Chapter Text
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Clarke had been studying to be a doctor for what felt like her entire life. That wasn’t entirely accurate, obviously; it wasn’t like you could study to be a doctor when you were 3. But because of who her parents were… well, it was hard not to feel like a profession in the medical field was more or less predetermined. And she hated the thought of destiny (it diminished and reduced the notion of free will), but… well. Medicine had always been her future. She’d known that ever since she was little.
Twelve years of public school, four years at a top university, four years of medical school, and here she was — in the midst of her residency, in the prime of her life, and struggling with increasingly prevalent feelings of a lack of fulfillment.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t happy to be where she was, to be in this hospital, to be working in one of the most prestigious and respected fields imaginable. It wasn’t like she didn’t get fulfilment out of every patient she helped, every disease diagnosed, every life extended. It just all felt so… well, she hesitated to use the word ‘predictable’ but. Yeah. Predictable.
She didn’t want to sound ungrateful or spoiled or anything. Her life was pretty stellar, as far as lives go.
But she couldn’t help but feel just the tiniest bit stuck.
(Maybe she should have gone to art school, a thought she had toyed with when she was halfway through undergrad. She almost did it, too; almost dropped out of school to apply to some legitimate programs, until… Until her dad died and, well… he was a doctor, too. And she felt a responsibility to honor his legacy.)
A tray slammed down onto the table in front of her, jolting Clarke from her reverie. She blinked several rapid times, shaking her head as she picked her chin off of her upright fist. Octavia slid into the seat opposite her and shot Clarke a pointed look. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?” Clarke feigned ignorance, picking up her Styrofoam cup of cafeteria coffee as if she was actually going to drink it.
Octavia rolled her eyes. “Doing that thing where you look like you’d rather be anywhere in the world but here.” She picked up the banana on her tray and started to slowly peel it. “So what’s got you so down at—” she glanced at her watch— “8:30 on a Tuesday morning?”
“Can’t I just be unhappy that I’m at work at 8:30 on a Tuesday morning?” Clarke sighed and sniffed at her cup of coffee before grimacing and putting it down again. “Maybe I’m just tired.”
Octavia frowned disbelievingly. “Y’can’t fool me, Griff,” she said, chomping down at the yellow fruit clutched in her fist. “You’ve been mopey and dragging your feet around for weeks.” Clarke opened her mouth to protest but Octavia pointed her half-eaten banana menacingly. “And don’t try to lie about it, either, because I live with you, so I should know all about your moods.”
Clarke sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t know,” she said after a long moment. “I’m just feeling a little… trapped, I guess?”
“Because of what happened with Finn?”
Clarke sighed again and looked down, fiddling with her hands. “No, not… not really.” A short pause. “I don’t know.” She took a breath and glanced up at her friend. “Maybe?”
Octavia shook her head and took another bite out of her fruit. When she spoke, she spoke around a mouth full of yellow mush. “Finn was great and all, Clarke, but you know things weren’t right between you.” Octavia swallowed thickly. “He couldn’t even handle your hours during your residency. Imagine what it would have been like if you guys had stayed together until you actually become an attending.”
Clarke sighed. (She was sighing a lot, recently.) “I know, O. It’s just… hard. We were together like two and a half years.”
“And good riddance, I say.”
Clarke shot her a look. “That isn’t fair.”
Octavia shrugged. “What? It’s true.” She folded her banana peel in on itself and tossed it back onto her tray. “He was a good guy, Clarke, but so—” she pulled a face— “meh.”
Clarke rolled her eyes. “He was not ‘meh.’”
Octavia wrinkled her nose and titled her head. “He was kinda ‘meh,’ Clarke.”
“Well, you never liked him.”
“Yeah, because he whined all the time about you being gone and that one time at Bellamy’s birthday party he threw up all over my couch.”
“That was years ago.”
“It was a nice couch, Clarke.”
Clarke bit her lip to stifle a laugh. She tried to keep her brow furrowed seriously but she was having significant trouble keeping the look of amusement off of her face. “I’m just saying…” She said after a moment of watching her friend pop open a plastic carton of yogurt. “It’s hard, Octavia. Even if you didn’t like him. It’s hard to go from, like… full-blown-boyfriend to just…” She gestured in front of her, her hand blindly searching for the words her brain couldn’t seem to grasp.
Octavia, though, didn’t seem to understand. “I mean I guess,” she said uncertainly. “But you’ve been broken up for like two months and also it isn’t like you’ve never been single before? So why can’t—”
“You know,” Clarke cut her off, “despite what you may think you are not exactly a very comforting person,” she deadpanned.
Octavia gasped and held her hand to her chest in mock-affront. “And to think, I was bringing you gossip.”
“I’m not the one who likes gossip, Octavia; that’s your brother. Go bother him.”
“Well, I would, except he’s not working today and you’re my best friend, so… tough.” She pushed her tray to the side, leaning across the table to bring her that much closer to Clarke. “I promise you’re gonna like it.”
Clarke arched an eyebrow. “Oh, you promise, huh?”
“Yes, Clarke.”
“Just like you promised that I was going to like your cousin, and that I should totally let you set us up?”
“Clarke—”
“Just like you promised that you knew the way to that beach house senior year and we didn’t need to stop for directions?”
Octavia rolled her eyes. “Clarke,” she once again implored.
Clarke held up a hand to stop her from speaking. “Wait, I have so many more. Just like—”
Octavia smacked her hand away. “Get it out in therapy, will you? This is time-sensitive.”
Clarke scrunched up her nose, recoiling ever so slightly. “Why is it time-sensitive?” She asked suspiciously.
