Part Two
Clarke questions the validity of her sanity nearly every Wednesday morning at six thirty sharp.
Today is no different.
She'd covered for Jackson in the ER last night when he'd begged her with his ridiculous puppy dog eyes that he had something important to do and that so-and-so would never forgive him if he wasn't there. She likes Jackson (unlike some other people she works with -she doesn't want to let herself think about Dr. Rainer because that man is like hell personified; a short man with a shiny bald head who has an ego the size of Russia and a personality like a dead fish- who are decidedly less than amiable) which is why she'd agreed to cover his shift. Unfortunately for her, that meant she was stuck in the ER almost all night, but a noteworthy highlight was a sixteen year old boy who came stumbling in around one AM, crying and complaining that there was lint inside his belly button. Clarke doesn't think she's ever seen one of the nurses-Maya-laugh so hard.
Clarke isn't a fan of the rapid fire, quick on your feet chaos that's typical down in the ER. She prefers consulting with patients, other doctors, maybe even sitting in on some surgeries if she has the free time. She prefers when things aren't always moving so fast.
She used to, though.
Used to need everything to fly by and rush around, she used to be driven and throbbing with energy that threatened to burst from almost every fiber of her being. She used to love the ER because it fed the thrill seeker she liked to pretend she wasn't, but those that really knew her could attest to her love for living a little on the dangerous side; the fact that she was always attracted to things she shouldn't be, drawn to mystery and discovery. Now she can barely even recall that girl she used to be, a mere memory of something that no longer exists. She thinks that person was someone different entirely. Clarke isn't like that anymore; chaos exhausts her. She thinks he probably had something to do with zapping that energy out of her. Stripping away part of who she inherently was,taking it from her as if he had some right to utterly change her life, twist and turn until she was no longer recognizable, bent out of shape and hollowed out.
But the past is the past, and she hates to dwell on things she cannot change. It only serves to make her upset, fuel her despair and regret; make her wish there was some way to go back in time and change the outcome of so many things, to change the way that things happened, to tell herself what would happen with the choices she made so maybe she'd make different ones the second time around, so that maybe this time she wouldn't be left with a hole in her chest and the never ending feeling that something is missing. The fact that she can't only seems to make it worse.
Her cell phone beeps from her bedside table, jolting Clarke out of her unwitting trip down memory lane. She fumbles out from underneath her covers, eyes bleary with sleep as she pulls her phone towards her, squinting at the screen against the dark of her bedroom. She sees her mother's name, iMessage written underneath it, instead of a preview (Clarke turned that off after one too many of her friends saw things they shouldn't have), andslide to unlock blinking at her from the edge of her phone's screen. She mentally debates whether or not she should open it, before she decides that she's up, so she might as well see what Abby has to say, especially if she's contacting her this early.
Mom
iMessage
October 7, 2015, 6:25 AM
Hi, honey, I know I said that I would be able to come up this
weekend for your presentation but I have to take an extra shift
at the hospital to cover for someone. I love you! Have a good day.
Clarke stares unbelieving at the message in front of her, and she honestly can't believe her mother is doing this again. Not to say that Clarke wouldn't have expected this; Abby's not exactly the person who's always around, and she's notorious for being flaky, especially when it comes to things that are important to Clarke. (That's probably why some of her friends hate her mother with unmatched vitriol). Clarke, on the other hand, could never hate her mother, because despite everything else she is her mother, and she tries, and she loves her, sure, but Clarke's never quite forgiven her for pulling away when she'd needed her the most. After that, their relationship has been tenuous at best, and Abby had never tried to make up for (in Clarke's eyes) abandoning her in that time of need, instead only estranging herself more but pretending that they still have the loving relationship they used to when Clarke was younger. The fact that Abby won't acknowledge her mistakes and prefers to think that everything has and will always been okay between them only makes Clarke wish she could hate her. It would save her a lot of heartache and even more disappointment.
Clarke's been reminding her mother about this upcoming presentation of some of her research for months now, and maybe that's what bothers her most about all of this; that Abby promised she'd clear her schedule and book a flight and be here for something that Clarke has been preparing for, that her and her research partner Derek have worked so incredibly hard on, and are finally getting to present their work in front of a wide group of esteemed physicians and clinicians. And now Abby was letting her down again. She couldn't get someone else to cover instead? How hard would that have been?
Clarke shakes her head and tries to suppress the tears. She should stop hoping she'll show up. She only proves time and time again that she won't.
Clarke still feels the sting of the first time she'd been let down by her mother, way back in high school, when she'd been given an entire section at the annual art exhibition to display and talk about some of the inspiration behind her pieces, and she remembers the punch to her gut when she'd searched the crowds for hours, and not even once did she find her mother's smiling, reassuring face amongst the onlookers. Clarke will never forget that.
Clarke locks her phone before tossing it back onto the table resting against the wall, falling back onto her pillows, bunching her fists in the fabric of her sheets. She'll get over it, she always does. But that doesn't really make it any better.
Clarke finally remembers why she was woken up in the first place when Raven begins banging on the bathroom door again-well, pounding is probably a more adequate term to describe the racket-and she's shouting at a volume that definitely should not be permitted at the crack of dawn, especially when Clarke has barely been asleep for two hours and needs to be up within the next three. Clarke curses herself for being nice to Jackson on a Tuesday night, of all days.
"Jesus Christ, Octavia! Get out of the fucking bathroom or I swear to God I'm going to knock down this door and drag you out!"
"Shut the fuck up Raven!" Octavia's harsh voice shouts back in return, muffled by the running of the faucet, "I need to get ready!"
"You've been getting ready since five thirty! I swear we need another bathroom because I'm about to go knock on creepy Phil's door and ask to use his shower!" Raven huffs, fist still slamming against the wood of the bathroom door, and Clarke can't believe they have to go through the same conversation every single week. It almost makes living with her two best friends unbearable. She might consider trying to find her own place if she didn't love them both so much, despite their almost constant squabbling.
"Go ahead!" Octavia yells back, and Clarke can physically hear Octavia sticking her tongue out and cocking her hips to the side in her patented sass pose.
"Octavia! Get out of the bathroom! Now!"
"Fuck you!"
"I'm not kidding, Octavia! You know I have places to be!"
Wednesdays are Raven's busy day, which is why it is beyond Clarke that she and Octavia have to have the same fight every week when both of them know Raven needs the bathroom. (Clarke kind of thinks Octavia only does it anymore to get under Raven's skin).
