Clarke sighed heavily as she cracked open the door to her home, her keys jingling limply in her hand as she crept into the cramped space. Exhaustion seeped through every fiber of her being. The dawn was just breaking over the horizon - a beautiful mixture of lavender, pink, and blue layered the sky just beyond the small dirty window in the corner. Beyond the walls, she could hear the rustle of the early risers readying themselves for the start of another day. Clarke, however, was just finishing her day. She had begun taking more night shifts in the past few weeks, and just like the stars that shone in the evening, she was ready to retire to a lumpy bed until her next shift in just a couple of hours. Clarke's mind felt fuzzy. She felt unfocused, her body buzzing with a strange energy as she took note of her elevated heart rate. The logical side of Clarke deduced that her state was most likely due to a combination of exhaustion and dehydration. In spite of her usually trustworthy rationality, Clarke had a hard time ignoring the persistent bug of a thought that maybe, just maybe, she was affected by something – or someone – else.

Truth be told, Clarke had taken more night shifts not just because they paid marginally better, but also because they offered more flexibility in her schedule. There was less work to do, which meant less supervision from her superiors, fewer patients to look after, and more time to spend with one particular girl. Clarke grew warm thinking about a certain green-eyed brunette, remember how wavy hair framed high cheekbones and full rosy lips, how she would gaze at Clarke through hooded eyes behind a passive expression. Clarke would almost assume Lexa was bored were it not for the intense energy that crackled with life behind shades of emerald each time Clarke dared to look back. She scolded herself for being so predictably infatuated by a pretty face (yes, infatuated – because Clarke at this point had grown tired of fighting with herself over a clearly lost battle). Clarke couldn't explain it, but ever since she had talked, honestly talked, with Lexa, she couldn't stop thinking about the girl. There was an inexorable pull that compelled Clarke to be around her. Was it for companionship? Was it to absolve her residual guilt? Or was it because whenever Clarke was with Lexa, she could forget everything - the fighting, the hunger, the pain - outside of that stark white cell? Every time she looked into those eyes, it was as if she had found a kindred spirit who somehow understood what one becomes when she fights all her life to survive.

Or maybe it was the way Lexa's face visibly brightens when Clarke arrives, or the feeling of their fingers brushing when they exchange plates, or the way they gaze into each other's eyes just slightly too long to be strictly friendly. Maybe it's the way Lexa sneaked in her name in their conversation at every opportunity.

"Hello, Clarke."

"Thank you, Clarke."

"How are you, Clarke?"

"Goodnight, Clarke."

"I'm trying, Clarke."

"Clarke, is it day or night?"

Each time, full lips would wrap around her name like an embrace, her soft voice holding a tone of reverence heard more often in prayer than in a simple greeting. Lexa would always punctuate the end of her name with a click as if not doing so would seem lazy on her part, and it amused Clarke to no end. Clarke returned the favor as much as possible, relinquishing rules and addressing Lexa by her first name, letting her tongue wrap around the simple and beautiful name as if she had been saying it her whole life. She lived for the way Lexa responded to it with widened eyes and a subtle stutter to her breath, just as how Clarke herself responded with a fluttering heart and pooling warmth in the pit of her abdomen.

The moments they shared, as frequent as they were now, did not go beyond what was familiar. They filled the silence with casual greetings, fleeting smiles, and glances that often spoke more than simple words alone. With Clarke taking more nightshifts, she was able to stay with Lexa for longer periods of times, sharing what was normally a comfortable silence as if the presence of the other offered enough comfort to keep them both content. They both refused to acknowledge the budding tension that grew with each passing minute and instead fueled their already heated glances and touches with even more unfulfilled longing. Every brush of skin burned as if licked by flames, every look blazed with unnamed emotion.