“Because any minute now the hot new attending who’s starting today is going to come strutting through those doors—” she pointed towards the front of the cafeteria— “and you’re so busy whining to me you’re gonna miss it.”
Clarke snorted and stole the now-cold bagel from Octavia’s tray. She munched on the toasted bread as Octavia stared at her with something akin to disbelief. “We get new doctors like every other month, O,” she said, waving the bagel with as much nonchalance as one could wave a bagel. “This guy’s not gonna be any different.”
Octavia glared. “First of all, internalized misogyny, the new attending is a woman, not a man. Women can be doctors too, Clarke.” Clarke rolled her eyes, but Octavia soldiered on. “And secondly, did I already mention that she’s smoking hot? Because she is smoking hot. I heard Murphy talking about her with—”
“Murphy’s a pig. He thinks everyone is hot.”
“I mean…” Octavia trailed off. “Well… yeah, duh, but I Googled her this morning and—” Octavia whistled under her breath, her eyes gleaming with teasing mirth. She reached over and flicked the back of Clarke’s hand. “What do you say? Looking for a hot, older lady doctor to take care of you while you finish your residency?”
Clarke paused, bagel half-way to her mouth. She squinted. “How much older?”
“Only like two years. And super hot, Princess. I cannot state this enough. Doctor Woods is a fucking fox.”
Clarke rolled her eyes. “Super not interested in you setting me up with a woman who is effectively my boss, O.”
“She’s only just finished her residency. And you’re almost done with yours! So, you know… she won’t be your boss in like… a year and a half.” Clarke shot her a look, and Octavia sighed. “Alright, I get it. That’s not the point.”
“So not the point.”
“At least look with me?” She half-whined, half-implored. “I think she’s pretty.”
“You date her, then.”
Octavia scoffed. “Oh please, like I would date someone we worked with.”
“What?” Clarke spluttered. “You just told me to—!”
Octavia waved her silent, arm flapping wildly as she stared wide-eyed at the cafeteria doors. “Look look look look look.” She hissed, smacking Clarke on the arm (even though Clarke was already turning in her seat). “I told you she was hot.”
Clarke blinked at the image that greeted her.
See, here was the thing: Octavia was certifiably ridiculous, like, 90% of the time, but… she wasn’t wrong. Dr. Woods was, quite possibly, the most attractive woman Clarke had ever seen.
Her coat looked like it had just been neatly pressed, and the stethoscope dangling around her neck gleamed under the harsh fluorescents, like she had pulled it from its packaging only minutes before. It provided a strong contrast to the pale blue of the simple shirt she wore beneath her white coat, which was combined with a pair of hip-hugging dress pants and some nice but sensible shoes. Every bit of her was immaculately constructed, from her light makeup to the mane of hair she had pulled up in a half-ponytail (drawn away from her face) to her short, manicured nails and smooth, unscarred hands. She had two pens poking out of the pocket of her lab coat, a watch wrapped around her right wrist, and a pair of glasses hanging from the neck of her long-sleeved tee.
But Clarke barely even glanced at her outfit, because within moments of glimpsing her for the first time, all she could see was green.
The new doctor’s eyes practically gleamed. They shone, bright and inquisitive, steadily circulating the room as if she were some military leader surveying a battlefield of her enemies.
There were other attractive parts of her. Clarke wasn’t blind to them. Her jawline cut an impressive line, and her cheekbones were high and sharp. Her face was thin but not overly so, her eyebrows relaxed but her gaze intense at the same time. She held herself well, with a straight back and a chest that puffed out almost imperceptibly. She looked lithe and strong, like she could hold her own in a fight. Her muscles pulled a little at the arms of her coat whenever she reached for a new food item, and Clarke’s eyes greedily tracked the flexing.
But it was those eyes. Something about the green of those eyes made Clarke feel like she was staring into the dark recesses of some vast forest.
She felt dazed, a little dreamy.
Those eyes. Clarke could get seriously get lost in them, if she wasn’t careful.
A nudge to her shoulder brought her tumbling back to reality. Clarke shook her head, pulling herself from the depths of her dense and foggy mind. “I told you,” Octavia hissed under her breath.
Clarke swallowed thickly and blinked a few times before she was able to rip her gaze away from the new attending. She swiveled back around in her seat and tried to make her face a perfect mask. “Okay,” she conceded, determined to slow the pounding of her pulse before Octavia could realize just how much that woman had affected her. “Yeah, you were right. She’s hot. But I’m still not interested.”
Octavia scoffed. “Oh please. In college you would have fucked her in like… forty seconds.”
“You give me too much credit. I never had that much game.”
“I once saw three different girls ditch the boys they came to a party with in order to maybe get the chance to hook up with you.”
“No you didn’t. That never happened.”
Octavia nodded vehemently “Yes it did. And it was at the same party! Three girls! Same party!” Octavia stared at her, wistfully. She tucked her chin into the palm of her hand and sighed. “Whatever happened to Party Girl Griffin? She was so fun.”
“Um, she got into med school and it started sucking up every aspect of her private life?”
Octavia hummed and picked up her tray, barely waiting to see if Clarke was going to follow after her. “Oh yeah. But it also cured your alcoholism, so… the little victories, right?”
Clarke rolled her eyes, collecting her own barely-touched breakfast and dumping it into the trashcan by the door. “You’re such an ass, O.”
Octavia wiggled her butt and shot a wink over her shoulder as she pushed through the double doors. “Yeah and isn’t it a great ass?”
**
It took approximately 4 hours and 35 minutes for Clarke to decide that Dr. Woods was, in fact, potentially the most talented doctor she had ever seen in action.
