Chapter Text
Early Spring — 1945 — North Germany
/
She’s bleeding, a lot.
Fuck.
Lexa holsters her pistol. Ten yards away, the soldier she shot rests dead in the field. Her airplane is in a plume of black smoke and Lexa counts her blessings. Not only did she survive the crash, but she killed the Nazi bastard before he could her. Capture is not an option. If that were to happen, Lexa is sworn to take her own life. Thankfully, she didn’t have to, although, she didn’t walk away unscathed either. Lexa touches her stomach and a warm gush of red coats her fingers. The taste of copper inches up her throat and Lexa spits. She doesn’t have much time.
Collapsing to a knee, Lexa retrieves the map from her inside pocket. Her fingers shake, they stain the white sheepskin lining of her leather jacket and red droplets soak into the fabric of the map. As memory serves, there is a territory nearby—an Allied post that should offer her refuge—but Lexa must double-check because there’s no time to make a mistake based on memory.
She mentally calculates where her plane crash-landed, counts the klicks (kilometers), and begins her trek west. They won’t be expecting her, and she hopes the soldiers look before they shoot—as they should. But the war has been forcing recruits out of basic training far too early, sending teenagers into the heart Germany with just a rucksack and rifle. They’re just kids. But that’s the chance she must take because the alternative is to bleed to death on foreign soil. And Lexa is not having that.
Her lungs are on fire as if each breath is stoking an internal flame. Her diaphragm contracts and releases with less and less oxygen. She’s coughing up more blood for concern and her vision fluctuates like a scope unable to focus. It zooms in-and-out and in-and-out, makes her nauseous until she keels over and vomits a mixture of blood, mucus, and bile.
Fallen, Lexa takes the moment to rest. Her face is pressed against the earth. It smells like war—gravel and gunpowder. And by god, she’s sleepy.
No. Don’t fall asleep. She tells herself and forces her eyes open. Lexa has learned and experienced so much during her training, but nothing truly prepares the body to die. Lexa thinks of the codes, tactics, and equations to maintain her consciousness and at last, manages the strength to stand and continue her stagger.
One-hundred feet short of a group of patrolling soldiers, Lexa collapses again for what’s sure to be her last breath. Her vision is black, and she cannot tell whether her eyes are opened or closed. Maybe they saw her. Maybe they didn’t, but at least she tried.
Somewhere in limbo, where Lexa’s soul straddles life and death, she thinks she must have crossed over because she catches glimpses of an angel. She has golden wisps of hair and blue eyes direct from heaven and takes Lexa by the hand. Lexa squeezes back—holds on to the angel who must be here to accompany her and ensure safe passage for the sacrifices she’s made for her people.
///
“Dr. Griffin!” The corpsman yells, “we got a live one!”
“What?” Clarke rushes to the front doors of the infirmary. “From where? I didn’t hear of any recent attacks.”
“Way out at the edge of the territory, just on the other side of enemy lines. Got a blood-chit on her—she’s American, so they brought her in right away.”
Clarke looks at the unconscious woman on the stretcher. She’s been shot in the stomach, her aviator jacket is soaked, dripping dark red, and her face is smeared black with a mix of soot, dirt, and blood.
She’s beautiful.
Clarke cradles the woman’s jaw and searches for consciousness. “Hey, can you hear me?” Her green eyes are glazed, she’s seconds from death; Clarke has seen it many times before. “Look at me, stay with me, okay?” She takes hold of the woman’s hand and squeezes it. “You’re safe now.” The woman squeezes back and that’s when Clarke knows she can save her. Clarke turns to her staff, “Jackson, prep the surgery bay and get a blood transfusion started.”
/
The bullet split in half, one portion wedged into the rib cage, the other, lost in soft tissue. Neither situation is ideal; Clarke must break the rib cage to free the first fragment and spends hours searching for the second. Finally, two bullet halves and three bags of blood later, Clarke has the mystery woman stabilized.
For three full days, the brunette sleeps and Clarke checks on her multiple times throughout, measuring her pulse, cleaning the wound herself, and looking for signs of waking. Tasks that all can be done by her nursing staff, but something draws Clarke to the sleeping beauty. It’s almost incessant, but Clarke is the lead doctor, this is her sickbay. She determines her own schedule and no one questions her.