Raven majored in engineering in college, although she prefers the term 'mechanic,' something about "those fucking engineers who think they own the whole damn world don't lump me with them, Clarke" and various other curse laden sentiments both her and Octavia have only heard over and over again all throughout their rather long friendship with Raven. Sometimes, if she gets angry enough, she'll start yelling insults in Spanish, and then forget it; no one can reign in Raven after she crosses that line. Clarke took Spanish in high school, so she knows enough to have a rudimentary conversation with someone if she absolutely had to, but the only words Octavia even knows in Spanish are insults, and Clarke has to admit it's rather entertaining to watch Raven go off on someone in her native language with Octavia hollering random words as back up.
Raven works three jobs, which Clarke finds strange, because Raven's the closest thing to a genius Clarke's ever come across, her mind whirring and connecting far beyond what Clarke's is capable of, or at least with regards to math and the like, and her stellar academic record should be more than enough to land her a well paying, high quality job somewhere no doubt prestigious, but Clarke guesses it has more to do with the fact that it's the kind of work Raven actually likes to do; she likes to work with her hands and on cars and get grease all over her skin and complain about it later, she'd rather work a million jobs than be stuck in some stuffy office with people she can't stand. Clarke admires her because she has the guts to be unapologetically herself; no matter what anyone else says she'll bend to no one's will but her own. Raven Reyes doesn't let anyone tell her what she can or can't do and Clarke loves her all the more for being able to show that strength and say 'fuck you' to anyone who has a problem with it. (Clarke wishes she had even half of that strength and determination).
Clarke met both Raven and Octavia in her freshman year of college; Octavia was her randomly assigned roommate and Raven was the loud obnoxious girl in their intro to psych class, and well, one could say the rest was history. She and Octavia became rather fast friends, their two personalities fitting together extremely well (Clarke thanked God that they did and weren't awkward and dismissive or openly hostile with each other), and Raven was one of the only people who'd showed up to one of Clarke's study groups for class, and despite butting heads at first, they all became rather inseparable. Clarke's grateful that college gave her lifelong friends who have always been by her side when she needed them (unlike her mother).
Their friend group only expanded after that, first to include Octavia's older brother Bellamy who Clarke met for the first time when they were sophomores; Octavia loved him so much even though she was sometimes embarrassed by his so-called "nerdiness" or his overprotective streak, but anything she could find to complain about was only borne out of his incredible love for her, and Clarke couldn't believe she'd kept him hidden from both her and Raven for so long. (Clarke longed for a relationship like the one that they shared; they were best friends, siblings, and it was clear they'd do almost anything for each other. Clarke only learns later the tragic reason they are the way they are: so close and so dependent on each other and she almost regrets wishing for it in the first place).
After Bellamy came Jasper and Monty, and Clarke found a quiet companion in the latter and a boisterous joker in the former. They were long time friends, brought into their band of four through Octavia's brief stint working in the library's café. (Jasper and Monty were part of the work study group on campus; Octavia needed the extra income but found it almost impossible to juggle her school work and the hours required plus finding time to party, hence the briefness of it all, but Jasper and Monty at least became a permanent fixture in their lives; Raven took the most to Jasper, although that's probably something she'd never willingly admit, except maybe as a consolation to lessen the sting of beating his ass in Call of Duty literally every single time they play).
Finn came last.
Clarke doesn't really remember a time in her life where happiness didn't go hand in hand with those six people: Octavia, Raven, Bellamy, Jasper, Monty, Finn. When Clarke had nothing else, she always had them; a second family. When things got screwed up with money and flight schedules and she had to forgo Christmas at home one year, they all cancelled their plans and spent the holidays holed up at school with her.
(That was one of the best holidays she can ever remember, besides ones when she was very little; Bellamy bought a tiny, shitty, fake tree from Walmart that he and Octavia strung some lights on while Raven and Jasper cleared out space in the suite's common room for presents and board games; Monty draped the unused lights all around the room, from the ceiling and over the television and everywhere in between. Finn made cookies in the kitchen on the first floor, burning more than half of them but Clarke managed to salvage enough to keep Octavia smiling, and amidst laughter and alcohol courtesy of Bellamy, they all fumbled their way through several rounds of Clue, accompanied by a Yule log on their television screen and a view of stark white snow falling ever so softly outside their window as they all exchanged cheap laughter inducing gifts, and a silly bobble head of Clarke's favorite baseball player from Bellamy and an origami deer from Finn was worth a hundred times more than a Hallmark card from her mother wishing her well could ever be worth. It was here that Clarke found herself with one of the happiest memories she has to date; their celebration was silly and maybe a little bit sophomoric but it was beautiful, and Clarke was in love, and nothing else really mattered outside of that).
When she needed to be cheered up they were there, when studying for midterms and finals became overwhelming they were there to commiserate with, when it was hot out but everyone needed a break from homework they went to the kickball fields behind one of the dining halls and played watered down versions of soccer and ultimate Frisbee and exhausted themselves into a laughing pile of bodies before they raced each other to the swimming pool to cool down. Clarke doesn't think she could have made it this far without her friends, and their circle has expanded and contracted, sure, but Clarke likes to think that at heart they've always stayed the same. She's forever grateful for their presence in her life (even if sometimes they're the cause of her pain).
Raven's still pounding on the bathroom door and that's when Clarke decides she's going to have to mediate because with the way they're fighting out there, it's pretty clear that this time they aren't going to resolve it themselves. It seems Octavia has decided that today she's going to be a stubborn ass and not give in to Raven's demands as per usual, so Clarke throws her hands up in frustration, fingers curling through the tangles in her blonde hair before she swings her legs over the side of her bed and flings the door open.
"Okay, stop, both of you!" She shouts as she enters into the hallway, and Raven pauses to look at her, fist caught in mid-swing.
"Jesus you look like shit."
Clarke wrinkles her nose, "Wow, thanks, you really know how to flatter a girl." Raven's lips quirk up into a smirk.
"Can you get dumbass here out of the bathroom?" Raven shouts pointedly, jerking her thumb in the direction of the door as she turns to stare at Clarke, "Rough day?" she asks, volume lowering as she takes in the tangled mess of Clarke's hair and the bags underneath her eyes, sleep still crusted in the corners.
Clarke shrugs. "No more than usual." She pushes Raven away from the door with her hips.
