Chapter Text
"I look ridiculous," Clarke grumbles, checking her reflection in the tinted window of a BMW parked outside the hotel. She can't decide whether she looks better or worse without the mask, so she checks both, taking the mask on and off, until at last she hears Raven huff beside her.
"Yeah, you do," Raven says. She loops her arm through Clarke's and tugs. "But it's too late now. Come on."
"Raven!"
"What?"
Clarke digs her heels in before Raven can pull them both up the steps of the luxury hotel; Raven's next huff of impatience is even louder. "You said I looked fine when we left!"
Straining to compose herself, Raven finally stops pulling and takes off her own mask—black and winged, of course, a Raven, because Reyes doesn't do subtlety. "If I had so much as joked about it, you never would have agreed to come tonight. Had you not agreed to come tonight, we both would have missed a well-deserved night off.”
"We could have taken a much-needed night off with Netflix and pizza," Clarke whines. "I work with these people. I don't want to spend my night off at some pretentious dinner party."
"It's not work, it's a fundraising gala. For sick kids. It's New Year’s Eve. Have some fun for once, Clarke. Let’s both spend the night with hot doctors."
Her scowl doesn't go away, but the cold December air is starting to get to her, goosebumps rising on all the skin her gown leaves exposed. The moment Raven feels Clarke's body relax, she's tugging her along again,
"You already know a hot doctor," Clarke mutters, almost to herself just before they get into the warmth of the expansive, marble hotel lobby.
"You don't count because I know you too well to sleep with you."
"Fair."
"And put your mask on," Raven adds under her breath. "It's a masquerade ball, you're supposed to be mysterious."
Mask or not, no one would have noticed Clarke's entrance into the ballroom of the hotel: the pure scale of the event automatically makes Clarke and Raven anonymous and mysterious, just two of three hundred masked guests at Alliance Hope Pediatric Hospital's annual fundraising gala. From the decorations and banners adorning the walls to the dozens of white-sheeted banquet tables throughout the room and the hundreds of different colored gowns and costumes and styles gracing the attendees, there is no sense of expense spared for this event. A long bar stretches half of one wall and an elevated stage has a DJ playing music before a little-used dance floor. Dinner will be served later, but guests flock around tables of hors d’oeuvres and platters of champagne flutes in the meantime.
And most notable, in between the gowns and tuxedos, small children with masks of their own, superheroes and princesses and monsters, rush from table to table to ask for small Christmas presents and treats piled in the center of each table. They shriek with delight every time before they rush off to the next table.
That's why the hospital does this. It may all seem extravagant and expensive, but it brings in big donors, and more importantly, the kids love it. They're all patients at the hospital, all healthy enough to have a night away, so naturally they're billed as the guests of honor.
"I'm so happy we came," Raven says automatically, taking it all in. This is Clarke's third gala, but she has to admit, it never really gets less impressive. The event company even set up custom lighting far over their head, likely to be used later, when dinner is over and the kids have gone home and drunkenness and dancing has picked up.
"Come on," Clarke says, looping her arm through Raven's, "let's find them, and claim a table."
Masquerade masks and costumes, it turns out, are actually quite good at concealing people's identities. At least, when they are out en masse like this. Clarke taps on the shoulder of three different slim, dark-haired women before she finally gives up.
"That looked nothing like her!" Raven hisses as they quickly back away from another awkward moment.
"I don't see you trying!"
"I'm looking for Lincoln instead. And—yep, there he is."
"That’s not—oh."
Yep, there he is. Lincoln may wear the same standard black tuxedo every other man wears, but the difference is the fact that he stands head and shoulders—and most of his chest—above them. He sticks out from a mile away among the group he stands talking to. With a closer look, Clarke and Raven confirm it by spotting a slim brunette at his side.
Raven smirks. "Leave it to an engineer to find the simplest solution."
When Lincoln and Octavia see them approaching, they quickly exit the conversation and greet Clarke and Raven in bear hugs, decorum of a black tie affair be damned. Lincoln and Clarke have known each other since med school, despite him being a few years ahead of her; he's the only reason she got a position at Alliance Hope in the first place.
"So what are you supposed to be?" she demands, laughing as she looks up at his mask.
"Batman!" he exclaims indignantly. If his pointed-eared mask didn't give it away, his muscular body beneath a black-on-black tuxedo definitely completes the look.
They look to Octavia. "Batwoman," she adds, pointing to a similar style mask with dashes of red through it.
"The kids love it," Lincoln says with a proud grin.
"The kids love you," Raven replies. In the pediatric cancer ward, Lincoln is by far the most beloved: he's the kind of doctor who shows up to a fancy event as Batman with his girlfriend as Batwoman just to make some kids smile on New Year’s Eve.
"What are you two supposed to be?"
Raven points to her black dress, accented with feathers, and own winged mask. She smirks. "Guess."
"Clever."
"Only because she's been planning this for weeks since I invited her," Clarke gripes, giving Raven a reluctant smile.
"Clarke, on the other hand, has dressed up as someone who didn't want to go and made a last-second choice under pressure from her roommate. It's very convincing, isn't it? Best costume for sure."