Perhaps it’s the allure of the situation; a mysterious female pilot who crash-landed near their base. Clarke checked the courier pilot schedule—they aren’t due for a mail call for another week. Either way, Clarke soon needs to report this nameless woman to the base colonel, Colonel Jaha. He pays weekly visits to the infirmary and will be here tomorrow.
/
It’s late, the clock ticks a quarter to midnight and Clarke sits at her desk, readying the weekly report for Colonel Jaha. She copies her loose field notes onto a clean sheet of paper: How many new patients in, out, status and expected recovery time; supplies and inventory; bedding and medications; staff hours; her hours. At the bottom, there’s space for additional notes, special circumstances to be reported up the chain of command. Her pen hovers over the blank lines, about to write down the name Jane Doe. Just as the tip of her pen dots the paper, Jackson knocks.
“Dr. Griffin?”
“What is it, Jackson?”
“The pilot, she’s awake and she’s asking for you.”
“Me, specifically?”
Jackson nods. “Said she won’t speak to anyone else except the person in charge. And, well, that’s you.”
Clarke doesn’t understand the sudden flutter in her stomach. It’s a small dose of anxiety Clarke hasn’t experienced in years, not since she was called up to the front of the class of medical students (all men) to introduce herself.
Exiting her office, Clarke mindlessly brushes off her white coat. She retrieves the stethoscope from her pocket and wears it around her neck—sometimes she feels naked without it—and proceeds to the recovery wing.
There, Jane Doe sits awake. Leaned back on a pile of pillows, she tips her head in the direction of Clarke’s footsteps and their eyes make immediate contact. The thump in Clarke’s chest increases and she’s unsure why. Her green eyes are penetrating, judgmental even, and Clarke exhales a shaky breath as she arrives at the bedside.
“You’re the one in charge?”
Clarke nods and purses her lips in acknowledgment. “Dr. Clarke Griffin, at your service.”
“Oh, wow…” She mumbles.
Clarke interprets the “wow” as doubt and disappointment. Clarke has heard it all from the infantry of soldiers who question her knowledge and are skeptical of her skills, constantly asking questions: Since when did they put women through medical school? Did they run out of male doctors and start fleeting up nurses? Did they confuse your name Clarke Griffin for a male?
Clarke has thick skin and she certainly isn’t going to let another woman challenge her place in this war.
“What?” Clarke says and crosses her arms. “Disappointed? Were you expecting someone else? A male doctor, perhaps?”
“No—” She closes her green eyes to take in a deep, pained breath.
Clarke knows she’s in a lot of pain, recalled the mass of soft tissue she had to cut through to find that fragment. Skeletal muscle and connective tissue. The broken rib cage. Jane Doe will be here for a while.
“Here,” Clarke reaches across to the woman’s drip valve, “I’ll increase the dose of the pain meds. It should help, almost immediately.”
“Thank you,” she exhales in relief. “Sorry—it’s true I’ve never met a female doctor and I wasn’t expecting one. But to be quite honest,” she looks up locks eyes with Clarke again, “you’re… beautiful.”
“Oh…” Clarke is speechless, she half swats at the air and senses a warm rise of heat through her neck and ears and cheeks. Is she blushing? “Thank—thank you. You know, I’ve also never met a female pilot.”
“Touché.”
“A courier pilot, I’m assuming?”
She extends her hand, “Lexa Hart, at your service.”
“Lexa,” Clarke parrots, letting the name roll from her tongue for the first time and shakes Lexa’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
Lexa’s grasp is sure, strong and confident but not overpowering. Her palm is warm, hot even, and Clarke defaults to her medical duties.
“Are you feeling hot?” Clarke releases and brings her hand to Lexa’s forehead. “Feverish?”
“No… not particularly.”
“M’kay,” Clarke takes her word, but muscle memory has her switching to the back of her hand and holds it for a second longer. “While you’re awake, I’m going to get an update on your vitals, alright?”
At Lexa’s nod, Clarke puts on her stethoscope, plugging both ears. Automatically, Clarke draws down the sheet and unfolds Lexa’s robe—just like she had every day when checking Lexa’s vitals. She removes the gauze and studies the wound, looking for potential signs of infection or internal bleeding. Satisfied, Clarke replaces the bandages before retrieving her scope. She blows a puff of air over the metal, warming it before placing it at the side of Lexa’s ribs.