In something that felt straight out of a hospital drama, Clarke watched her whip an obscure diagnosis practically out of her ass in the amount of time it took a regular person to tie their boots.
Clarke was busying herself in a ward in the East Wing of the hospital. It was nearly empty, with only one occupied bed — a middle-aged man who groaned in pain whenever he shifted position. Though he wasn’t her patient, she had already decided to check and see how serious his pain was. Just as soon as she finished the task she was actually there to do.
Clarke’s tongue poked out from between her lips as she filled out the whiteboard to the side of the room with the standard information (the patient’s name, the date, the nurse on duty, and his physician — Dr. Alexandria Woods).
No sooner had Clarke finished writing her name than the woman herself appeared in the doorway, almost as if summoned, stethoscope around her neck, pen in hand, and glasses tucked into her breast pocket.
She swept into the room, paid absolutely no attention to Clarke in the corner, and picked up the patient’s chart swiftly, with an attitude that stated very clearly: I am in a hurry and we will not be wasting time. Clarke was fairly certain Dr. Woods didn’t even notice there was another doctor in the room.
“Hello, Mr. Lewis, my name is Doctor Woods. How are you today?” She said, barely glancing up from the man’s chart.
“Not great, honestly,” the man said with a pained grimace.
Dr. Woods made a noise in the back of her throat. She clicked her pen three times — on off on — and scribbled something down. “Symptoms?”
Mr. Lewis frowned, clearly confused. “I’m sorry?”
Dr. Woods looked up from his chart for the first time. “Your symptoms, Mr. Lewis. What are they?”
“Oh, um…” He blinked and swallowed, wiping a little at his damp brow. “Numbness in my feet and hands. Uh…” He cleared his throat. “Headaches. Dizziness. Some chest pain.”
“Also diaphoresis.”
The man frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“Excessive sweating,” Dr. Woods said, making a few more notes on his chart. “What’s your profession, Mr. Lewis?”
“Um, I’m a dentist?”
Dr. Woods tilted her head, looking up from his chart for only the second time. “Are you unsure of that fact?”
“No, I… sorry. You’re just a little intimidating?”
Doctor Woods hummed. “Yes, I’ve been told.” She closed his chart with a snap and regarded him carefully. “Nitrous oxide poisoning.”
The man blanched further. “What?”
“Laughing gas.”
“No, I know what—”
“I’m guessing you have a leaky valve somewhere in your office. You should look into that.” Doctor Woods smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Get some fresh air and you should be fine.”
“Oh, you, um… okay?”
Doctor Woods kept smiling, her expression almost robotic. “You’ll be just fine, Mr. Lewis.”
“Okay… good, then.”
Without another word Dr. Woods turned and left the room the room, leaving her bewildered patient alone with Clarke.
Clarke, who was equal parts annoyed and very impressed with Dr. Woods’ quick diagnosis. (Mostly impressed, honestly. Only a little annoyed at her abrupt attitude and speedy departure.)
She took a few steps towards the bed. “Don’t worry, Mr. Lewis,” she said, resting a reassuring hand on his forearm. “You’ll be alright in a few days. Just check for a leak at your office and maybe open all of the windows and you should be just fine.”
“Thanks.” He smiled at her, then glanced at the open door. “She’s kind of scary, isn’t she?”
“I honestly wouldn’t know. It’s my first day working with her.”
“Oh,” he muttered softly. “Well… I don’t think she has a very good bedside manner.”
Clarke bit the inside of her cheek. “I’ll make sure to talk to her about that. You just get some rest, Mr. Lewis.”
Clarke left him there as she exited his room, glancing to her right at the sound of low, murmuring voices near the end of the hall. Dr. Woods stood quietly conversing with Dr. Thaye, the two women striking an intimidating figure even in the mundane banality of a hospital corridor.
Clarke eyed the new doctor carefully. She was brilliant, Clarke had to give her that. But she was also cold and serious, down-to-earth and entirely focused on whatever task was in front of her. She seemed completely apathetic about patients’ feelings or their emotional wellbeing, and she hadn’t even noticed Clarke was in the room with her. What kind of person doesn’t even notice their own colleague is standing not ten feet away?
That was all a little troubling, and more than a little annoying, but… Still. Dr. Woods was pretty brilliant. Diagnosing nitrous oxide poisoning in a minute and a half was definitely noteworthy. And the way she looked now, white coat neatly pressed over her sharp outfit, the way her pants hugged her hips and her sweater clung to her body… She was intimidating, surely, but also impressive. Her face was serious but arresting, with her bright eyes and her cutting jawline. And the way her hair was drawn back, exposing the curve of her neck…
“She’s kinda kickass, right?”
Clarke jumped at the unexpected sound of her friend’s voice. She whirled around, catching sight of Octavia leaning comfortably against a crash cart next to room 125. She shot Octavia a glare worthy of Dr. Thaye. “God, Octavia. Stalk much?”
Octavia stuck her tongue out at her friend. “You’re the one drooling all over the place. Not my problem you can’t multitask.”
Clarke groaned and rolled her eyes. She stalked off into a patient’s room, grabbing her chart form the foot of her bed without even a glance behind her, but she didn’t need to look. Octavia trailed behind at her elbow.
Clarke smiled at the young woman in bed. “Hi—” she glanced down at the papers in front of her— “Fox. Wow, interesting name.”
The girl smiled a little, her lips quirking up to one side. “Yeah, my parents were kinda hippies.”
“Well, lucky you.” Clarke shot her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Mine thought they were having a boy, so they picked out the name and got everything ready, and it was only after I was born they realized they had a daughter.”