"O, you have to get out, okay? I'm not kidding Raven's seriously pissed," Clarke tries, tiredness seeping through her words and coating their inflection; instead of the forceful anger she was going for she ends up just sounding defeated, and she's so exhausted she doesn't even care.
Octavia must get the hint, because within the next three minutes the door clicks open and steam follows her exit. She doesn't forget to shoot Raven a menacing glare before she slams her bedroom door closed behind her.
"God, you're a lifesaver, Clarke, thanks," Raven grins out, pumping her fist in the air triumphantly before she disappears into the bathroom, door squeaking shut behind her, and Clarke hears the shower turn on before she turns around and makes her way into the kitchen, collapsing against the counter. She rubs her fingertips over her eyes, sighing. She can already tell it's going to be a long day and she's barely been awake for fifteen minutes. She really wishes she hadn't covered for Jackson last night because now she's not sure she's going to be able to get through the rest of the day with her eyes open. She wants to go back to sleep even if only for two or three more hours, but she's awake now, and that's one of those pesky little things she hates about herself: once she's awake she can never get back to sleep.
Keys jingle in the lock on their apartment door, and Clarke lifts her head from the countertop, her bleary eyes met with the overly cheerful grin of Bellamy Blake, his mop of black hair in its typical messy tousle on top of his head, bangs falling softly into his warm eyes as he brandishes what looks like a tray of Dunkin Donuts coffee and a greasy bag of McDonald's breakfast sandwiches. He looks crisp and clean, as he usually does, in his dark police officer uniform, and Clarke never tires of hearing Raven tease him about looking more cute than threatening in it. (She tends to agree).
He's been a beat cop for what seems like forever to Clarke, and he complains of never seeing any action anymore because of their resident vigilante, but Clarke is more than happy to have him a little bit safer, even if she has to hear him grumble about it all the time. Despite the fact that he's been a beat cop for so long, Clarke has no doubt that a fancy promotion is on its way to him, because if anyone is dedicated to their job it's Bellamy; he is one of the best cops in the city and she has no doubt that he'll make just as exceptional a detective.
He stalks over to her, shutting the door behind him and dropping his keys on the table by the door, kissing her on the cheek as he deposits his goods on the counter in front of them.
"Hey, Bell," she smiles back at him.
"How're you doing? You look tired." She rolls her eyes.
"Your sister and Raven had their usual Wednesday fight and I had to break it up. Oh and I was in the ER almost all night. I've barely gotten any sleep." Bellamy shakes his head, shifting his hips to lean against the edge of the counter as he speaks.
"I'll talk to her about that."
"You don't have to, Bellamy."
"I am a cop. I could threaten to arrest her," he says, impish grin adorning his features, highlighting the smattering of freckles on his cheeks. She lets out a barking laugh at the suggestion. She can only imagine Bellamy forcing his sister to spend a night in jail, and every scenario she runs through in her head is enough to lighten her mood considerably.
"Who're you arresting?" Octavia asks as she slides into the kitchen in her stocking feet, stopping her beeline for the fridge only to give her brother a kiss before she continues on, pulling an apple out of the bottom drawer before searching the coffee tray for her marked off cup, reclining into a chair at the kitchen table in one fluid motion.
"You, for causing Clarke so many problems in the morning," Bellamy half scolds, playful teasing still evident in his voice despite the seriousness of his expression.
Octavia groans around the crunch of her apple.
"Not this again, Bell, it's Raven, not me." Bellamy can't help his laughter this time.
"Sis, we all know it's you." She scowls at him, and Clarke snorts along with Bellamy's full, booming laugh.
It's one of her favorite sounds; hearing Bellamy's deep, rich laughter filling her senses, echoing throughout every inch of whatever place they happened to be occupying, fills her with a sense of contentment that he alone can bring her. Maybe it's because Bellamy's infectious laughter was always there when she found it impossible to laugh herself, and he always made her feel like it was okay to be happy, to let loose, to be free, even if only for that fleeting moment. (When things get rough, she grabs a hold of that sentiment and never lets it go).
"Fuck you," Octavia replies, leaning up to snatch the McDonald's bag before sticking her tongue out at her brother and flipping Clarke off.
Raven exits the bathroom just as Octavia sits down again, towel wrapped around her dripping form as she limps (more like hobbles) into the kitchen, grinning at Bellamy.
"Good morning Officer Cutie," she says, mock saluting him as she leans against the wall for support, her leg resting at an awkward angle.
The tips of Bellamy's ears burn red.
"You need your brace?" He asks, clearing his throat as he shrugs the embarrassment off, barely meeting Raven's mischievous eyes.
(Clarke's never really asked, but sometimes she wonders if there's something between them; something else happening that they haven't decided to make anyone else privy to. Sometimes she thinks she sees something brewing between them, and she thinks it's been brewing for a while: there are lingering glances, concerned questions, a little too many touches that could be misconstrued as more than friendly, and a flirty banter that yes, Raven shares with practically everyone, but with Bellamy it somehow always seems to have more weight. Whether or not they've ever actually acted on any feelings they may or may not share, Clarke doesn't know).
"Yeah, you mind?" Raven asks, hand running absently over her bad leg as she drips water onto the floor.
The accident had happened three years prior, and Clarke was still surprised that Raven could have so much strength to get passed the damage it inflicted upon her. It had been a rather late night and Raven was driving back home from the store, picking up a few things for a party they were going to throw Monty over the weekend, when a truck drove through a red light at an intersection and slammed right into Raven's car.
Clarke still remembers getting the call; how she and Octavia broke down. The doctors weren't sure if Raven was going to make it; her car certainly hadn't. It was totaled in the accident, crumpled into a barely recognizable mass of rubber and metal. Clarke wonders how Raven even made it out of that car alive. She's just grateful she did.
Raven spent seven hours in surgery. According to her surgeon, she'd coded three times during the operation, but they'd managed to bring her back with relative ease every single time. "She's a fighter, that one," he'd said, clapping Clarke on the shoulder as he delivered the news, and Clarke replied through her tears of relief that there was no better way to describe Raven Reyes.
The only catch was that she might never walk again.
It was too soon to tell exactly how much damage had been done to her spine, and only in a few weeks after the swelling and inflammation had gone down and they could get a more accurate picture would they know for sure what the long term prognosis would be. Raven would end up only being partially paralyzed, and with ongoing physical therapy, crutches, walking sticks, and specialized knee and shin braces, she might be able to regain enough of her movement to one day walk without the assistance of a crutch.