“Take a deep breath for me, as deep as you can go,” Clarke instructs.
Lexa takes a short, clipped, inhale, clearly hitting a wall of pain much sooner than expected.
“It’s alright,” Clarke reassures, “the pain is normal as your body heals.” Clarke shifts the scope to the opposite side. “Again.”
Expecting pain, Lexa’s inhales slower this time, able to hold the puff of air a second longer.
“Good.”
“How long?”
“You can exhale now,” Clarke unplugs one ear.
“No, I meant, how long should I expect to be here?”
“About six weeks.”
“Six weeks?” Lexa cocks her brow. “For a bullet wound?”
“Yes, so… the bullet split on impact and a portion had embedded itself in your seventh rib, here…” Clarke runs her fingertips along Lexa’s skin, delicately tracing the middle rib that runs across Lexa’s midsection. “And it needed to be broken to retrieve the bullet.”
“Oh,” Lexa replies, “six weeks, that’s um, that’s a lot of time.” She leans further up, concerned. “I have duties.”
“Well, your duties will have to wait because you’re not going anywhere.” Clarke places a gentle hand on Lexa’s shoulder, encouraging her back down. “Plus, I’m not done.” And reinforces her words with a stare.
Curiously, Clarke finds it easy to look Lexa in the eyes yet difficult to maintain; she wants to look away but can’t. A battle of opposing forces equating to a standstill until Clarke voices a quiet, “Please.” It’s then that Lexa drops her eyes, falling back to allow Clarke to finish what she started.
Clarke reinserts the earpiece and places the scope on Lexa’s chest. The thud is loud and strong. It’s a good sign. It’s also faster than normal, but Lexa is also awake now, and Clarke’s gaze tracks up to meet Lexa’s. Her stare is penetrating, and Clarke feels like the one under the scope, being monitored and studied. Lexa’s face is emotionless despite each successive thump, beating faster and faster and faster. It’s at least twice the average beats per minute and Clarke thinks she hears her own heartbeat— it must be her own reverberating back into her ears because what she hears doesn’t match what she sees. Lexa looks calm and cool, sitting absolutely still with even breaths that underscore everything Clarke is listening to. Based on the heart rate, Lexa should be hyperventilating at the least. Clarke swallows and suddenly, Clarke can’t breathe. She’s never had asthma but imagines this is what it’s like, sucking in air with no avail. She’s constrained underwater and finally, Clarke yanks off the scope as if coming up for air in a flooded snorkel mask.
“Something wrong?” Lexa prompts.
“No, no,” Clarke shakes her head. “Your heart shows no sign of weakness,” she blurts and restates, “I mean, you have a strong heart.”
“Thank you?”
“Mm-hm, of course,” Clarke nods in unease.
“Are you done?”
“Yep, uh-huh, I’m done.” Clarke also doesn’t know why she’s speaking like a juvenile. She graduated at the top of her class for fuck’s sake.
“So… can I?” Lexa looks down at her exposed chest and stomach, seeking permission to draw the robe closed.
“Oh, yes, yes, go ahead.” Clarke looks away.
“You know, usually I’d expect a drink first.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Clarke's eyes bulge in embarrassment. “Oh—I didn’t even think, I should’ve asked— wait, I’m your doctor and I completed the surgery, so it’s not like I haven’t, you know, seen uh… them before, and we’re both females here and—”
“I’m kidding,” Lexa says in a quiet timbre. A certain playfulness glints her eyes and she smiles at Clarke.
Clarke doesn’t know when or how she became so flustered, turned upside-down with all her sanity dumped like a pocket full of change. Quarters and dimes, nickels and pennies, they clank and roll on the tile floor. She’s the doctor here. She’s the one in charge.
“It’s late.” Clarke gathers her coins. “You should get back to rest.”
“Wait—” Lexa brushes Clarke’s fingers in a soft swipe, “Could you send a message to my wing commander? So I’m not mislabeled as MIA.”
“Don’t worry, our base colonel will be here tomorrow, you’ll be accounted for in his report.”
Lexa shakes her head, once, unsatisfied. “Could you, personally, send a telegram tonight?”