They developed a routine of sorts. Clarke came into Lexa's room after she had finished all her main duties and was no longer obligated to leave save for the occasional request from outside. To pass the time, Clarke brought her sketchbook, absentmindedly sketching things that had caught her eye throughout the day – the intricate pattern of ceiling pipes above the basement, the shadow of a lamppost on the cement ground outside her building, the clunky machinery Raven tinkered with the night before. Soon, Clarke found herself shifting to subjects that occupied her mind more and more often. Pages began to appear occupied by a pair of elegant hands. Some posed in relaxed positions with long thin fingers draped over the other or caressing the surface of the page. Some depicted the hands in various states of action – a clenched fist in the midst of an uppercut, a firm open hand with the palm faced forward and held high with authority, or sometimes it was entwined with the hand of another, clasped tightly as if they would never let go. Other pages spawned sketches of toned arms, sculpted backs, the full curves of lips drawn carefully down to the points of the Cupid's bow on the top lip. Sometimes, Clarke would find eyes staring back at her that were far too lifelike to have been conjured purely from imagination.

It did not help that Lexa herself had found a way to keep busy that only served to fuel Clarke's sudden prolific sketches. For hours, Lexa would move through a series of motions that Clarke deduced must be related to some fighting style. But it must have been the most elegant form of fighting that ever existed, as Clarke swore Lexa danced as she shifted from position to position. Her arms swept gracefully with precision and energy, her legs extending out to map out intricate footing before stepping precisely into the next position. She crouched, leaned, and extended her body, coiling and uncoiling effortlessly in a never-ending dance. Every motion was completely controlled, and power rolled off of every limb even as Lexa kept the rhythm of her motions slow. There was a serenity and sense of familiarity that emanated off of Lexa as she inhaled and exhaled deeply with each position, eyes sliding shut in concentration. Seeing Lexa act as if she were no longer in that cramped cell, as if she were safe, only made the warmth in Clarke's chest blossom and her pencil scratching.

Despite the warnings, Clarke came to Lexa every night with her blanket in hand, having grabbed it from either the storage station or from home after washing it weekly. Clarke had long forgotten, rather purposefully, the consequences both she and Lexa would face should she disobey strict orders. She choose rather to focus on how her heart thrummed when elegant hands clutch eagerly around the blanket's edge each time Clarke wrapped it around the girl's shoulders, just like she had the first night. Initially, when Clarke had so painfully confiscated the blanket from Lexa, she had done it mainly because she had fear for Lexa's own safety. She had not known Lexa then as she did now. She had not known how strong Lexa was and how uncharacteristic it would be for her to give up in such a desperate way. She had not known how much her act of kindness had meant to Lexa, how much she had meant to Lexa, and how much it would break her to take that from her. All Clarke had seen was how much pain and suffering was etched deep into her eyes that Lexa would only continue to experience with the treatments. She had wanted to protect Lexa, to keep her safe, even if that meant from herself.

Now, after having seen the Lexa's beautiful face streaked with tears and completely besotted with heartbreak, Clarke vowed she would do anything, anything, to never see that face again. If that meant sneaking around the facility to bring Lexa a blanket every night, she would do it. Hell, she would bring Lexa one hundred fur pelts every night for the next ten years if that meant making Lexa more comfortable. Damn the rules. Damn the whole institution. Clarke could not longer defend a place that enforced such draconian measures that seemed to be as ineffectual as it was barbaric.

She had tried to convince herself that her lack of real knowledge on psychotherapy prevented her from seeing the improvement that were promised by the facility. But after the hours she spent with Lexa marveling the defiance, intelligence, and kindness that sparkled in her eyes, seeing that spark nearly taken away after every relentless session of hydrotherapy, electroshock, and sensory deprivation was too much for Clarke to stomach. Nothing could justify that. Nothing.

So, here Clarke was after another exhausting night shift. Moving around the cramped space, she reached into her bag and pulled out the blanket. She intended to wash it today and thus took it out from it's usually home back at the facility. Clarke was distracted, not missing how her stomach rolled uncomfortably. She was worried about Lexa. Right after Clarke's shift ended, she noticed orderlies enter Lexa's cells. One of the orderlies was carrying a pair of leather manacles. She was getting another treatment today, maybe even suffering through it as Clarke stood now in her room.

Lexa had already shown signs that she was unwell today, having had a splitting headache and a nosebleed that leaked dark liquid down her face. Worry gnawed her insides and it only made the pit in her stomach grow. Is Lexa getting treatment right now? Is she in pain? Does she feel alone? The barrage of questions plaguing Clarke only stopped when she heard a rustle of sheets and saw the lump underneath them stir.