“They kept the name, though,” Octavia cut in quickly, throwing an arm over Clarke’s shoulders, “because they had already gotten monogrammed blankets, and that shit’s expensive to return.”
The girl’s eyes widened a little. “Sorry,” she said, glancing warily at Octavia, “but, who are you?”
“This is Doctor Blake,” Clarke supplied, gingerly stepping out from Octavia’s embrace. “She was one of the surgeons who assisted with your appendectomy.”
“Oh!” Fox exclaimed softly. “Well… thanks, then. Glad everything went well.”
Clarke smiled brightly at her. “So, how are you feeling after your surgery? Your side bothering you at all?”
The girl shook her head. “Not really. The stitches kind of itch, but otherwise I feel fine.”
“Great!” Clarke closed her chart and slipped it back into its spot at the end of the bed. “You’ll feel pretty sluggish for the next few days, and you might experience a little nausea, constipation, headaches, and the like. That’s all very normal, and it should go away within a few days, but if you’re worried you’re always more than welcome to come back in and we’ll have a look at you.” The girl nodded. “Otherwise, you should be back to normal by the end of the month. And lucky for you, you don’t have to change anything about your diet, because the appendix is actually a useless organ!” The girl smiled again. “So, rest up. You’ll be released tomorrow.”
“Awesome. Thanks, Doctor Griffin.” Her eyes flicked to Octavia. “And, um… thank you too, Doctor Blake.”
Octavia beamed. “It was honestly my pleasure. Oh!” She exclaimed suddenly. “Do you wanna keep your appendix? You can bring it home with you, if you want. Show it to all your friends. Gross out your brother.”
Fox pulled a face. “Um… no, thanks. I’ll pass. Seems… a little illegal?”
Clarke shook her head. “Surprisingly, no. Not illegal. Just disgusting.”
Octavia rolled her eyes. “’Disgusting,’ please… Clarke, you’re a doctor.” Clarke shrugged. Octavia scoffed. She took a step forward and perched herself at the foot of the bed. “So, Fox,” she began seriously, “level with me. You look like a smart girl.”
It was Clarke’s turn to roll her eyes. “Please feel free to ignore Doctor Blake. The rest of us try to.”
Fox bit her lip, looking a little nervous. Octavia ignored it. “Fox, look: I’m trying to help out my girl Clarke, here.”
Clarke groaned. “Octavia, not this again.”
Octavia ignored her. “Now, Clarke says she doesn’t want to go on a date with this sexy new doctor, who just started—“
“Who also happens to technically be my boss. Please keep that in mind.”
Octavia continued to ignore her. “—but I’m trying to convince her that it’s actually a brilliant idea and will set her up for life. Rich wife to take care of her, great healthcare benefits... What do you think?”
“Is it, umm—” the girl paused, chewing on her lip— “is it like… appropriate for you to ask me about your dating life? If… I mean,” she flushed, “if you two want to date each other, you should just do it?”
Octavia chuckled and placed a reassuring hand on the girl’s knee. “Fox, you’re a sweetheart, and I can see why you would be confused — I’m clearly a smoke show — but also, tragically, Clarke and I are just best friends. Also, I’m not her boss.”
“Oh,” she looked surprised, “umm… okay. I guess—”
Clarke grabbed Octavia by the crook of her elbow. “I’m really sorry about all of this, Fox. Doctor Blake had a little too much sugar in her coffee this morning.” She started dragging Octavia towards the door. “We’ll get out of your hair. Try and rest up, and I’ll be back to check on your progress later tonight. Alright?”
“Okay, Doctor Griffin,” the girl agreed, nodding slowly, her eyes wide and her expression stuck somewhere between troubled and deeply confused.
Clarke succeeded in dragging Octavia from the room with only a little protest. Once they were free from her patient’s prying eyes, Clarke smacked her friend on the shoulder.
“Ow!” Octavia yelped. “What’s with you and hitting me, lately? Is this like a thing for you? Because I gotta say, I’m not a fan.”
Clarke shot her a dirty look. “Stop it. You were terrifying her. Also, another thing, stop talking about my love life with patients. It’s weird, and creepy, and it makes it seem like you’re hitting on me. So stop doing it.”
“It is literally the only enjoyment I get out of my job.”
Clarke rolled her eyes. “She says, midway through her residency.” Octavia stuck her tongue out. “Nice. Real mature, O.”
The walked instep for a few paces, approaching the nurse’s station behind which Lincoln currently resided, but they only made it a few feet before Octavia turned to her once more. “So…” She said carefully. “You gonna date Doctor Woods now, or what?”
“For the last time, Octavia, no.” An idea struck her then, unbidden and all at once, and she had to bite her tongue to tamp down her smile. Clarke threw an arm around Octavia’s shoulders and kissed her wetly on the cheek. “You know you’re the only girlfriend I need.”
Octavia made a disgusted noise and ducked out from under Clarke’s arm. She smacked her on the stomach. “You’re gross. Stop getting your germs all over me.”
“What?” Clarke gasped. “I thought you loved my germs.” She turned towards Octavia and began advancing on her slowly.
Octavia’s eyes flashed. “Clarke…” She warned, her face drawn and serious. “Don’t even think about it.” She held out an arm and started to back away.
Clarke matched her step for step, approaching steadily, her face alight with mirth. “Octavia… babe…” She half-pleaded.
Octavia raised her hand higher, pointing a finger at her friend. “Clarke, I mean it. I’m a doctor. I have access to knives. Don’t even think about—” She cut herself off with a yelp as Clarke lunged for her, cackling with laughter. “Clarke!” Octavia yelled as Clarke grabbed her around the waist. She twisted and writhed, trying to pull away. “Cut it out!”