Clarke rolls her eyes. If pressed, she could probably claim the blue jeweled mask and silver dress as some kind of mythological figure or something to do with the ocean, but this isn't the kind of costume party where people question what you're dressed up as. If you have a mask and a dress, you pass. Unless you’re one of the kids running around, of course.
Together, the four of them find and claim a table—almost immediately, a gaggle of children run up to them to beg for treats from the provided basket at the center of the table. Once Dr. Lincoln and Dr. Clarke reveal themselves, the kids clamor to tell them all about their costumes.
Lincoln flexes his biceps with a miniature Hercules. “Woah, those muscles!” he exclaims when the kid shows off his tiny arms. “You could pick up a whole car!”
“Once I’m done with my treatment!” Little Hercules replies excitedly as Lincoln shadowboxes with him. “Thanks Doctor Linc!”
Meanwhile, Clarke fawns over two twin girls, dressed up as angels; they blush and smile when she tells them that she’s pretty sure they’re visiting from heaven. “I don’t think you two got enough candy,” she whispers conspiratorially, and they giggle and hold out their baskets for Clarke to drop in a few more treats. As more and more children gather around their favorite doctors, who sit and listen with rapt attention all about their Christmas stories, Raven and Octavia slip away to the bar to pick up drinks for the four of them.
When the kids start to dissipate, flitting off to other tables to fill up their baskets, Clarke sits back in her chair and feels how sore smiling has made her cheeks. Already, dressing up and giving up her Friday night has been worth it, just to see the looks on their faces. All her reluctance about the gala melts away—Lincoln gives her a knowing grin—and Clarke looks around at the ballroom with new appreciation.
Raven and Octavia reappear a minute later, handing off glasses of champagne. Raven takes her seat next to Clarke and leans close as Clarke takes a sip. “So, Octavia told me that a doctor you’re crushing on is here tonight?”
She chokes on the champagne. So much for not regretting this.
“Octavia!”
“Lincoln told me!”
“Linc!”
“Sorry!” he says, supremely not-sorry when he holds his hands up and laughs. “Why is it a big secret? What’s the problem?”
“Nonsense things I tell you after a 24 hour surgery shift should be ignored,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes. “Not shared with your girlfriend so that they can crop up at a gala event. All I said was that I thought she was pretty.”
Lincoln shrugs. “She is. She’s nice, too. Quiet. You should talk to her tonight.”
Octavia hums her agreement, but Clarke shakes her head. “I’m not hitting on anyone tonight. It’s New Year’s Eve, it’s a kid’s fundraiser. I’m going to say hi to the kids and mingle and then go home.”
“You’re already here,” Raven urges. “It’s a masquerade. How can you miss out on the fun of a masquerade? It’s fun, a little flirting behind masks, play up the anonymity. Then when you see her at work, flirt a little more. It’ll be like Grey’s Anatomy meets Phantom of the Opera.”
“Everyone misunderstands the Phantom of the Opera,” Octavia points out. “Everyone thinks the guy in the mask is the one she’s in love with, no one pays attention to the real story.”
Raven glares at her, annoyance plain behind her own mask.
Lincoln sits forward, the ever-logical voice. “Look, you’re adults. Why not just talk to her? Have a drink, dance, get to know each other. It’s damn near impossible at work.”
If she wasn’t already wearing a mask, Clarke would drop her face into her hands to hide it. Following every long shift from now on, she needs to completely avoid all human contact, lest she say something stupid to Lincoln the next time she’s deliriously tired. It’s not even a crush—it’s more of a long-distance attraction, a few passing words in the hallways of the hospital. She works in the cancer ward with Lincoln and Clarke works in the operating room, so Lincoln is right, it is nearly impossible to cross paths accidentally. Which Clarke prefers. She doesn’t need the distraction. Occasionally recognizing how attractive she is, is a different story.
“She looks really good tonight,” Lincoln adds, eyes twinkling.
But…maybe a distraction would be okay tonight.
“Maybe,” Clarke mutters begrudgingly. Raven smirks.
“She’s wearing braids, a white dress, and a black mask,” Lincoln says. “Just for your consideration. She’s at a table near the bar.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Dinner won’t be served for another hour, and Clarke’s group is one of the few already seated. Since the only others are the elderly and the already intoxicated, and since Raven and Octavia want to make the rounds and take in the sights, it’s not long before they’re back on their feet with fresh glasses of champagne.
“French aristocrats, Greek gods, jesters, royalty…It’s not bad,” Octavia muses. “Just as long as no one goes for any lame guy who calls himself a hacker because he's wearing a Guy Fawkes mask.”
“No promises,” Lincoln says.
Octavia looks to Clarke. “Clarke?”
“Already tried that, no desire to go back. Finn was more than enough.”
She nods approvingly and shifts her gaze to Raven.
“Also Finn,” Raven says, eyes narrowed at the memory. Thank god their friendship at least had come out intact.
“Well that settles it. Anyone else, fair game.”
“We passed a guy who had a cool lion theme going on,” Raven says. “I could go for that.”
“You should. It’s New Year’s Eve. End the year with a bang.”
“Only if Clarke agrees to another glass of champagne.”
Clarke waves her third glass at Raven. They’ve stayed well away from the bar, but there is no shortage of waiters carrying trays of drinks. The luxurious feel of the night necessitates constantly having a drink in hand, and she doesn’t mind drinking them down despite her attitude. “You’re going to hit on a doctor dressed as a lion, I’m not the one who needs liquid courage,” she says. Nonetheless, she finishes off her glass. “Your turn.”