"You know, even if I wasn't a light sleeper, I would probably still wake up thanks to your pacing," Raven's groaned, her voice scratchy and thick with sleep. The lump kept shifting until a tired and grumpy face poked out from beneath the blanket. Dark brown hair was sticking out from Raven's head in every direction as hazel eyes squinted to adjust to the growing brightness in the room. Clarke shot her an apologetic look that looked far too practiced, which only made Raven huff exaggeratedly. Her eyes landed on the ragged blanket still clutched in Clarke's hand.

"Well, at least you finally managed to find your blanket again," Raven murmured, already a hint of a tease in her voice despite the early hour of the day. "I know I'm a hot commodity in these neck of the woods, but this whole 'cuddling and sharing a blanket with me' thing is starting to look desperate."

Now it was Clarke's turn to let out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes dramatically as her best friend stretched her arms out from beneath the blanket and sniggered lightly at Clarke's display.

"In case you need a reminder, I like breakfast in bed and daily backrubs," Raven continued in a singsong voice. "I'm a hard woman to please," she added, not before sending a wink and quirking an eyebrow in Clarke's direction.

Clarke was just about to reply with her own snide comment when she noticed Raven's face had suddenly paled. Raven's lips were twitched in a small grimace as teeth ground against each other, her face masking what was clearly another painful episode of flaring nerves. One of her hands clutched at the bed sheets near her head while the other reached down to grasp at her left thigh. Clarke's words died in her mouth and her face set with a concerned frown. She quickly dropped her bag while still holding onto the blanket and moved to get the pitcher of steaming water that currently sat on the stove. She poured out a generous amount into the nearby hot water bag, avoiding any splashes with practiced skill. When the bag was full and properly sealed, Clarke moved back to Raven, who was busy controlling her breathing in an effort to deal with the pain. Clarke plopped down next to Raven, gently guiding her up from the bed and placing the hot bag under her lower spine where the origin of the nerve spasm was located, then gently guiding her back down onto the bed. She took the blanket that was still in her hand and draped it over Raven, making sure to tuck in the edges just like her mother used to do when she was still alive.

"Trust me, I know all too well," Clarke reminded, her voice laced with amusement but failed to hide the sadness behind the words. Raven hummed in response as the warmth seeped from the water bag to her back, her eyes closing as she registered the slow but steady alleviation of her pain. After a few minutes, Raven reopened them to see tired blue eyes still trained on her, comfort and care resonating just as strongly as the first time Clarke took care of her. Raven's heart swelled at the display, remembering again just how grateful and lucky she was to have Clarke as a friend.

Raven reached out her right hand to lie gently on Clarke's hand, squeezing it lightly. "Another hard night?"

Clarke let out a heavy sigh. "Yeah, long and exhausting as always."

"And it has nothing to do with that mysterious girl you've been crushing on for the past month?"

Clarke blushed furiously, trying her best not to look flustered and simultaneously recalling all recent interactions with Raven to determine if her thoughts were really that transparent. "W-No! I mean, what gave you tha-"

"Oh come on Clarke, I'm your best friend of nearly a decade," Raven interjected, waving her right hand dismissively before landing back on Clarke's hand. "Ever since you told me about her you've been acting differently – not in a bad way! Just different. The extra nightshifts, your suddenly rejuvenated artistic side, and sometimes I catch you just staring off lost in thought."

Raven shifted up so that her head was propped higher on the pillow. Just as Clarke was about to respond, she raised her hand up to stop her. "Oh, and don't even get me started on this blanket," Raven gestures to the navy blanket covering her body. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I never pegged you as the type of person who sleeps on the job. And considering the fact that removing this blanket meant less warmth for you and me, I'm guessing that the reason behind it is pretty important."

Clarke, who by now must have a face the shade of a tomato, remained silent. Raven chuckled softly before grasping onto Clarke's hand again, her voice now quiet and removed of sarcasm. "How is she?"

Clarke's body deflated with another heavy sigh, which seemed like the only thing she was ever doing these days. She flipped her hand over, returning the gentle squeeze with one of her own while she thought of a proper answer.

"She...she's managing," Clarke replied, the uneasiness returning to settle at the bottom of her stomach. "She's still Lexa, still the person who she was when she came in. It's impressive really, the fight she's put up against the facility. Most of the people I take care of lose themselves so quickly. You'd be surprised how easily the human spirit can break in a place like that. But Lexa, she's still as stubborn and determined as the first day I met her. Remind you of anyone?"