Clarke laughed brightly, pursing her lips with her eyes closed tight as she bent her head, intent on kissing any part of Octavia’s head that she could reach.
Octavia squawked and giggled, pressing Clarke away, holding her at arm’s length while she bent over backwards and craned her neck. “Clarke, don’t—”
Someone cleared their throat. Clarke and Octavia both froze where they stood, Clarke’s arms comically outstretched, Octavia’s scrubs gripped loosely in her hands from trying to drag her closer.
She let go quickly, retracting her arms close to her chest. Octavia bit her lip hard, her chest shaking with silent laughter, while Clarke made a mental note to murder her later. She swallowed thickly, the tips of her ears burning red with embarrassment. “Doctor Woods,” she said, mouth twisted halfway between a smile and a grimace. “Hi. So sorry about all that. I’m—”
“Doctor Griffin. Doctor Blake.” Dr. Woods nodded to each of them in turn. “I’m familiar.”
Clarke cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Erm… right.”
An awkward silence fell upon the trio. Clarke shifted back and forth on her feet, while Octavia was still struggling to suppress silent giggles next to her. Dr. Woods simply regarded the women across from her with an expression akin to cool indifference. Still, Clarke couldn’t help but feel like she was being sized up, in some small way.
Octavia finally managed to get her breathing under control enough to speak. “How are you settling in, Doctor Woods? Finding everything alright?”
Dr. Woods nodded, her gaze flicking to Octavia for the first extended amount of time. “Yes. Strangely enough, twenty-six years of education has left me with enough skills to read a few signs.”
Octavia coughed to cover her snort. She couldn’t quite cover the grin that pulled at one side of her mouth, though. “Right, of course. Well, if you need any help finding your way around, you can ask either one of us. We’d be happy to help.”
Dr. Woods nodded. “Duly noted,” she said, before sidestepping the pair of them and making her way into the room they had just exited. She paused for a moment, glancing at them out of the corner of her eye. “As you were.”
“Who is she, our commanding officer?” Octavia muttered out of the side of her mouth (once she was certain Doctor Woods was out of earshot, of course). Clarke punched her shoulder. Octavia yelped and pulled away, rubbing at the smarting muscle. “What the hell, Clarke?”
“You are such an ass.”
“I’m not the one who just got caught trying to kiss her coworker.” Clarke punched her again. Octavia recoiled and glared back. “This is domestic violence.”
“We aren’t dating.”
“We live together. Close enough.”
“I’m going to murder you.”
“Aww. You say the sweetest things, sometimes.”
____________________
Chemotherapy looks harmless, but it’s really just poison pumped directly into your veins. No one tells you that when you see it happening in TV or movies. People think chemo is just another way to treat cancer (the most effective way). And when you’re a kid it’s just a word. “Chemotherapy.”
What it really means is “let’s make you as sick as we possibly can; let’s kill the cells in your body and hope that in the process we kill your cancer cells, too.”
It’s never guaranteed to work.
And it’s never pretty.
Monty gagged and lost the contents of his stomach into the plastic bin the nurses had provided him with. His skin was pale and almost translucent and his bald head glimmered with a sheen of perspiration under the fluorescent lights of the room.
Clarke tried not to pull a face, but she never really took well to vomit. It was the only thing that could really turn her stomach (leftover trauma from a few too many nights out in college, she supposed). “How are you feeling today, Monty?” She said instead, trying to subtly breathe through her mouth rather than her nose.
He tried to grin at her but it came out as more of a grimace. “Pretty terrible and I hate this very much. When can we stop?”
Clarke smiled, not unkindly. “Sorry bud, but we can’t stop yet. It’s only your second round of treatment. Your results seem to be improving but the cancer’s not all gone, yet.”
Monty groaned and flopped back against the bed. He held the bin close to his stomach and Clarke tried her best not to look down into it. “This is the worst I’ve ever felt.”
Clarke reached over and grasped his hand firmly. “It’s gotta get worse before it can get better.” He squeezed her hand weakly. “But you’re doing great, Monty. Really. You’ve got an amazing attitude about this.”
He chuckled. “Thanks, Doc. That means a lot.”
“Do you have anyone who can sit with you while you’re getting your treatment? Or—”
“Oh, hello, Doctor Griffin.” A voice said from behind her, and Clarke whipped around on her heels only to find herself face-to-face with the new attending. Dr. Woods smiled politely at her. “I didn’t know you were in today.”
Clarke nodded. “Murphy asked me to cover his shift. Some sort of emergency at home.”
Dr. Woods quirked her head. “Does Doctor Murphy have many of these… emergencies?” She said the word pointedly, her eyes narrowed slightly.
Clarke bit her tongue and forced herself not to roll her eyes. “He isn’t ditching work. His girlfriend is pregnant and they had a doctor’s appointment they couldn’t miss.” She cleared her throat and readjusted the chart in her hand. “Not that it’s any of your business,” she muttered under her breath.
Dr. Woods made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat and turned her attention away from Clarke without another glance. Maybe she had heard her, maybe she hadn’t, but either way she did not respond to Clarke’s pointed jab. Which was probably for the best.
“Do you mind?” She asked, holding out a hand towards the chart in Clarke’s hand.
Clarke passed it over with a click of her tongue. Could have said please, she thought, a little disgruntled.
Dr. Woods made another noise as her eyes skimmed the chart quickly. “Well,” she said, snapping it shut, turning her attention to the patient for the first time, “looks like everything is going well, Mr. Green.”
Monty chuckled wryly. “Tell that to my stomach.”