Challenge accepted. Raven drinks the rest of her glass, lowering it from her smirking lips. “Okay. Let’s go to the bar, get something stronger, and then I’ll go pick up the lion and you’ll find your secret crush. Deal?”
It’s going to be a long night if she doesn’t get out of this soon. “I’ll agree to drinks. O, Linc, do you two want anything?”
Octavia and Lincoln put in their orders and Clarke and Raven go off threading through the crowd. Since their arrival, even more people have flooded into the room, and it becomes a battle to push through the multitude of warriors and literary figures and Mardi Gras masks. Everything dress and mask is gorgeous, but the press of the bodies around them makes it difficult to appreciate the aesthetics of each individual.
Still, the closer they get to the bar, the more Clarke finds herself searching.
She looks really good tonight, Lincoln had said. Braided hair, a green dress, a black mask, near the bar. Clarke snorts—they must pass a dozen women of the same description. She loathes herself for looking longer at each one, but…
They emerge into a pocket of space in front of the bar and Clarke comes to a stop. Drawing level with her shoulder, Raven takes one look at her partially hidden face and reads her mind.
“At least tell me her name?”
On cue, Clarke’s eyes settle on her.
Lincoln’s right, she does look good. A flowing white dress, Grecian style, streaked with black and gold; and a fine, elegant black mask that covers more than half her face. Clarke knows her stride from seeing her in the hallways of the hospital, and it’s only enhanced by the tall heels she wears. Mask or not, Clarke knows it’s her. She can feel it. More importantly, she knows that she has to talk to her tonight, despite her wariness, despite her words to her friends earlier. Everything changes at the sight of her, somehow. Clarke’s lips turn upward in a small smile as she watches her lean over the bar for a quiet word to the bartender amidst the clamoring guests.
“Niylah,” Clarke murmurs to Raven, entranced.
*
Clarke gets drunk, and that’s where things start to go wrong.
It’s not an intentional drunk. In fact, she shuts down ideas of Niylah, pulls Raven back from the bar, and retreats to their table without the drinks they planned to get. It’s the responsible thing. But when an overeager waiter provides her with not one but two golden, sparkling mixed drinks in less than ten minutes, she doesn’t have the resolve to refuse. She can feel it in her bones from her bare shoulders to her already aching feet, that the second one is a bad idea. She rarely drinks as it is, and a wildly varying sleep schedule for the past week and an empty stomach make her head spin.
Setting the glass on the table, she levers herself to her feet, tall in her heels—the floor beneath her wavers dangerously as the full weight of her intoxication hits her. And then the next words spill out before she can stop them, seemingly as a consequence.
“I’m gonna talk to her.” She gives them a decisive nod.
Lincoln registers who “her” is in an instant, sitting back in his chair with a smile like a proud father. “You should,” he says, the same moment Octavia realizes and prompts Clarke with, “And then what?”
And she realizes she needs a plan. Clarke never does anything without planning it first.
“Steps,” she decides. “Then steps.”
Raven raises a brow.
*
These steps form in her mind quickly, and with little of the plan disclosed to her friends even when they ask. In any other situation, with any other person, this would be a cause for concern, a reason to pull Clarke back into her seat and dissuade her, but Clarke’s determination is second only to her uncanny ability to fabricate functioning sobriety even when she’s had too much; her friends know she’ll be fine.
Clarke decides against a direct approach, remembering Raven’s words about the anonymity of a masquerade. The idea, freshly considered, has a sudden glittering appeal. The mystery, the chase. She’ll send Niylah a drink. Exchange a few words with her on the dance floor or in passing among the crowd. Gain and keep her attention. Maybe make her jealous with another party-goer. Charge the atmosphere with so much energy until they can finally get a moment alone. And then…she hasn’t thought that many steps ahead yet, but it shouldn’t be complicated.
When dinner finishes at eight, the New Year’s Eve party begins in earnest and the youngest of sleepy-eyed kids begin to head up to their complimentary hotel rooms to bed. The lights dim, the music volume picks up, people already disguised by masks grow more mysterious in the half-darkness.
Clarke, on the other hand, shifts toward sober, but she keeps the plan solid in her mind. So when the night truly begins, she goes into action.
Leaving her friends behind, Clarke slips through the crowd with a fluid ease she hadn’t possessed before, gliding to the bar. It’s more open now, bodies having migrated to the dance floor and dinner tables, and it would be easy to grab a drink.
But she’s not focused on getting the bartender’s attention.
Instead, her eyes settle on Niylah immediately. The girl is not hard to find, even as she blends into the group of men and women who stand around her in conversation--it's like Clarke is drawn toward her. Clarke leans on the bar, watching the way she looks between speakers before adding her own flash of insight. Clarke could just slip into that group, introduce herself, look for a friendly face and happen on Niylah. The Lincoln connection would be easy enough. But she's already decided on her set of necessary steps that will dictate how the night will go, and she has never in her life allowed herself to deviate from a plan, so she simply watches from afar for a bit longer, preparing herself. It's only when her eyes run over the girl's bare arms and up to the way she cradles her drink to her shoulder does Clarke recognize that Niylah's glass is empty: her first opportunity.