Raven was determined to say the least, and she never let the injury break her. She only squared her jaw and made Clarke drive her to her physical therapy appointments, and she learned to walk again, pushing through every hurdle that was thrown in her way. Clarke was always surprised by Raven's ability to persevere, but this was something else altogether. It only served to make Clarke even more in awe of Raven's boundless strength.
She can walk without assistance now, just the brace, but it's still a rather ungainly limp. She's still in therapy, but she's never lost that essence of herself; her sarcasm, her humor, her wit. She never stopped being Raven throughout the entire ordeal, and Clarke once again envies that strength. She wonders what that's like, being able to retain yourself through a trauma like that. (She wishes she had been stronger, like Raven; maybe then she wouldn't feel like a part of her was missing, like she wasn't the same anymore).
Bellamy ducks quickly into the bathroom for her brace while Raven shimmies into the pants she has dangling in her hands.
"What's for breakfast, ladies?" She says, shit-eating grin plastered on her face as she hobbles to the table, towel slipping down off her shoulders slightly as she takes her brace from Bellamy and starts strapping it on over her leg.
"Jesus Christ," Octavia says through a mouthful of Egg McMuffin, "Put some fucking clothes on."
"Oh please," Raven says back, flipping her wet mane of hair over her shoulder in a dramatic arc, her towel dropping purposefully to reveal a hint of cleavage, "This body is a gift. Don't pretend you don't like seeing it." Clarke rolls her eyes as she twirls the tray of coffee cups, plucking the one that has her name scribbled on it out from the far end.
"Uh, yeah, maybe Bell," Octavia snorts in return, gesturing at her brother's rapidly heating face as he looks physically anywhere but at Raven. Clarke thinks it's hilarious. He only does things like that (gets bashful, overly respectful, etc. etc.) when he likes someone. With anyone else, he doesn't care, and Bellamy definitely has a mile long list of ladies he's had the pleasure of sleeping with, and an equally long list of girls who want a chance to sleep with him, so modesty isn't really his strong suit, "and Clarke's queer ass. But not me. Don't flatter yourself, Reyes."
"Hey!" Clarke says indignantly at the jab, shaking her head as Raven stands, only to practically shove her chest into Octavia's face.
"Gross!" Octavia yells, propelling herself backwards into the wall and off of her chair as Clarke and Bellamy share a look before doubling over with laughter.
"Where would you people be without me?" Raven hums, shit-eating grin still plastered on her face. She looks beyond pleased with herself and Clarke can't help but laugh harder as Raven exits the kitchen with a dramatic bow.
"A lot less traumatized!" Octavia yells after her in response, making a gagging sound as she takes a big sip of her coffee, pulling herself up off the floor. Bellamy snickers into his palm, which only serves to earn him a death glare from his sister.
"Sorry, O," he says, but Clarke can tell he's struggling not to laugh again.
This is why Clarke loves her friends. She may have barely slept last night, she may be having a shitty morning, she may have to walk through her impending long day in a sleep deprived haze, but their ability to make her see the good in the moment, the joy, to forget about all the other shitty things hovering in her subconscious, and to experience it through their never ending banter…Clarke is grateful for every day she spends surrounded by these people and their infectious good nature.
"Eat your breakfast and shut up Bellamy," Octavia growls, pout setting onto her lips as she shovels more food into her mouth.
Bellamy laughs out loud again. Clarke still loves that sound.
"You need a ride today, Clarke?" He asks, pulling the McDonald's bag towards him and rifling through it for his food, grinning victoriously before he pushes the bag back towards Clarke.
"If you don't mind?" Clarke says sheepishly, turning towards her own food. Raven's fixing her car, which happened to decide to sputter its last breath a few weeks earlier (right in the middle of a busy road), and according to the mechanic, parts for a car as "fucking ancient" as hers is are hard to come by. Clarke doesn't have the money at the moment to go hunting for a new one, so she'll let Raven insult her car and wait while she works on it instead, just because it's cheaper. She's been getting poor Bellamy to drop her off and pick her up at the hospital ever since, and she feels bad for making him go extra trips and being just a downright inconvenience when he already does so much for her. He insists he doesn't mind, and that it isn't making him late for work, but she thinks he just doesn't want to admit that she's causing him strain. She loves him all the more for that, but it only makes her feel guiltier.
"Yeah, it's no trouble," he smiles, shoving a stray piece of bacon into his mouth, "I can't pick you up though, Captain needs me to work late on the other side of town."
"It's fine," Clarke says, and she actually feels relief at the fact that he can let himself off the hook for one night, "I'll take the subway and then walk the rest of the way." Bellamy puts down his sandwich, dark eyes looking seriously into hers.
"Clarke," he starts, before Octavia interrupts him.
"Uh, oh, you're about to get the Big Brother Talk," she says, eyebrows wiggling, "That's his scolding voice."
"Shut up, O," he says, a bit of a bite to his words before he sighs, "I'm just looking out for you. Both of you." Octavia senses the tinge of fear in his voice; her features soften, a forlorn look replacing her teasing.
"I know, Bell." They both look like they might cry now, their gazes telling Clarke endless tales of darkness and sorrow.
Her heart breaks for them.
Bellamy clears his throat, tearing his eyes away from his sister and focusing back on Clarke.
"Like I was saying," he continues, and Clarke detects a slight waver in his solid, deep voice; sees Octavia wipe subtly at her eyelids, "it'll be late. You need to be careful. You'll be walking alone and you have to make sure you're aware of your surroundings, okay? Promise me."
"I promise, Bellamy. I'll be careful."
"Good," he says, brushing some of his hair out of his eyes as he leans back into the counter. Clarke shifts on her stool as Raven re-enters the kitchen, fully dressed and pulling her still damp hair back into her trademark ponytail.
"Jeez, I'm gone for like two seconds and this place suddenly turns into angst-ville," she scoffs, noting everyone's somber expressions, a stark difference from the laughter filled ones she left only moments before.
"Shut the fuck up," Octavia spits out, and just like that, they're back to laughing.