Dr. Woods nodded. “Nausea is a common side effect of chemotherapy. As is the hair loss.” She used her clipboard to gesture to his glistening head. “But not to worry. If things continue the way it looks like they are, you should be cancer-free by Christmas.”
Monty smiled as brightly as Clarke thought he probably could. “Awesome. Any idea about when the hair will grow back?”
“Unfortunately, that’s not my area of expertise.”
Monty shrugged. “Ah, no worries, Doc. Just thought I’d ask. It’ll probably take years to get the way it was. Ah, Clarke, you should have seen—”
“Well,” Dr. Woods said abruptly, “not to interrupt, but I’m afraid I have more patients to see. Take care, Mr. Green. You’re in very capable hands here.” She spared only a quick glance Clarke’s way before handing her back her chart and sweeping from the room with a flutter of her coat.
“She doesn’t waste any time, does she?” Monty asked ruefully.
Clarke tried to give him a sympathetic look. “She’s very busy. It’s her first week here.”
“Ah,” he nodded, “makes sense. But I’m sure you’re busy, too? Patients to see, lives to save, other bald men to compliment?”
Clarke laughed. “None as nice as you, I’m afraid.”
“I’m glad I’m a favorite, at least.”
Clarke smiled. “I’ll be back to check on you in about an hour, okay?”
“Sounds good, Doc. I got my TV remote; I’m all set.”
He was starting to look a little queasy, so Clarke left the room as fast as she could without seeming rude. She really didn’t want to have to watch him get sick again. Once was testing enough on her stomach, and it had been a very long time since breakfast.
She closed the door quietly behind her, pausing briefly to watch Monty through the window.
It really was tragic. He was a young guy, barely out of college, with shit healthcare and parents who lived too far away to be with him for every treatment. Clarke felt bad for him. He was only a couple of years younger than her. She thought, in another life, they might have even been friends.
She sighed, straightening her spine and turning back to the corridor. Her eyes skimmed the shallow sea of doctors and nurses before she lit upon the one she wanted to find.
Dr. Woods stood at the nurse’s station near the end of the hall, talking quietly with Echo, one of the younger nurses on the staff.
Clarke’s vision narrowed and she stalked forward, a woman on a mission. She drew up to Dr. Woods’ elbow and hissed, “You could have been a little nicer in there.”
Dr. Woods turned to her, blinking slowly. “I’m sorry?”
“With Monty, just now,” Clarke jerked her head back, gesturing towards the room they had just exited. “You could have been a little nicer with him. He’s a young guy who just got diagnosed with cancer. He’s scared. He needs compassion, not…” She waved her hand. “Not whatever you gave him.”
Dr. Woods shook her head. “He didn’t need me to be nice, Doctor Griffin. He needed me to be his doctor.” She sidestepped Clarke’s irate form and pulled a stack of charts from a pile at the end of the counter. “As far as I know,” she continued, “I behaved appropriately in that regard, but if you would like to complain about—”
“I’m his doctor, too, you know.”
Dr. Woods blinked a few more times, pulling to a slow stop. “Yes,” she said deliberately. “And you’re doing a very good job. But try to remember that they’re your patients first, not your friends.”
“He’s not…” Clarke huffed. “I was just being nice. You should try it sometime. Might do you some good.”
Dr. Woods smiled tightly, but her flaring nostrils belied her calm nature. “Noted. Thank you for your excellent advice, Doctor Griffin.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “I’ll be sure to employ it in the future.” She turned back to the stack of charts in front of her, sorting through them slowly and methodically. Clarke stared at her back, eyes wide and mouth open, equal parts angry and disbelieving.
When Clarke didn’t move for a few moments, Dr. Woods looked back over her shoulder. She frowned upon seeing Clarke still hovering behind her. “You’re free to go, Doctor Griffin. You don’t need my permission.”
Clarke clenched her hands into tight fists, took a breath against the hot anger building in her stomach, turned on her heel, and stalked away.
God, that woman was such a bitch.
**
After the morning she had had — and her unfortunate run-in with Dr. Woods — Clarke sought out the only person in the entire hospital who could, without fail, make her feel better: Lincoln.
Lincoln was the best nurse on their staff. He was a few years older than Clarke, but you couldn’t tell by looking at him. His face was bright and youthful, his eyes always gleaming with mirth. He had a joke for every occasion, a nice story for every encounter, and he was always willing to lend a helping hand, no matter what needed doing. He was always smiling, even when it rained. Clarke thought that that was kind of brilliant.
He was something of a giant of a man, just over six feet tall and built of basically pure muscle, but he was also the gentlest person Clarke had ever met. His hands were soft and always intent on healing. He could single-handedly move every patient in the hospital and could probably bench more than Clarke weighed, but every one of his movements was calculated and soft. He had a deep, booming laugh and more than a few dark tattoos, several of which circled his prominent biceps. His head was always neatly shaved and his stubble always purposefully unshaved. His favorite scrubs were dark blue.
Clarke loved everything about him.
And today, she felt she needed his guidance and expertise more than ever.
So when she found him laid out on her favorite couch in the third-floor break-room, his feet kicked out on the table in front of him, magazine in one hand and mug of tea in the other, she practically whimpered in relief.
He greeted her with a bright smile. “Hi, Clarke. Bad day?”
She groaned and threw herself onto the cushions, curling up into his side and letting his bulking mass engulf her. “Such a bad day,” she agreed.
Lincoln chuckled and threw his magazine onto the table, wrapping his now-free arm around her shoulders. Clarke sank into the feeling, allowing him to draw her more fully against his side. There was something exceedingly comforting about being cuddled next to a strong, sturdy body. Plus, Lincoln smelled like Old Spice and clean laundry, and those were two smells Clarke absolutely adored. He smelled safe, like coming home.