She turns away from the entrancing sight, searching for the eyes of one of the three bartenders, and nearly jumps back when she sees one standing right in front of her.
He smiles at the look of surprise on her face. "Finally ready to order?"
Another second and she at last registers that he had already asked her twice, without her response as she was busy staring. She clears her throat and stumbles on the first syllable, but manages to get it out: "The woman in the white dress, there. I'd like to send her another drink."
“The Greek goddess?” he asks when he picks her out.
“Aptly,” Clarke replies with a small laugh, a compliment the bartender appreciates. He gets her game.
“No problem, I’ll get it right now. Do you want her to know it’s from you?”
Her second opportunity. It was one of her steps, she just didn’t realize it would appear to her so quickly and organically. Before Clarke replies, she casts a look down the bar in a half-second study of her potential options. A tiger, another Greek god, two versions of the Phantom of the Opera, a few generic multi-colored masks. Only one of the party-goers at the bar is a woman, but she's attractive beneath her red mask, with dark hair and a dark green dress that flatters an athletic form. Seeing that, Clarke makes her decision in half a second, turning back to the bartender.
"Absolutely, let her know it's from me."
As he moves off, so does Clarke. She slides away from her open section of the bar and makes her way down the seats, to the girl in the red mask she had picked out for this part of the play. She can feel eyes on her as she walks, but none of them are of the prize she wants, just yet, so she pays them no mind.
The girl at the bar senses her coming and turns her head halfway to acknowledge Clarke's presence when Clarke stops behind her. "Your dress is gorgeous," Clarke says, with a broad smile. Non-threatening. All she needs to do is befriend her and strike up a conversation.
“Thank you, so is yours,” is her warm reply. The girl gives her a quick look up and down that Clarke recognizes from plenty of college parties, even if they were so long ago. “What are you drinking?”
She’ll credit her planning, but it’s truly pure luck that she may have stumbled upon one of the only other women attracted to women at the entire gala, next to herself and Niylah. Any other night and she would capitalize on it, but right now she’s on a mission, and this is just one more golden opportunity to accomplish her goal—and so she slides into the seat beside the girl and orders whatever she’s drinking.
They don’t exchange names—Raven was right when she said the anonymity is appealing—but they do make small talk. Clarke tells her she’s a doctor; the girl in the red mask introduces herself as a donor to the hospital.
“Well, my family is; I’ll be expected to when I’m forced to take over the company.”
“That’s impressive,” Clarke says. “I hope you keep up the donations once you’re running everything.”
She inclines her head. “If I end up doing that. Who knows, maybe Europe will call my name and I’ll make a run for it. None of that is as impressive as being a doctor at your age though.”
“Family profession,” Clarke says. As she speaks, the bartender slides her her drink, reminding her of her original goal in speaking to this girl in the first place. She looks across the bar at the perfect moment, catching sight of Niylah with her new drink. The girl stares directly at her, disengaged from her conversation, her chin ever so slightly raised as she holds Clarke’s gaze; they’re far enough apart that Clarke can’t see the color of her eyes or any emotion within them, but she imagines them flicking between Clarke and the girl beside her, curiosity piqued. Clarke lets her lips turn up in a smile. Step one, accomplished.
And she swears she gets a tiny smirk back before she looks demurely away.
The clock ticks toward midnight, but no one at the gala shows any desire to speed time up to the end of the year. Partiers lounge at the banquet tables, the more wild ones spin and twist on the dance floor, and everyone streams back and forth from the bar Clarke has planted herself at. The people watching proves to be the most engaging activity for people like her, and people like the girl in the red mask beside her as they keep up a steady conversation about different costumes and couples and drunken antics they spot as they watch the crowd and sip their drinks.
But even as she talks to the girl in the red mask, some part of Clarke is always attuned to the girl in the white dress across the bar. She catches Clarke looking, once, when one of the few remaining kids runs up to her and hugs her around the waist. It’s the boy in the Hercules costume, the one Lincoln was playing with earlier; Niylah must be another of his doctors. She hugs Hercules back, and when he takes off again, she glances up and sees Clarke watching. This time, there’s a flash of a smile.
A few moments later, a waiter sidles over and hands Clarke a napkin instead of a new drink. Confused, she unfolds it to discover a note written in a quick, sharp scrawl:
Thank you for the drink. If your next one isn’t already bought, it’s on me.
Clarke looks up, and the girl in the white dress is watching carefully for her response; Clarke can’t believe that this is working so cleanly and so easily, so early in the night. She inclines her head to give the girl permission to buy her a drink, and satisfaction floods through her when Niylah calls the bartender toward her to put the order in.
“Would you like to dance?” The girl in the red mask asks her suddenly, pulling Clarke back to the present moment and reminding her that she’s still there.
“Not yet,” Clarke says. But she gives the girl her full attention anyway, surprised by how natural it feels. “So you said you didn’t want to take over the family business. What would happen if you didn’t?”
She smiles. “I’d probably be disowned, and my younger sister would take over a few years after me.”
“Oh, siblings? I’m an only child.”
“A younger sister; she’s fifteen, so it would be a while before she takes anything over. The only part of my family that I do like.”