Clarke is content now to sit back and watch her friends while they eat and talk. She loves talking, and especially with them, but sometimes she just prefers to observe. It lets her mind slow down a little, gives her some time to relax and clear her thoughts. It's a nice reprieve that she needs every once and a while, especially this early in the morning and with such a long day ahead of her. She catches Bellamy's eye, and they share a smile. He likes to do that too. She thinks he might even be doing it with her, right now; Octavia and Raven's constant back and forth more than enough to make up for their absence in the conversation. He reaches down underneath the counter to take her hand, and all of a sudden a wave of sadness and despair fills her whole being, and she can feel the weight of it pressing into her chest, against her ribcage. It's suddenly hard to breathe, and she feels like she's drowning in the immediacy of it. She's not entirely sure if Bellamy taking her hand was the trigger, or if it had always been there since she woke up, and he just knew that she was going to feel it eventually so he reached out to let her know he was there (maybe a little of both). Either way, she clutches back, threading their fingers together and squeezing. He shoots her a half-smile, and Clarke is glad he's here. She wants to cry, wants to break down, but she feels his strength beside her, his long fingers winding around her own, and she shares in the comfort he never fails to provide. He knows her a little too well, but it's times like these that she's glad he can read her like a book.
Raven's shouting about something no doubt ridiculous, but it's enough to ground Clarke in the present. She squeezes Bellamy's hand one more time before she lets go, and the despair slowly trickles from the forefront of her thoughts. She has no desire to get caught up in the past, in things that can't be changed, not right now, so she forces herself back into the conversation bubbling around her.
"Tell her she's insane, Clarke," Octavia says, rolling her eyes for dramatic effect as Raven shakes her head, muttering what sounds like 'ay dios mio' or some other form of that under her breath as she sneaks a bite from Bellamy's sandwich.
"You're insane," Clarke agrees, smiling over at Raven, even though she has absolutely no idea what she's agreeing to. Knowing Octavia and Raven, it truly could be anything.
"Let it be known that you can suck my ass," Raven says in return as Octavia bursts out laughing.
"That's a horrifying image," Bellamy scrunches up his nose in disgust.
"See?" Octavia howls, "I told you we would all be a lot less traumatized if you didn't live here with us."
"You wouldn't last one day without me, Blake, and you know it," Raven scoffs, and Clarke laughs because it's true.
Octavia's phone rings at its usual seven ten promptness, signaling the arrival of her boyfriend to drive her to work.
"That's my cue," she says, pocketing her cell as she downs the rest of her coffee, kissing her brother on the cheek before grabbing her bag from the rack by the door and slipping into her shoes.
"Tell Lincoln I'm still on for next Saturday. Make sure he hasn't forgotten," Clarke calls after her. The two of them have plans to go to a new art museum opening up out of town, just to get away from everyone else and their hectic lives and immerse themselves in art for a while. They're both artists, and Clarke loves going places with Lincoln only for them to sit silently with their sketchpads in hand, drawing next to each other. It's therapeutic, and Clarke's glad she has someone in her life who appreciates art like she does, who understands its power to heal and renew. Lincoln gets it, and she never has to try to explain it. It's only one of the many things that makes Lincoln such an incredible guy.
Octavia rolls her eyes as she pulls on her coat, stuffing her keys into the pocket.
"Lincoln probably has it marked on a calendar, but I'll let him know anyway."
"Thanks." Octavia blows Raven a kiss before slamming the door shut.
"Now that she's gone…" Raven wiggles her eyebrows suggestively at both Bellamy and Clarke.
Bellamy's face reddens for what seems like the umpteenth time this morning alone. Clarke gags.
"I'm flattered, Raven, honestly," Clarke chuckles as she takes another bite of her sandwich, "but neither of you are really my type."
"Spoil my fun why don't you," Raven pouts, plopping herself down unceremoniously in Octavia's now vacant chair. Bellamy grins.
"Sorry babe."
The next twenty minutes pass in relative silence, a hush spreading over them; Raven absorbed in something on her phone while Clarke and Bellamy pick at the remainder of their breakfasts.
"Well," Raven finally says, drawing out the 'l' as she stands up, gripping the edge of the counter for support, "It's been real nice chatting with you both, but I've got places to be. I'll see you later." Raven leans over the counter, pressing a sloppy kiss to Clarke's cheek (which Clarke wipes off, sticking her tongue out at her best friend while she does it) and saluting Bellamy, ruffling his hair before grabbing her backpack from where it leans against the fridge.
"Give me an update on my car today?" Clarke asks. She still feels bad for putting Bellamy out nearly every day.
"Sure," Raven nods in return, "but don't expect any miracles. I've got Wick out looking for shit but it's slow going, Griffin."
"Thanks though, for fixing it. Or trying to," Clarke grins sheepishly.
"Anything for you, babe," Raven says, twiddling with a strap on her brace as she swings the front door wide, closing it behind her in yet another dramatic flourish.
"What would we do without her?" Bellamy chuckles, shaking his head as he shifts his stance into a more comfortable one. He still hasn't sat down, and Clarke would worry that he was uncomfortable if that wasn't such a Bellamy thing to do. He always stands. Everywhere they go. Sometimes it gets annoying, especially at restaurants (Clarke remembers with a barely contained giggle when Jasper and Monty practically dragged him into a booth once; Jasper threatening to tackle him if he didn't sit and Monty pushing him into the table from behind) but Clarke's come to accept it as just another quirk. When she first met him, she thought it was weird that he didn't sit down when they hung out, or when they went out somewhere, but she always felt awkward asking him about it, mainly because she didn't want to embarrass him or come off as rude. She asked Octavia instead, which only launched her into a tirade about how he was born standing up and probably hasn't sat since. (That's probably when Clarke decided she really liked Bellamy).
"That's a good question," she replies, downing the last of her coffee (and knowing she's going to need at least three more cups if she's going to make it even halfway through this day) and beginning to gather up the garbage littering the counter.
"You want some help?" He asks, jumping forward to grab some of the junk on the table, reaching out to hand it over to her.
"Thanks," she nods in return, shooting him a grateful smile.
He leans against the wall as she finishes throwing the rest of the wrappers and cups out.
"When do you need to be in?"
"Nine." Clarke stretches, exhaustion already setting in. All she wants to do is hide in her office all day (and maybe catch up on a little sleep while she's at it).
"I'm gonna take a shower," she says, "Hopefully it'll wake me up." Bellamy grins.
"I'll watch some TV while I wait for you then."
"Thank you, Bell, really. For everything." She means so much more than just today, or even just the last few weeks. She means so much more than that, but she can feel the sadness beginning to weigh her down again, and she doesn't want to think about any of it. She hates remembering. She hates that she can't seem to shake the despair, the pain, the haunting feeling of grief that hangs on her shoulders and swirls in her blood. She turns before he can see that she's made herself upset, and she walks into the bathroom quickly, shutting the door and turning on the water before a stray tear manages to slip out.