"Huh, I'm sure she's a handful."

"Understatement of the year," Clarke said, poking Raven playfully in the side. "Still, as frustrating as she can be, I think that's what drew me, what keeps drawing me to her. She's probably at the lowest point in her life right now, and yet she still holds her head high with purpose and dignity. That's the reason why people are afraid of her. She unsettles them, and they keep her locked up because of that. But she doesn't belong there any more than you or I do. I just keep thinking back to right before we met, after my mother passed and I had been scrambling on the streets to survive. I was nearly feral, rage burning through every waking moment, driven to that state out of desperation. I could have easily been locked up just like her. But I wasn't insane, and neither is she. Seeing her go through what she has to just because refused to stay down when life beat her to the ground hurts me more than I can rationalize."

Clarke closed her eyes with a shaky breath, her voice beginning to wobble with emotion with every word she utters.

"And the worst part is, as hard as Lexa fights against her demons, she is losing. I see it in her eyes. That fire, that intensity that always burns in those eyes, it dims every time she comes back from treatment, and every day it gets harder and harder for her to get that spark back."

Clarke began to feel her eyes gather with wetness that threatens to spill over. She swallowed audibly, as if that could somehow swallow the emotions she was failing to hide.

"I…" another swallow. "I care about her. I care about her a lot, more than I think is safe or reasonable. I try to do my part to help her – I stay with her, offer what company and kindness I can. That's why I've taken on more nightshifts these past few weeks. I like to think me being there offers her a sense of reality, a method to keep her grounded and focused on getting better and getting out of that godforsaken place. But I don't know if that's enough to protect her, and it kills me because I don't know what else I can do."

Unable to keep the despondency out of her voice, Clarke clamped her jaw tightly and sealed her lips, afraid of what might come out of her if she kept going. She dipped her chin down and lowers her eyes to avoid looking at Raven, who had been stroking her hand in comfort the entire time. Silence fell over them, heavy and thick from Clarke's confession. Finally, Raven reached out and gently tipped Clarke's chin so that their eyes met.

"Clarke," Raven softly spoke, eyes tender with emotion of her own. "Trust me when I say that you are doing so much more than you realize. It baffles me sometimes that you don't know how good you are, how stunningly and exquisitely good you are at your core. You always put the people you care about first, and you are willing to put their needs above your own even at the cost of your own. Coming from someone who has been on the receiving end of this kindness for years, I am completely serious when I say that sometimes the fact that you were there for me was the only way I could get through the bad days. You fought for me when I couldn't, and Lexa needs that kind of comfort more than ever."

Raven smiled at Clarke, a tease creeping back to her voice. "Keep doing what you're doing, Griffin. Saving lives runs in your blood."

Wiping her face of newly sprung tears, Clarke let out a soggy laugh, comforted that Raven knew how much her mother was a source of pride for her and knowing it would make her feel better. She let Raven's words run over her and settle the unruliness in her stomach. Clarke moved around Raven until she settled comfortably behind her, grabbing the blankets so that they draped around them both. The familiar position calmed Clarke, and she dug her head so that her forehead rested just behind Raven's shoulder.

"Do you remember what tomorrow is?" Raven whispered. Clarke nods against her.

"Maybe you should do something for Lexa."

Clarke hummed in response, remaining silent for a while. She nearly lost herself in the scent of the blanket and the exhaustion that nearly completely took over her mind. Just as she was about to drift from consciousness, she remembered a thought she had meant to revisit.

"Raven, do you still have that old book you stole from Jaha back when we lived in the streets?"

"Hm, yeah I think so. And I didn't steal it, I borrowed it."

"Raven, you and I were pickpockets. Let's not sugar-coat it."

"Fine, but we were really good pickpockets. I reckon it's not called stealing when you never get caught."

"Semantics. Back to the point – you have the book? Could I borrow it?"

"Sure, yeah. But since when did you fancy the Bard and the like?"

"Just curious," Clarke replied before inhaling deeply, her nose buried in the navy blanket. She fell asleep comforted by the smell of pines and earth and the memory of eyes the color of fresh green grass.