Clarke squints her eyes, dubious of Lexa’s ask. Clarke doesn’t normally send telegrams; they have a communications officer for that. But the urgency in Lexa’s eyes tells Clarke she’s not lying. Still, the pieces of the puzzle don’t quite fit and Clarke is hesitant to say yes.
“Please,” Lexa says, “it’s important.”
Slowly, Clarke nods. “Okay.” She gives Lexa her pen and notepad, usually reserved for medical notes, and watches Lexa’s neat cursive flow across the paper in a surprisingly simple message:
31 GOV— WASHINGTON DC
CARRIAGE DROP COMPLETED
COMMANDER LEXA HART, PILOT NO. 371214
Taking the slip, Clarke bids Lexa goodnight.
/
From that night on, Clarke defers Lexa’s vital checks to her nursing staff. Why is she avoiding Lexa like the bubonic plague? —Clarke can’t explain it. Lexa's presence induces a peculiar restiveness within her, one that Clarke’s not familiar with. Her insides hum as if charged with an overcurrent of electricity. It coincides with her proximity to Lexa and any closer, Clarke’s worried she’ll internally combust. Apparently, Lexa doesn’t feel the same way when one week later, she approaches Clarke at the cafeteria lunch table.
“May I sit with you?”
“Huh?” Clarke looks up from her book, buried deep in the world of Bilbo Baggins. She enjoys leaving this world of war and submersing herself in one filled with dragons, elves, and hobbits. This is her third consecutive read.
“Or do you normally prefer to sit alone?” Lexa asks.
“Oh, no—not normally but... never mind, please,” Clarke shifts her tray though there’s plenty of room at the table, “sit down.”
Clarke doesn’t choose to sit alone, her rank and circumstances combined have excluded her from lunch table circles. It’s middle school all over again. She’s not a soldier, who all sit in the far west side of the galley. They laugh and share field stories usually involving blood, guts, and lost appendages. All the female nurses gather on the east side, routinely giggling and ogling the boys. Clarke once sat with the women; the table fell to total silence before two left, then the rest shortly after, peeling away one by one. Understandably, Clarke is their supervisor and her statue as ranking superior makes for no casual conversation at the table. Hence, Clarke sits alone. Just her and Bilbo thus far.
She watches Lexa move gingerly, sitting slowly as to not disturb her midsection. Clarke is impressed she’s up at all.
“That’s a good sign you’re up and moving, I’m impressed,” Clarke says. “How’s the pain?”
Lexa takes a slow sip from her juice cup. “Manageable.”
“The nurses said you’re healing quickly,” Clarke adds.
Lexa dips her head in acknowledgment while spreading a pat of butter on her toast, takes a bite. Silence except for Lexa’s quiet chewing. Clarke begins to feel like she’s staring at Lexa and just before she reaches for her book, Lexa speaks.
“I’ve noticed you’ve stopped coming by, how come?”
“What do you mean?”
“You stopped checking my vitals the day I woke.”
“How do you know that? You were unconscious—unless you were pretending to sleep for three days?”
“Your initials end the day I woke.”
“You read your chart?” Clarke replies in a surprised and accusatory tone.
“Yes. Am I not allowed? It’s my chart,” Lexa points.
“Uh, no, I mean, yes, you are allowed but—” Clarke, again, finds herself at a loss of words. While patients are privy to their medical information, none have reviewed their own charts—that’s Clarke’s job—and certainly, none have questioned Clarke like this. “But—” Clarke huffs, frustrated. “What are you getting at?”
“Nothing,” Lexa minutely shrugs. “I was just curious as to why. Initially, I thought because I was no longer in critical status and therefore no longer require your attention, but I noticed you check on almost all your patients—pausing at each bedside except for mine. Why do I receive different treatment?” Lexa inquires.
“I—didn’t think you noticed, but—” Clarke stutters, struggling to find a reason she has no explanation for. She’s entirely caught off guard, this is not a pleasant lunch, and she immediately wants to dive back into her world of fantasy. The book lays facedown.
“Have I said something to offend you?”
“Oh, no,” Clarke says immediately, “definitely not. Look—” Clarke finally dares to meet Lexa in the eyes. They’re large and round, and her irises run deep and dense. An Amazon rainforest. Clarke thinks she’s looking into a different world; Lexa has seen things—experienced things—that Clarke is foreign to, and her green eyes are inviting as if asking Clarke to come along. To take her hand and walk through the forest with her. Clarke’s insides shudder. “I’m sorry, I don’t have an explanation for you. And I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I’m a doctor and I intend to treat everyone equally. So, from now on, you won’t receive anything different. Tell you what, you’ll be my first patient come evening rounds.”