Clarke wasn’t blind; she knew Lincoln was kind of rudely hot. As far as levels of attraction went, Lincoln was perhaps top of the list. Anyone who saw him would agree that he was about as close to ‘prefect’ as a man could get. In another life, she probably would have been insanely into to him.
In this life, however, she regarded him as more of an extremely close cousin; a dear friend; a warm and comforting presence. It wasn’t that he was unattractive, she was just completely and totally not attracted to him — hadn’t been attracted to him since maybe her third week on the job.
They weren’t really close, didn’t really spend that much time together outside of work, save for drinks every few weeks, but Clarke treasured every minute they did spend in each other’s company.
He pulled her a little tighter to him and rubbed her upper arm. “Want to talk about it?”
Clarke exhaled roughly. “It’s just the new attending.”
Lincoln laughed, and the rumble of the sound made his chest vibrate against Clarke’s cheek. “You mean Doctor Woods?” He asked with a teasing lilt to his voice.
“Yeah,” Clarke grumbled. “She’s kind of a bitch. I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”
Lincoln laughed again — much too loudly for what Clarke’s sentence had warranted, in her opinion — and he tapped her lightly on the nose. “What did she do, then?”
“She barely looks at her patients when she’s talking to them. She’s very abrupt. Blunt to the point of being inconsiderate. Can’t take a joke. Every time she smiles it looks like it physically hurts her. And she was rude to me, so.”
“I don’t know if I’m the best person to talk about these things with, Clarke,” Lincoln said with another chuckle.
“What?” She sat up quickly, resting a hand on his broad chest. “But why not! You’re always here when I want to complain about things.”
Lincoln winked at her. “Hm, maybe so. But I think I’m probably a little biased, in this instance.”
Clarke frowned. “What do you mean, ‘biased’?”
The sound of a pager going off interrupted their conversation. They both reached to their hips, but in the end, Lincoln lost out. “Sorry, Clarke,” he said, downing his tea quickly and standing from his position. He brought his arms above his head in a loud, groaning stretch. “Duty calls.”
Clarke pouted. “Fine. I’ll go cuddle with someone else.”
He laughed and reached over to ruffle her hair. She slapped his hand away before he could mess it up too badly. “Try not to let Doctor Woods get to you, too much, Clarke. She takes a minute to warm up, but I really think you’ll grow to like her.”
He was gone from the room before Clarke could ask him how he possibly knew that.
____________________
Octavia didn’t make it a habit to fall asleep on the job, even though on-call rooms were provided for occasions just like this — 8 hours into a grueling 12 hour shift that started at 7 p.m. and was set to continue until the next morning. She didn’t like sleeping in the hospital, and generally tried to avoid it as much as possible. The beds were small and cramped, the sheets itchy, and if she was being perfectly honest there were never enough pillows for her liking. Plus, on-call rooms were Bone City for horny doctors, nurses, residents, and interns. Even if the beds weren’t completely disgusting — which she was positive they were — the odds of someone walking in and disturbing her sleep was almost guaranteed.
And if there was one thing Octavia hated more than a sleepless night, it was being rudely awoken from a nap.
So she didn’t, as a general rule, make a habit of sleeping in on-call rooms while she was deep into her shift.
But it had been an achingly slow night, almost painfully so. Bellamy was off and so was Clarke, leaving her without her two most valued work companions. She hadn’t had a single thing to do for the entirety of her shift, and given that it was nearing 3 in the morning and the night seemed unlikely to turn around in her favor, Octavia thought… what the hell. Maybe just this once.
So that was how she found herself in the second floor on-call room at 3:23 in the morning, her hair down and loose around her shoulders, tucked into the terribly scratchy sheets with two terrible, lumpy pillows beneath her head.
The room was dark, and blissfully quiet. After an entire day on her feet Octavia’s brain was finally catching up with the aching of her muscles, and laying down was a blissful relief.
As she lay on her back, arms tucked behind her head and eyes closed, she found that she was really starting to warm up to on-call room naps. She could almost get used to this. It really wasn’t such a terrible time. And at least she got the chance to close her eyes for a few moments.
But as soon as she got comfortable, as soon as she finally began to doze off, the sound of muffled yelling and feet pounding on linoleum floors roused her from her fitful rest.
She rolled over and debated just trying to fall back to sleep for about thirty seconds, but the voices were growing louder, and now that she could tell where they were coming from they sounded distinctly panicked.
Octavia groaned and threw the covers back. She clambered to her feet, her knees screaming at her the entire way up. She paused only long enough to shake the stiffness from her joints before she was across the room, tearing the door practically off its hinges.
The first thing she noticed was that people were running every which way. And while running in a hospital wasn’t necessarily out of the ordinary, running in a hospital at 3:35 in the goddamn morning most certainly was.
A familiar figure whipped around the corner at the end of the hall, skidding to a squeaky stop before continuing to tear down the corridor towards her.
“Jesus, Murphy,” Octavia called as he approached. “What the hell happened?”
“Apartment fire!” Murphy called as he raced past her towards the ER, his face alight with anticipation. “There are five busses already here, and three more en-route. It’s messy!”
“Jesus,” Octavia muttered, already pulling her hair back into a tight, clean ponytail. She took a second — only a second — to wipe at the sleep still clinging to her eyes before she made her way through the building, already halfway to the ER by the time her pager beeped informing her that that was where she was needed.