That’s getting dangerously close to too personal, moving past inebriated gala small talk and into drunken dive bar confessional sessions. Clarke pulls back after the mistake. With a sweet smile, she nods and glances around, eyes falling again on the flash of a white dress--a retreating white dress. Niylah is headed for the dance floor, drink in hand. Later Clarke will say it was to escape any deep interpersonal exchange with the girl in the red mask, but there is only one reason she slides off the barstool and grabs her hand.
“Let’s go dance.”
Clarke holds her drink above her head and the other men and women on the dance floor clearly have quite a few drinks already in them, but the night hasn't even reached nine and the oldest children at the party are still going strong: this keeps the mood on the dance floor light-hearted and free as Clarke and the red mask girl make their way onto it. Raven swirls past her; Lincoln lifts Octavia into the air; doctors laugh as they swing dance with their tiny patients; and Clarke lets herself go for the first time tonight, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt as she dances in and out of the arms of the pretty girl in the red mask. It’s no club, and no one dances pressed up against their partner, but even still, the two of them move in comfortable unison to a summer pop song. It’s familiar. It’s nice. It’s enough to make Clarke forget about everything else, right up until she sees someone in white dance past her and the mere color of the dress reminds her of why she’s dancing with this girl in the first place. This is all part of her plan. She has to stick to it; no slips in focus.
With a surprising reluctance, Clarke spins away from the girl in the red mask, glancing around and over her shoulder to scan the crowd--and she’s rewarded with a dark gaze leveled on her from the girl she’s searching for.
Niylah is watching her dance, sparkling green bright from the center of her dark mask. As reluctant as Clarke might have been to take her attention from the girl she’s currently dancing with, seeing and meeting this other girl’s gaze shoots electricity down her spine, thrilling her. And she can move: she looks so good on the dancefloor that Clarke doesn’t mind being caught watching, so the other girl makes no effort to tear her eyes away from Clarke. They dance for each other, in that moment.
Clarke is inexplicably drawn to her. She glides toward her, slowly enough so that the girl in the red mask isn’t abandoned--Niylah watches her all the way, and just as they get within earshot, she turns away. Clarke’s laugh gets lost in the music.
As Niylah turns again, Clarke reaches out and catches her forearm.
“You look really good,” she says, just loud enough for the other girl to catch before they separate again.
Another half a song passes before they get close enough to speak again, and this time, it’s longer: “So do you,” the girl replies. “Do we know each other?”
“Maybe.”
And they pull apart, and Clarke goes back to dancing with the girl in the red mask, warm deep in her abdomen with the satisfaction of knowing she’s being watched as she moves. Niylah isn’t the only one watching--several men and women are--but Clarke only cares about the one pair of eyes. It shifts everything for her, her light-hearted turn on the dance floor become darker and charged with energy, but everyone around her laughs and smiles like nothing has changed. Raven grabs Clarke for a song and they share a dance with a boy Clarke treated a few months before. When Raven releases Clarke a few minutes later, she gives a meaningful glance at the girl in the red mask and shoots a broad smile to Clarke. The message is clear.
But it’s Niylah who reaches out for Clarke first before she can get back to the girl in the red mask. She leans in close, like she’s had too much to drink, but her eyes are as sharp as ever: it’s desire, not alcohol, driving her action. Her hand snakes up Clarke’s forearm and pulls her in so that she can whisper instead of shout over the music.
“I’d buy you another drink,” she says, lips almost pressed into Clarke’s hair, “But I’m leaving after this song. So you should just keep your eyes on the girl you’ve been dancing with.”
Clarke pouts and quite nearly moans her displeasure. “Why not? Stay here, celebrate the New Year.”
“Other obligations,” she says with a coy smile.
“Can I convince you to stay?” Clarke presses closer, tongue dancing over her lower lip. She watches the other girl’s mouth fall open with the force of the breath that rushes out of her chest, and Clarke laughs at the struggle on her face. This is working out beautifully.
At the sound of Clarke’s laughter, she regains her reticent mystery and gives Clarke a small smirk.
“Maybe.”
And she releases her, folding back into the crowd with a look up and down Clarke’s body that leaves her spinning--even as she stands still in the middle of the dancefloor. All of it happened in just a few seconds, a single heated exchange that no one else around them noticed. When Clarke turns away, she doesn’t search for the girl in the red mask, but she finds her anyway, wholly unimpressed. The exchange with Niylah had to have been more obvious than she thought.
“Girlfriend?” she asks, thinly-veiled irritation beneath a faux-sweetness.
“Uh...co-worker,” Clarke answers sheepishly.
Not a good enough answer; the girl in the red mask puts her hands up in surrender and steps away from Clarke. “Interesting Grey’s Anatomy dynamic Alliance Hope has going on. Have a nice night...what was your name?”
“Clarke.”
“Have a nice night, Clarke.”
“Wait!” she says, for reasons she will never really know. Curiosity, mostly. Maybe politeness. Or guilt. “What was your name?”
“Luna,” she spits, and turns on her heel.
Nothing moves Clarke to call after her.
*
Suddenly weary of dancing, Clarke bails off of the dance floor and heads for the bar. She’s dreaming of a cold drink and a moment to herself, but at the call of her name, she turns to see Raven, Lincoln, and Octavia leaning against the bar, beers in hand and wide grins on their faces. They look as if they’ve been watching a sporting event, which instantly tells Clarke just exactly what they’re so amused about.