“You do realize I’m not asking for any special treatment.”
“I really can’t win with you, can I?”
“You already have.”
“Okay, now what is that supposed to mean?”
Lexa takes another nibble from her toast; she’s eating it painfully slow. Literally and figuratively, Clarke knows Lexa can’t stomach much but the rate she’s eating is beginning to irk Clarke. Lexa chews slowly, lips and tongue flicking at the shiny melt of butter. Lexa licks her glossy lips and Clarke can’t stop staring at her mouth, thick and full and plush. She thinks she’s waiting patiently for Lexa to answer, but each successive chew unscrews Clarke turn by turn.
“Well?” Clarke prompts.
Finally, Lexa swallows. “I was hoping you’d stop by because I never had a chance thank you.”
“For what?”
“For saving my life. That was you, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” Lexa repeats, looking directly at Clarke. “For a second I thought—” Lexa tips her head left-to-right, reconsidering her words, “—for more than a second, I thought I was… that I was—”
“Hey,” Clarke interrupts her and places a hand atop of Lexa’s. The touch is warm, soft and soothing. While Clarke handles patients day-in and day-out, this is different. New, yet comforting.
“Don’t think of it that way,” Clarke says. “You’re here. Now. And that’s what matters.”
Lexa does nothing more than blink to acknowledge Clarke’s words and the moment is over. Clarke removes her hand, reaches for a drink of water though she’s not thirsty and takes a long sip as if hiding behind her cup. The glass shields her. From what? Clarke doesn’t know. The intensity of Lexa’s eyes perhaps. It makes Clarke feel lost. Clarke doesn’t like to be lost. Except, Lexa’s eyes also offer the opposite. Safety and security. That if Clarke travels deep enough, continues to trek through the forest, therein lies a place of shelter. It’s warm and cozy, a cabin in the woods with a warm fire, hot mug, and soft blankets. A place of comfort and belonging. Clarke smirks, a hobbit hole.
This time, Lexa breaks their eye contact and drifts to Clarke’s book.
“You must like that book,” Lexa says.
“Yes…” Clarke squints. “How do you know that?”
“Broken spine. Dog ears. Worn edges. And the initials “C.G.,” Lexa says in a keen tone.
“Well, aren’t you observant,” Clarke says, reaching for her book and proceeds to hold it at her chest like a prized teddy bear. “What do you have against The Hobbit?”
“Nothing. I’ve never read it.”
Clarke exaggerates a gasp. “It’s wonderful, you have to read it.”
As much as she cherishes the book, Clarke slides the book across the lunch table, offering to lend it to Lexa.
“What’s it about?”
“A hobbit on a journey.”
“A hobbit?”
“Um, like a human-halfling, they’re short and small and live in the hillsides.”
“Like a dwarf?”
“Yes—and no. A hobbit is different than a dwarf. Although, there are also dwarves in the story. Wizards and dragons, too.” Suddenly, Clarke realizes she’s revealing much more about herself than intended. Aside from not having any friends, she doesn’t get out much. They’re in the middle of a war, in enemy territory, and Clarke is confined to basecamp. Only armed soldiers are allowed outside the perimeters and inadvertently, her passion for science fiction and fantasy is spilling out. Anymore and Lexa will probably think less of Clarke and not take her medical knowledge seriously. “It’s fantasy, obviously. All fiction… if that’s something you’re partial to...”
Gradually, Lexa reaches for the book and skims the synopsis. Her eyes blink at a gradual pace, and she chews at her inner lip. It makes Clarke nervous; someone else judging her favorite book.
“Interesting…” Lexa mutters, “I’ll give it a read.”
“What do you normally read?”
“I’ll read anything, but lately, I’ve been reading poetry.”
“Poetry? How romantic.”
“Dante’s Inferno.”
Clarke chokes. “Oh, god. Sorry—” Coughs. “My mistake.”
