia's eyes.

"I love you, too." Clarke.