“So how are those steps working, Clarke?” Raven calls when Clarke heads over to meet them.
She doesn’t bother to pretend that she didn’t blow it with Luna; they definitely watched it happen. But as for Niylah...Clarke shrugs, smirking. “Slowly but surely,” she says. She waves the bartender over. “You remember me, right? The girl in the Greek goddess dress, from earlier...I’d like to pay for her drink the next time she comes up to the bar.”
The bartender gets it, but Lincoln is definitely drunk. “Greek goddess dress?” he spouts, confused.
“Niylah,” Clarke tells him. “The girl in the red mask was...more of a decoy.”
“Uh…” But Octavia hits his shoulder to jar him from his confusion and keep him from saying anymore.
“It was part of her plan. No harm no foul. Keep up, Linc.”
“Whatever you say.”
He’s a nice guy, and Clarke has adored him since she was just a resident and he took her under his wing, but Clarke has a ruthless streak that he lacks. Octavia and Raven have it too (Lincoln barred them all from game night years ago). She usually keeps hers hidden much better than they do, but when it comes out, the three of them understand each other and work in perfect harmony. If her plan tonight had required them, she has no doubt that they could have robbed a bank together with her and gotten away with it. Luckily for the rest of the world, she doesn’t need them for this one.
Clarke orders herself a beer and relaxes with her friends for the next few minutes, re-ordering the steps in her head. Niylah had said she was leaving; maybe Clarke should set her sights on someone else, as suggested. Pondering the idea, turns to look down the bar, only to find a folded napkin sitting next to her beer, courtesy of the bartender. She grabs it.
It’s another note, in the same sharp handwriting as before.
You’ve convinced me.
That’s an invitation. Clarke’s convinced her to stay. The scraps of the plan she was in the process of coming up with fly out the window.
A scan of the bar and the dinner tables proves fruitless. Evidently, she made it to the bar and back to the dance floor without Clarke noticing, but the note invitation imbues her with new life and sends her rushing back to the dance floor, the encouragement of her friends echoing after her.
The magnetic attraction is undeniable, even cosmic: they don’t just find each other, they damn near run into each other as Clarke squeezes past another couple. Niylah catches her arm, and as soon as they recognize one another’s masks, they move instantly together, gliding to the music as if they had planned this all night. What was comfortable with Luna is effortless with her, the gorgeous girl in front of Clarke. She no longer worries about impressing her or attracting her, just about staying close to her as they lose themselves in song after song and the heavy alcohol pour of Clarke’s latest drink seeps into her veins and mixes with the pleasure pounding through them already.
Niylah’s heels are taller than Clarke initially thought, too. This close, Clarke stands a few inches short of her, and from her memory of Niylah in the hospital hallways, Clarke is almost certain she usually stands taller than the other girl. Not that she minds, now. In the darkness, this angle makes her cheekbones and jaw look especially sharp, and they’re accented by tiny beads of sweat that make her skin glitter and shine down her neck and chest, into the bodice of her dress.
She’s drunk. They’re dancing so close. They have no idea how much time has passed. Clarke stares at the expanse of bare skin over the upper half of the girl’s body and she wants nothing more in this world than to taste it, to kiss every inch and drag her lips over as she pulls the top of the dress down to reveal more and more of her body to explore.
Reading her mind, Niylah’s hand snakes behind Clarke and up her back, pulling her even closer, so that they’re nearly pressed body to body as they dance. Clarke gains just enough lucidity to look over Niylah’s shoulder at the digital clock projected on one wall: 10:50.
It’s too early. She can’t break now. She can’t give in. She has to last until midnight, and at this rate, she won’t make it.
Clarke doesn’t even manage to look up into the other girl’s green eyes. She makes it to her parted, feels a final rush of desire, and has to pull back. She nearly runs from the dance floor.
Not yet.
*
God, fresh air. Clarke pulls in deep lungfuls, not so much because the air was thick and hard to breathe in the center of the dancefloor, but because the alcohol mixed with the intoxicating presence of the other girl was doing dangerous things to Clarke’s body, and she needs to regain some semblance of reality before she acts on the desire building within her. She still has an hour until midnight.
Pushing her mask up onto her forehead, Clarke takes a few wobbly steps to a nearby table and falls into a vacant seat, recovering. She scans the crowd she just escaped from, making sure Niylah hadn’t followed her out, but also searching subconsciously for the other girl she’s gotten closer to throughout the evening. One more dance with her might stretch out the time long enough to get her to midnight, when she can make a final move in the dying moments of the year. She’s so engrossed in her search that it shocks her to hear her own name from the other occupant of the table.
“Clarke Griffin, right?”
It’s a vaguely familiar voice; Clarke puts on her best façade before she turns to greet the person.
And when she does, that façade vanishes with the electric shock that jolts through her body.
“Niylah?”
It is Niylah. The real Niylah. Niylah, from the hospital, instantly recognizable. She stares at Clarke in confusion, her black mask sitting on the table. Black mask, white dress, braids in her hair, just as Lincoln had said…but she is without a doubt not the girl Clarke has been exchanging long looks and drinks and dances with all night. This is the first Clarke has even seen Niylah since she arrived.