For whatever reason, Clarke’s reaction generates a small smile on Lexa’s lips. Lexa looks at her with particular adoration and it makes Clarke blush. Clarke still doesn’t understand it; the hold Lexa has on her. Again, Clarke reaches for that glass of water to hide behind and takes a long swig.
“Well, thank you, for lending me your book. I’ll make sure to get it back to you soon.”
“Oh, there’s no hurry. I’ve been meaning to move on to another anyway. Plus, we just received another shipment of donations from home. Our library is beginning to overflow.”
“We have a library?” Lexa’s ears perk.
“Well, it’s not exactly a library, more like a quiet room with a few sofas and boxes of books. It’s on the north end of the building, opposite of the rec room. Has no one oriented you?”
Lexa shakes her head.
“Oh, well, since now I’m in a need for a new book, would you like to accompany me?”
“I’d love to.”
While Clarke easily slides and stands from the bench, Lexa struggles to find the strength and balance. Automatically, Clarke moves to help her by placing an arm around Lexa’s waist and taking hold of Lexa’s hand. Clarke has helped numerous patients stand in the exact same way but when Lexa’s body presses against hers for balance and slender fingers intertwine with Clarke’s, Clarke’s heart flutters—skipping a beat before starting up faster.
Clarke gulps. “Got it?”
Lexa nods, “I think so.”
Slowly, Clarke removes her arm from around Lexa’s waist but when her fingers loosen, Lexa tips and plants her hand on the table for stability.
“Or not…” Lexa murmurs.
“Here, just take my hand then.”
They hold hands to the library. The gesture is nothing out of the ordinary. Looking around, nurses are assisting the injured everywhere from pushing wheelchairs to teaching them how to use crutches, soldiers are learning how to walk again. Clarke worries her palm is getting too sweaty or she’s gripping Lexa too tightly. In retrospect, it’s Lexa with the tight hold to maintain her footing and the walk, though short, is strenuous for her. Lexa’s breathing is clipped and a light gleam of sweat shows on her forehead.
“Do you want to take a break?” Clarke offers.
“No,” Lexa shakes her head. “I know you said six weeks, but I’m determined to shorten that to four.”
“I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry. Surely, there must be other courier pilots.”
“There are but—” Lexa takes an extended breath, “—I have specific duties that are… difficult to fulfill.”
It’s a vague answer but Clarke doesn’t want to ask Lexa any more questions provided her state. Walking has proven to be difficult enough and paired with talking, Clarke is unsure how Lexa is managing the pain.
“It’s good that you’re up, but I’d also encourage you to not push it,” Clarke says.
Lexa doesn’t respond beyond a prolonged blink; Clarke has a feeling Lexa is going to do what she wants regardless of doctor’s orders. She’s stubborn, Clarke can tell—much like Clarke herself. And Clarke opts to stay silent for the remainder of their short walk and focuses her attention forward.
“Here we are,” Clarke announces sarcastically.
The room is illuminated by a single, tall and skinny window. The glass is old and filters a yellow glow into the library—if you could call it that. There’s a single bookshelf lined with unopened boxes of donated books. More sit on the floor. A sofa in one corner and the other, two armchairs separated by a small coffee. Despite the sad state of the library, Lexa’s eyes shine gold in the dusty light. For whatever reason, the glint of excitement on Lexa's face makes Clarke happy.
“I know it’s not much,” Clarke shrugs. She releases their handhold—somehow already missing the warmth of Lexa’s hand—and mindlessly shoves them in her coat pocket.
“It doesn’t need to be much,” Lexa says softly. “It’s perfect.”
That’s where Clarke leaves her, Lexa in the library, ruffling through boxes of books. Come evening rounds, that’s where Clarke rediscovers her.
“So, I make it a point to see you as my first patient of the evening, only to find your bed cold and vacant,” Clarke announces herself.
Lexa's face is buried in an untitled book—the cover has been torn off from wear and tear, and Clarke can’t tell what she’s reading. She’s curled up tight in the armchair with a small pile of books on the coffee table. At her feet, two opened boxes rest on the floor, one filled with recreational items like cards, board games, and ping-pong paddles. The other, more books.
“Hm?” Lexa peeks here eyes overtop like a cute little worm in an apple. “Oh, hi.”
“Hi,” Clarke smirks. “It’s um, it’s time for your check-up,” Clarke says, crossing the room with stethoscope in hand.