She wipes it away viciously, and strips out of her pajamas with haste, hissing as the water scalds over her skin.
At least here, with the sound of water cascading over her body, the press of droplets against her skin, the mat squelching underneath her toes, she can concentrate on something else; on something that is not the emotions swirling around inside of her, the overwhelming feeling that things arenot okay. At least here she can pretend she does not extend beyond this body, beyond this shower, beyond this room. She can ground herself here.
Clarke loses track of time. It's Bellamy knocking on the door and calling out the time to her that finally gets her to shut off the water and dry off.
She feels better. Stronger. Her skin is wrinkled and pruned, but she feels better. More herself again.
The sadness ebbs and flows. Some days are better than others. But she'll pull through. She has to. She doesn't have any other choice.
She tugs clothes on in her room, discarding the towel by her laundry basket (which happens to be overflowing, and Clarke makes a mental note that she really needs to do that sometime in the next few days) and unplugging her phone, sliding it into her pocket as she ignores the ache she feels over her mother's latest disappointment.
Bellamy has his feet up on the couch the next time she hurries into the bathroom, head cocked and eyes fixed intently on the television. She wonders what he's watching but doesn't really have time to think about it, plugging in her hair dryer and running her fingers through damp strings of blonde hair.
She's finally ready about ten minutes later, and she shouts at Bellamy that she's good to go, grabbing her briefcase and her purse from her room, shutting the lights off before joining Bellamy in the kitchen.
"Got your keys?" He asks, opening the front door, gesturing for her to exit.
She jingles them in front of his face in response. He chuckles, closing the door swiftly behind him.
"Then we are a go," he jokes, pushing her towards the elevator at the end of the hallway.
It's almost warm out today, and Clarke takes in a much needed gulp of fresh, mid-morning air, listening briefly to the sounds of traffic and congestion ringing all around her before climbing into the passenger seat of Bellamy's car.
"Anything exciting on the agenda today?" Bellamy comments, clicking his tongue as he turns a corner, honking at a blue SUV that swerves in its attempt to cut him off.
Clarke shakes her head, "Nope. Kind of glad about it too. Yesterday was long; I kind of need a break."
Bellamy grins, glancing over at her quickly before re-focusing his eyes on the road in front of him, "Yeah, you certainly do. Dr. Clarke Griffin: always trying to save the world."
She laughs along with him, resting her head against the head restraint behind her, taking a moment to look at the people they're passing by.
Clarke loves to people watch. It's fun to make up stories about the lives of strangers, imagine conversations they're having on their phones, what kind of lives they lead. It's a distraction from her own problems, sure, but Clarke finds comfort that there are thousands of people out there, in her city, who have lives and worries and issues too; it makes her feel less alone.
(It's also one of the most entertaining things she can think of, when she gets the entire gang together and they go to the mall or to that giant Macy's in midtown or even to a restaurant; everyone has their own flair for coming up with stories about people, uniquely their own. Bellamy and Lincoln are predictably horrible at it, and Octavia and Raven are predictably good at it; Jasper and Monty fall somewhere in the middle, but Clarke likes hearing Monty's take on people in particular. He's not as dull as Bellamy and not as dramatic as Raven, but he's more real, and that's one of the things about Monty that she finds herself relating to more and more).
"Where'd you go?" Bellamy asks softly as they stop at a red light.
Clarke watches a man in a bright suit trip over the curb as he crosses the street.
"Just thinking," she replies.
"Are you okay?" He asks seriously.
"Yeah." Clarke realizes how lame that sounds only after it's already out there and she can't take it back.
"Not all that convincing," Bellamy smirks in return, foot pressing into the accelerator as the light changes swiftly to green. She sighs.
"Just my mom," she concedes, and it's nice to get that out there. She hadn't realized how much she needed to tell someone about it.
Bellamy shakes his head, making a sharp left, "She not coming this weekend?" Clarke nods.
"Typical. Don't let it get you down. I tell you what," he continues, reaching one hand up off the steering wheel to brush some of his dark hair out of his eyes, "after the presentation, I'm taking you out to dinner; a celebration for all your hard work. It's on me."
"Bell, you don't have to do that," she says, and now she feels even worse. Now he's going to spend money on her just because her mom decided to flake again. She knows he isn't exactly making big bucks on a cop's salary, and he has other more important things to worry about than treating her to dinner. She also hates the idea that he's doing this just to make her feel better. She doesn't need his pity.
"Ah," he waves a hand in her general direction, "I want to. You can't say no, so." He grins cheekily at her, his freckles standing out sharply on the curve of his cheekbones.
"Fine." She gives in, mostly because once Bellamy sets his mind to something, there's not a lot you can do to change it. Octavia's exactly the same way, so Clarke knows better than to argue with a Blake that's decided something's going to happen.
"Good," he says, and he looks just a little too pleased with himself that Clarke wants to whack him in the back of his head. She refrains, but only because he's driving.
He pulls up to the curb right near the pathway to the hospital, just like he always does.
"Thanks, Bellamy," she says, kissing his cheek as she opens the door.
"You'll be careful, tonight, won't you?" He calls out, just as she's about to shut the door.
"Of course," she rolls her eyes, "Now go worry someplace else," she huffs, slamming the door closed, returning his wave quickly before trekking up into the hospital.
"Morning Dr. Griffin," Maya says as she walks towards the front desk, "Nice day, huh?" Clarke smiles. Maya's a great nurse; dedicated and sweet. Patients love her, and so do the doctors. She's one of the most easygoing people Clarke's ever met, and easily one of the nicest. (She's a nice change of pace from some of the other people that work in this building). There's just something about her that makes you like her, and Clarke's glad she works here. The world needs more people like Maya.
"It is," she agrees, taking some paperwork Mackenzie (the other nurse on duty with Maya at the moment) thrusts at her, "And how many times have we been over this: call me Clarke." Maya blushes.
"Right. Clarke. Sorry." Clarke grins back, before she heads for the staircase, taking the stairs down to the locker rooms nestled in the basement.
She's in her lab coat in a few minutes, discarding her jacket and some other things she doesn't need for the rest of the day before locking up, nodding at Dr. King who holds the door open for her. Clarke swings by the cafeteria before heading down to her office, briefcase still in hand as she pays for an extra large cup of coffee. (The food here is less than stellar; the coffee even worse, but Clarke needs caffeine, and she'll deal with crappy hospital coffee because she might die without it).