She didn’t really like the ER She didn’t like the noise or the chaos or the oozing wounds or the bedraggled nurses or the overworked techs. She didn’t like the way it smelled, didn’t like the way it always seemed to be overflowing with impatient mothers and whining children. Also, way too many goddamn people died in the ER for her comfort, and Octavia couldn’t ever help but feel like she was completely useless there. She much preferred the sterile solitude of an operating room, the quiet sort of tension that built around a long surgery, the sheer concentration required, the organized nature of incisions and sutures.
She was a surgeon. Nobody got surgery in the ER They arrived at the ER very badly wounded and then were sent to Octavia’s operating table. That’s the way it worked.
She liked that. She liked the methodology, liked the order to it, liked the direct chain of events.
There was too much goddamn noise in the ER, and that was on a good fucking night. On a night like tonight, the buzz was practically deafening.
She could hear the cacophony when she was about fifty feet out. The shouting, rushing, the calls for help, the slamming of doors as stretchers burst through them, the beeping of machines, the restless sounds of injured people groaning in pain.
Octavia ground her teeth and pushed open the only barrier protecting her from the chaos. And it truly was pure chaos.
There were at least twenty patients crowded into far too few beds. EMTs seemed to be in a constantly rotating conveyer-belt, with one leaving only for two more to take his place. People were coughing, gagging. There were calls for more oxygen tanks as nurses jumped from bed to bed, cleaning forehead gashes and attaching masks to children clutching singed blankets. There were faces covered in soot and ash, the dark red of oozing blood contrasting only slightly with the dark charcoal of smoke-blackened faces. More than a few people were crying, and in the corner a woman screamed as Murphy and Monroe attempted to reset her shoulder.
It also smelled like a goddamn smokehouse. Which wasn’t great.
“Blake!” Dr. Thaye called from across the room. Octavia, who had been seemingly frozen near the exit, eyes tracing the scurrying patterns of the medical staff like they were ants in an ant farm, jumped to attention.
She strode across the room, drawing up next to a gurney where a young woman lay unconscious, face black with soot, the dull yellow of her thick uniform making her look tiny and pallid in comparison.
“Collapsed lung, probable concussion, smoke inhalation, and a possible spinal cord injury.” Dr. Thaye shoved a chart into Octavia’s empty hands. “I paged Doctor Griffin. Take Lincoln and get this woman to an OR.”
Octavia nodded. She tucked the chart under her arm and wrapped her hands around the guardrail, preparing to push. Dr. Thaye disappeared the second Octavia’s hands hit the cool metal, already well on her way to the next person in need of dire attention.
Octavia looked around, trying to spot Lincoln. She finally caught sight of him gingerly lifting an elderly woman from her charred wheelchair and into a bed by the door.
She started to push the gurney in his direction, but a hand on her arm pulled her to a sudden stop. “Wait!” Someone called. Octavia gripped the railing of the bed tighter, refusing to let go.
An older man in a fireman’s uniform stood next to her, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. His face was caked in dirt and grime, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He had a cracked helmet tucked under his right arm. “Where are you taking her?” He asked quickly, glancing down at the unconscious woman.
“Please, sir, if you want me to help your friend—”
“Sinclair. And she’s not… she’s my partner.”
Octavia nodded and corrected herself. “Sinclair,” she said, tightening her grip once more, glancing over the man’s shoulder while she tried to catch Lincoln’s eye, “your partner’s hurt. We have to get her to an operating room as soon as possible.”
Sinclair swallowed thickly. “Are you… will she be okay? I tried to get her out as soon as I could, but it took three guys to lift the support beam off of her, and I—”
“She’s in good hands,” Octavia cut him off, “I promise.”
He nodded, looking pretty badly shaken. “Alright. Okay.” He put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “You keep fighting Reyes, alright?” He half-muttered to her, his throat thick with either smoke or emotion. “Your dad would kill me if anything happened to you.”
Octavia gently removed his hand from the woman’s body. “I promise you, Sinclair, we’ll do everything in our power to help her.”
He nodded, still staring down at the young woman’s face. “Her name’s Raven Reyes. If it matters. She isn’t on any medication and she’s not allergic to anything except cats and pollen. No history of heart disease or stroke.”
Octavia smiled grimly. “Thank you, that’s very helpful.” It wasn’t, obviously. Octavia had the woman’s chart, and everything Sinclair was saying was already inside of it. All he was doing was slowing them down. But still, she needed to reassure him, not make him more nervous. “I’ve got her now.” She pushed the bed toward the door and Lincoln appeared at her side almost out of nowhere. The two of them hurried through the double doors and off in the direction of the surgical wing, exchanging no more than a nod in greeting.
“You take care of her!” Sinclair called loudly, his voice already fading behind them. Octavia spared a glance at Lincoln across the woman’s body. His face was drawn and serious, his eyes dark.
Even as they sped through the hospital, Octavia was gripped by some indescribable urge. She dropped her hand to the woman’s shoulder and gave it one long, firm squeeze. “We’ve got you, Raven,” she whispered, almost too quietly to be heard. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”
Lincoln glanced at her once, his eyebrows pulling together for only a moment before he turned away from her again. Octavia swallowed and fought the blush that threatened to overtake her face. Because it was embarrassing, saying something so stupid. It was like she was still in med school and this was her first patient, or something.
It was a stupid thing to say, a stupid promise to make — the woman was unconscious, she couldn’t exactly hear her. There was absolutely no point in speaking to her. All she was doing was making herself look like an idiot.
Octavia knew it was a stupid thing to say, and definitely a stupid promise that she couldn’t possibly keep. It was moronic at the very least, and definitely more than a little unprofessional.
She didn’t know what made her say it, but something about the situation made her feel like she had to.
It was stupid, but then again, Octavia had never pretended to be anything else.
____________________