“Already?” Muscle memory has Lexa glancing at her wrist for the time, but there’s no watch there. She then scans the room for a clock but there’s nothing other than the fading glow of daylight to give her a sense of time. “Clearly I lost track of time. My apologies.”
“Oh, no, don’t apologize. Please, if I could sit and read all day, I would too,” Clarke replies.
“Do you… want me back in bed for the check-up?”
“No, you can stay here. I just need to look at the wound and grab your vitals again.”
Clarke conducts her exam in silence. Her nerves have slightly dissipated since last week as if her body was building immunity to Lexa; the longer she’s around her, the easier it becomes. Lexa isn’t so scary after all. In fact, she’s pleasant.
“I enjoyed it,” Lexa says while tying her robe.
“What?”
“The Hobbit.”
“You… finished it?”
Lexa nods and retrieves the book from the coffee table. Looking at it, Clarke now assumes it’s her “read” pile and the box at her immediate feet is her “need-to-read” pile.
“Told you I’d have it back to you soon.”
“Thank you.” Clarke accepts her book back. Their fingers graze at the exchange and Clarke wonders if she’ll have another chance to hold Lexa’s hand—if Lexa needs help going back to bed. It’s a strange thought for Clarke and she has trouble identifying the why. Why she’s simultaneously drawn, yet cautious of Lexa. Like a flame, Clarke wants to get closer and warm her hands, but afraid to get too close, worried she’ll get burned.
“Oh, and um,” Lexa looks down at the box full of recreational supplies, “I found this box and thought it might serve better in the rec room. Of course, I’d normally carry over myself, but…”
“I can get that.” Clarke kneels to pick up the box and one item, in particular, catches her eye: a chess set. A really nice chess set that appears brand new. Clarke retrieves the rare item and considers keeping it for herself. She hasn’t played since college and overseas deployment doesn’t exactly provide room for leisure materials. As soon as she volunteered to aid with the war, she was shipped off the very next day and instructed not to bring anything non-essential. They almost denied her personal med kit, claiming that her unit should be pre-stocked with any medical supplies needed.
“Do you play?” Lexa asks.
“I do,” Clarke thwarts a smile. The potential to play again is exciting. “Do… you?”
“I do.”
They smile, both knowing what’s to come and without any further words, the match is set.
“Now?” Lexa proposes.
“I—can’t, now. I need to finish my rounds, but certainly afterward?”
Lexa dips her head. “Of course.” And returns to her curled-up position in the armchair. “You know where to find me.”
Clarke doesn’t remember being this enthused since she received acceptance into medical school, grinning so much even Jackson notices.
“What’s with a smile?’”
“Oh—nothing, I just… it’s silly.”
“Please. I won’t judge.”
“Okay, fine. You remember the pilot, from last week?”
“You mean the one female who was brought in from patrol and the total opposite of what we usually receive?” Jackson says with sarcasm.
Clarke rolls her eyes. “Yes, her. Well, apparently, she plays chess and I haven’t played in years, so… it’s just nice to finally… have someone. I guess.”
“What about me?” Jackson feigns a pout.
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Clarke swats at the air, then leans into Jackson for a friendly peck on the cheek.
At a quarter past eight, Clarke finishes her rounds. She returns to her office to briefly summarize her notes and shrugs off her coat. With all duties completed, Clarke would normally be looking forward to a long shower and a good book before bed. Her sleeping quarters are adjacent to her office, connected by a door similar to two hotel rooms. Except it’s nothing like a hotel but a barracks room with just the basics: one small wardrobe, a twin mattress, and a nightstand. Though, Clarke considers herself lucky. The remaining medical staff share barracks bunked three high plus a communal bathroom.
Tonight’s impromptu meeting has Clarke both excited and nervous. In fact, she’s so anxious that she questions what she’s wearing and if she should change. “God, I’m being ridiculous…” Clarke mutters to herself while looking at the mirror, untucking her shirt before re-tucking it. It’s not like Lexa has a chance to change. Finally, after untucking her shirt, again, and quickly brushing her hair, Clarke heads towards the library.
Lexa is exactly where Clarke left her, curled up in the same position earlier with another book. Lexa has since cleared the coffee table and set up the board game in preparation for their match.
Sensing Clarke’s presence, Lexa closes her book and smiles at her.