Clarke has to stop and talk to five doctors before she finally makes it to her office and she finally feels like she can breathe, shutting the door gently behind her as she tosses her briefcase onto the chair near her desk, setting the coffee cup down next to the picture of her and her friends at Cancun: the spring break destination of sophomore year. Clarke sits, relieved, and she shakes her head. She wonders how Bellamy does it, standing all the time.
She sighs, pulling out the paperwork she'd just gotten from Mackenzie, adding it to the ever growing stack on the right hand corner of her desk, vowing to get to it sometime in the next two days.
She sighs, running her hands through her hair as she turns towards the window to her right, still open because she'd forgotten to close it the night before. (She has a bad habit of doing that). There's a slight breeze flitting in through the blinds, and Clarke is glad for it. Her office always gets unnecessarily stuffy.
She glances down at the carpet below her, where there are still faint imprints of bloodstains etched into the material; no matter how hard Clarke scrubbed she couldn't quite get it all out. Blood was stubborn that way.
Clarke's still not completely convinced that that night had even happened; sometimes she thinks she made it all up, or that it was some elaborate dream she had begun to believe as fact. She can't believe that she'd stood near, even touched, the vigilante that had been protecting (or terrorizing, depending on who you spoke to) the city for years. She can't believe that that vigilante had been dripping blood on her carpet only a mere few weeks earlier.
(If she's honest with herself, she likes that she can't get all the blood out; it's a visual reminder of that meeting, that night, of the woman behind the mask: the fact that she is human, despite some of the unbelievable things that she does).
Clarke still remembers when the vigilante had first surfaced; the commotion that rippled throughout the city and through every person living in it because of it. There was fear, anger, hatred, relief: any emotion named Clarke had encountered, seen, or heard about someone who felt it. The media had a field day. (Still does).
Everything changed the moment he appeared: suddenly groups Clarke had always seen as fearless, or just too stupid to be afraid of anything, were scared, corruption unseen by almost anyone was being exposed, violence reigned. The vigilante painted a terrifying portrait of himself in a flurry of fists and knives.
The one thing that stuck out to Clarke as an anomaly was the fact that he never killed anyone. He maimed, and beat, twisted and amputated, but he never killed. He never took anyone's life; even people Clarke thought deserved it. It interested her, why someone who had decided to take justice outside the law, that would do all these horrible things to people, that had people ready and willing to kill him, wouldn't kill himself. It seemed a paradox of sorts, someone who believed themselves above the law, out there hurting people in the name of something 'altruistic', yet still wouldn't cross that line.
Everyone thought the vigilante was a he, (that's why Clarke still thinks 'he' about the beginning even though she knows better now) until it wasn't, and for whatever reason the revelation that the vigilante-this skilled, vicious, blood hungry individual-was a woman, only served to make Clarke even more intrigued. She wondered about her motives, what had made her feel she needed to do this, what caused her to risk her life every night trying to clean up the city.
Clarke believed in her, even from the beginning, despite things that could probably sway a person with more conviction than her to the other side. She's not sure why she does, before a few weeks ago she'd never even met her, or seen her in the flesh; just blurry pictures in magazines and newspapers, shaky videos on the local news, and word of mouth. She does, though, even after she broke her no killing rule for no discernible reason and slaughtered everyone affiliated with one of the most powerful women in the city at the time, (who the media dubbed the Ice Queen for both her ruthlessness and her lucrative ice business that was a lot more than simply shipping and selling ice), and even a lot of innocent people, leaving a trail of bloodshed and broken bodies, more than enough to send a chill down the collective spine of the city.
(The way she killed those people, it was horrible. It seemed almost like she'd ripped them limb from limb, and the crime scene photos she'd snuck a peek at while visiting Bellamy down at the station were grisly beyond even her wildest imagination).
She hasn't stopped killing since; she does it when she needs to, and she eliminates the people who she believes deserve it. She plays judge, jury, and executioner now, much to the displeasure of the police and the government. Clarke doesn't equate her with her body count, though, not like the media does, not like the police do, not like a large majority of people do. She's not sure why, again. The thought alone of all that killing should put her off, but for some reason Clarke believes there's so much more to the vigilante than meets the eye.
The media gave the vigilante a name, too: the Commander. (Clarke thinks it suits her well).
There's also a police task force charged with bringing her to proper justice. There's less fervor surrounding it now than there used to be, although it's still an active presence. The cops don't like her at all (and that's putting it mildly), and Bellamy hates her. Clarke tends to keep her opinions about the Commander to herself when she's around him. She's not sure how her other friends feel, except Jasper, who is wary of her, but believes in her too. She at least has an ally in him. (Clarke's always been a little jealous that he met her; he helped her design her costume and he wouldn't shut up about it and her for months afterwards).
Finally being face to face with the Commander was not how she pictured it would be. If anything she imagined meeting the Commander as a result of some harrowing moment where she would get to witness her in all her heroic glory. It was a shock to see her broken and bleeding, wincing and limping in pain. (At the time, she had been a mixture of shell shocked and star struck, and she doesn't think she made a very good impression).
She wasn't exactly what she'd imagined her to be. She was taller than Clarke herself, but not as tall as she'd thought she'd be, and there was something about her that just made her seem small. But she was simultaneously more than Clarke had imagined too. There was a regal air around her, proud and vengeful, and Clarke could feel power practically surging off of her in waves. It makes sense, why people are so afraid of her. She radiates with energy, and not to mention the mask. It covers most of her face, leaving only the tip of her nose, lips, and chin exposed, and the red design around her eyes looks almost like smeared blood, dripping down her cheeks and caked around her eyelids. It's terrifying. (Yet Clarke wasn't afraid).
Clarke still doesn't know anything about her.
She doesn't know what she looks like; what color her hair is, what her eyes are like (she imagines them dark and intense, glinting with the same kind of dangerous energy she radiates but tinted with compassion for the city she fights for, weary with all that she has endured); she only knows that her lips are full and pink and that they clench together all the time, like she's constantly holding something back, swallowing down emotion, reminding herself not to say anything, not to reveal anything. She only knows that she has an athletic build; strong shoulders and biceps, and toned, defined, abs that Clarke couldn't keep her eyes off of (she hopes she wasn't too transparent in her staring, but they were really nice abs) and pants that hung low on her hips, framing a tight stomach and strong thighs; that muscles rippled with movement. That her skin was warm and rough to the touch, her knuckles torn and bloody underneath fingerless gloves; that there were scars of varying length and severity littering her body, and that Clarke wants to know the stories behind each and every one of them (it scares her, so much, that she wants to know all these things. She doesn't understand why she does). That she had various holsters hanging from her belt, knives in each one. That she has a tattoo on her bicep, and the artist in Clarke wants to study it, trace over every intricate detail and commit it to memory.