“Yeah, I work with Lincoln,” Niylah says slowly, brows furrowed. Her confusion turns to concern as Clarke continues to gape at her as if she grew another head. “Is everything okay?”
Clarke can’t formulate a response. She runs her eyes over Niylah’s short white dress, again and again, and then her mask, trying to look for some similarity that may tell her that Niylah really is the girl she’s been hitting on all night, but she finds none. How did she not recognize it wasn’t Niylah? She doesn’t know how she could have confused them, but as she considers it, the thought screams in her head like a siren: then who’s the girl? Who’s the girl? Who’s the girl? Looking back out to the crowd, she sees no sign of her.
“I’m…I’m fine,” Clarke manages, shaking her head.
“Lincoln told me you there was a chance you were coming tonight,” Niylah says. “I was hoping to see you. Do you want to grab a drink? You look like you could use one.”
The hopeful tone of her voice nearly draws a laugh out of Clarke, the way it turns the whole night on its head. She’d drunkenly come up with a plan and spent the night putting it into action, getting entangled with a mystery girl, only to stumble upon her actual target hours later and have her side step all of Clarke’s grand plans with an easy answer. So there it is: a drink with Niylah, like she’d wanted from the beginning.
She looks over Niylah’s dress and mask one more time, and all she can picture is the other girl.
“I’ll have to pass,” Clarke says, with an apologetic smile. “I just needed a breather…I have to go meet someone.”
Niylah nods earnestly, jumping to her feet and grabbing her mask. “That’s fine! I’m on my way out…I’ll see you at work, then.”
“I’ll see you at work, Niylah.”
As soon as she’s gone, Clarke is on her feet again; decision made, new life in her legs, new determination in her bones. She absolutely does need a drink, as Niylah pointed out, but it’s for fuel, not because she’s so shaken. The last five minutes have brought her back to sobriety like she was dropped into a freezing pool, and now she has less than sixty minutes to get back to where she was and fall back into the embrace of the girl on the dance floor.
Maybe her determination is evident from the way she’s moving, because the bartender notices her from across the room and stands waiting at her approach. Clarke skips a greeting.
“Simple vodka soda,” she says, reaching for her cash.
“Got it. It’s paid for already, by the way.”
“It is?”
“Your Greek goddess. She paid for a drink for you in advance, before she left.”
Clarke’s heart sinks into her stomach. “She left?”
He shrugs. “She seemed like she was on her way out. Had one of the kids with her, he looked exhausted. Still want that drink?”
Even as she deflates, she accepts it, but it’s not long after he whips up a strong vodka soda that Clarke sinks into a nearby chair and loses her taste for the alcohol altogether; she sets it aside and slouches. Defeat. The mystery girl has eluded her. For all her grand plans, the universe will always be grander and tonight, it outsmarted her. Chewing her lip, she looks out across the ballroom, searching for Raven so that maybe they can return to their apartment with what’s left of her dignity and watch the Times Square New Year’s Eve show to end the year.
Then a hand drops onto her shoulder and squeezes; there’s a voice in her ear.
“I have until midnight. Do you want to dance?”
It takes Clarke a full second to react--in that time, her Greek goddess, the mystery girl in the white dress, has already released her and strode past her, toward the dance floor. When she looks over her shoulder to see if Clarke is following, Clarke jumps to her feet and nearly stumbles in her haste to catch up. They make it to the dance floor at the same time and it’s unclear who pulls who but they find themselves in the middle, pressed together, Clarke melting against a body that she has wanted all night.
They have forty-five minutes until the ball drops and the fireworks go up for the New Year. In stark contrast to earlier, the dance floor is dark, the bodies are closer together, and those still standing have drowned their inhibitions and it is exceedingly clear who is going home with whom. That’s just the nature of the late hour of New Year’s Eve. But for Clarke and her mystery girl, the night takes on the added element of the race against time, the desperate furtive attempt to squeeze it all in before midnight, like a clock is ticking to the end of the world and they don’t have anything left to lose but each other. Nothing else matters. They grind into each other and roll to the music, the other girl’s hands on Clarke’s hips and every few seconds her fingers tighten for half a second, as if she wants nothing more than to pull Clarke even closer but she’s trying to resist. Clarke wishes she would give in: the only way they could be closer is if they were to pull each other into a kiss and dance like that.
Twenty minutes to midnight. Clarke wants it more than anything. Her blood rushes in her ears, drowning out even the music. But be it chivalry or trepidation, the other girl won’t kiss her. In one last desperate attempt to get close to her, Clarke circles her arms behind the girl’s neck and pulls her close, brushing her lips over her ear.
“So am I going to find out who you are?” Clarke breathes.
“You don’t know your Greek mythology?” She smirks when they pull away to look at each other, green eyes flashing mischievously when Clarke rolls hers.
“Science was more of my thing.”
The girl arches a brow in appreciation. “So you’re a doctor? You’re young, I haven't met one as young as you.”
“I’m smart,” Clarke says icily, and the girl’s fingers tighten on her hips in both apology and reassurance that she was only joking anyway. “So tell me. Remind me of my Greek mythology.”