She doesn't know anything about her. But God, does she want to.
The fascination is strange, and intense. It would be embarrassing if anyone saw her sketchbook; in the weeks since she met the Commander, the thick pages have been filled with furious sketches and even more detailed drawings of the vigilante, all from what she can remember from that night. She can feel her fingers itching now, to put to paper the strong curve of the Commander's jaw, the tattoo swirling over the muscle in her bicep, the straightness of her posture, the fullness of her lips, even though she's already done it a thousand times.
She wants to see her again.
She knows she more than likely never will again, but there's something that pulls her towards the Commander, something about her that makes her want to talk to her, to spend more time with her that doesn't involve patching her up. She's been trying to run into her again; taking walks around the blocks by the hospital when she needs a break during late night shifts in the hopes that she might stumble upon her. So far, no luck, and she's beginning to feel foolish. The city is huge, and the notion that she might actually find her again near the hospital when she's busy hunting down crime everywhere else is more than ridiculous. She's just about given up hope that they'll ever meet again.
Clarke sighs.
She has work to do, and daydreaming about the Commander isn't going to get any of it done. She adjusts herself in her chair and takes a long sip from her cooling coffee before pulling papers towards her, clicking her pen open.
It's going to be a long day.
Clarke's not sure how she survived the day, but she did. It was a little more hectic than she'd imagined it would be: she was called in for a consultation, had to help perform an emergency surgery when the scheduled surgeon didn't show (turns out he was arrested) and had one of her patients come in unexpectedly to talk to her for what felt like hours. She managed to sneak in a nap in the afternoon, but it didn't help as much as she'd hoped it would. Clarke is so tired she considers getting another cup of coffee before heading out but decides against it. She really just wants to sleep.
It's late, and the air has cooled considerably from its earlier semi-warmth, a wind blowing Clarke's hair into her face as she descends into the subway. She wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for possibly three entire days. She hasn't been this tired in a while. She blames Raven and Octavia.
She rides the subway in relative silence, ignoring most of the other people sitting around her and glancing warily at a group of people huddled in the corner of the car, talking in hushed, rushed tones.
Clarke has at least six more blocks to walk to get to her apartment building, but at least the air feels nice after being stuck in the subway. She's so exhausted she thinks she might be able to fall asleep standing up, even while she's walking, maybe.
Clarke's rubbing her fingers against her bleary eyes and stepping out into the paved road to cross the street when it happens.
She's always thought the whole 'life flashing before your eyes' thing to be nothing but a tired cliché, but the moment she hears the car horn blaring, turns to find headlights blinding her vision…time seems to slow, and she thinks about all the things that are important to her, in a flash of colors behind her eyes, so quick she almost misses it. There's a swish of air, the skidding of tires, and Clarke braces for impact.
And then
A solid force, colliding into her back so hard it knocks the air straight from her lungs; suddenly she's being lifted off the ground, and she manages to find enough oxygen inside of her to scream, watching the car ram half speed through the intersection where she'd been standing mere seconds before as her altitude increases, the top of the nearest building coming steadily into view as wind whips through her hair, against her eyes, inhaled through her nose and mouth.
She realizes now that there is an arm wrapped securely around her waist, can feel fingertips splayed out, pressing against the curve of her hip, and the form behind her feels distinctly human. Clarke can barely hear anything over the rush of blood in her ears, the erratic pounding of her heart.
Feet slam down onto the rooftop she'd noticed briefly before, the impact jarring all the way up to her skull, and now there are two arms around her, holding her even closer as they spin to the side with excess momentum.
Clarke feels lips near the shell of her ear, and her head is still ringing with a combination of fear and adrenaline.
"Careful, Doc," a deep voice husks, arms unwinding themselves from around her hips.
Clarke lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
Her heart pounds.
"Commander," she wheezes, turning on her heel to find the vigilante that's been a constant presence on her mind lately standing a few steps behind her, a frustrating half smile adorning her lips, grappling hook hanging from her fist, the rest of her body silhouetted by the moon up above, her black clothing blending her into the darkness around her.
"Gotta watch your step," she says, an almost teasing tone to her voice. Clarke can't breathe, and her heart is still going a mile a minute, and she's not sure if it's because of the near accident or because of the Commander, looking so cavalier in front of her, or a combination of both.
Clarke's at a loss for words, and all she can do is stare dumbly forward at the person who'd saved her, mouth hanging (no doubt unattractively) wide open. She's having more than a little trouble processing the whole situation, which is ironic, considering she's been wishing for this meeting for weeks, running through scenarios over and over in her brain of exactly how they would stumble into each other, what she would say to her, how they would interact. Now that it's actually happening…she doesn't know what to do, think, say, how to react. She imagined herself being much more put together than this.
The vigilante looks good, though, standing tall and straight, feet planted sturdily apart as she gazes at Clarke, head cocked ever so slightly to the right. She is a far cry from the bleeding, stumbling person Clarke had encountered a few weeks ago.
The Commander's lips quirk upwards in a barely there smile.
"I'll see you around, Clarke Griffin," she says, and Clarke finds she really likes the way her tongue almost trips over the 'k' in her first name, the way she draws out the syllables.
Before she can even utter a coherent sentence, the vigilante takes off in a run, diving over the far side of the building before Clarke can even think stop her.
Clarke stares after her, entranced.
"Who are you?" She whispers into the night, and she finds herself impossibly more intrigued than she'd been even an hour, a day, a week, before. She hopes the vigilante meant what she'd said and that she'd seek her out, hopes that they'll see each other again.
She has to, now. Has to see the Commander again, because she didn't even get to tell her how grateful she was for saving her. She didn't even get to say thank you.
There's a strange feeling swirling in her chest, and her heart is still pounding, her stomach flipping over itself, and there's a stupid silly smile stretching its way across her cheeks.
She feels exhilarated, like she could take on the world.
But for now, she just has to figure out how to get off this rooftop.