“Athena is the goddess of wisdom, arts, literature, and war.” Clarke can’t tell if the flush in her cheeks rises because her heart is pumping like Clarke’s or because she’s embarrassed; Clarke decides she likes either way. “It wasn’t my first choice, but it served its purpose and I feel strangely drawn to it now. And what are you supposed to be?”
“Depends…” And in an act befitting of the final hour of the year, Clarke makes a wild gamble. “Who’s Athena’s lover?”
“She’s a maiden goddess, actually.”
Clarke narrows her eyes beneath her mask, biting her lip. “Meaning no sex, no romance? Is that why you picked her?”
She shakes her head slowly, then leans in to whisper in Clarke’s ear. “The similarity ends far before that.”
Clarke’s breath catches in her throat and she barely gets the next two words out. “Oh really?”
Her response is to pull away from Clarke, letting air rush into the space between them; Clarke dives forward to keep the contact with her body, like it’s a drug, but then she realizes that the girl in the white dress and the black mask with the pretty green eyes has kept her hand entwined with Clarke. She’s tugging her along. Upon this realization, in the same way Clarke melted when their bodies pressed together, all of the resistance melts out of her and she gladly follows this girl off the dance floor and toward a pair of back doors.
*
The hotel hosting the gala is old and certainly grand, but the gardens are not exactly palatial. A meandering path occasionally decorated with a stone bench, a glowing fountain, a small groves of trees and shrubs.
But with the thrill of anonymity, with the alcohol clouding their vision, with the hot prickling feeling of desire rushing through them, the gardens have all the romance and grandeur of a royal estate. The freezing winter air can’t even touch her as the girl leads her down one of these paths, weaving them through the grounds until they’ve disappeared into a grove of trees, out of sight from the hotel and completely alone.
Ahead of her, the girl stops, spins, and lets Clarke’s momentum carry them together and their lips collide.
Despite their frantic rush out to the gardens, their first kiss is gentle and full of sweetness. It's such a shocking shift from the energy of the moment that Clarke gasps into the girl’s mouth; the other girl gives a breathy laugh in return and glides her hands up to pull her closer and Clarke swears she falls a little bit in love.
But as the realization dawns that they finally have one another, after a night of watching and aching and coming just within each other’s orbits before spinning away again, the sweetness doesn't stand in the way of desire long. The long-smoldering embers in her chest ignite and the kiss turns wanting, desperate. It turns hungry. The fingers that had some restraint in the hotel dig into Clarke’s hips now and pull her flush to the other girl’s body as they angle their heads and deepen the kiss, teeth clashing, tongues dipping into open mouths. Her mind goes blank. Her hands take on a life of their own, ghosting up the girl’s back to the hem of dress and latching on there, tugging it down a few inches. And at the suggestion, the other girl whimpers and the way her hips roll makes Clarke go weak in the knees. She can only see this night ending one way: with her doing everything she can to draw that reaction out as many times as possible.
The rolling of her hips doesn't stop. Like they were inside, their bodies begin to move in unison, grinding together, but with a darker and more seductive, dangerous intent. Inspired, Clarke shifts her leg to fit between the other girl’s; at the sudden friction, an obscene moan rips from her throats and she grinds herself down onto Clarke’s thigh. Shivers of pleasure roll through her body in a way that sends them deep into the pit of Clarke’s stomach too.
“God, I've wanted you all night,” Clarke breathes as the girl gasps. In reply, all the girl can do is kiss her.
Her fingers find the zipper on the back of the girl’s dress and everything goes numb when the girl leans into Clarke’s hand, all but begging her to pull it down. All of that smooth skin...
Suddenly, a rising symphony of music and cheering and shouting from inside the hotel reaches them, shattering the otherworldly illusion of their existence and thrusting them back into the present. They pull apart, looking at one another in confusion, until it hits them: midnight. A New Year.
“Happy New Year,” the girl offers, with a smile.
“I don't even know your name,” Clarke says, breathless and close to laughing at the mad rush of it all.
A pause as she too recovers her breath. “Lexa,” she murmurs. “Yours?”
She almost doesn't answer. Somehow, for some inexplicable reason, the named washes over Clarke with familiarity, making her whole soul relax. The feeling is so striking and sudden that it pulls the air from her chest and she has to fight to recover it when she remembers that Lexa asked her a question.
“I'm Clarke.”
A shadow crosses Lexa’s face for a second, a flash of something unnamable. And then, “Happy New Year, Clarke.”
“Happy New Year, Lexa.”
Lexa only has to tilt forward to recapture Clarke’s lips, softly again this time. It's chaste and gentle, far more gentle than the usual kind of New Year’s Eve kisses. Clarke doesn't mind. When Lexa rests their foreheads together, she feels she could stay this way forever.
“You're shivering,” Lexa observes.
Standing still, even wrapped in Lexa’s arms, the cold has started to get to her. “I'm fine,” she whispers against Lexa’s neck, trying to hold steady. She fails. “But I wouldn't mind if we found someplace warmer, more private.”
The quiet laugh Lexa gives is full of regret and that answers Clarke’s unspoken question. Her heart sinks.
"I can't. I don't have long past midnight,” Lexa says, brushing a kiss over Clarke’s cheek.
"Why not?"
"I told you…obligations."
It takes everything she has to keep from groaning, because the vagueness is no longer coy or teasing: it’s a genuine escape route. "They can't wait a half hour?"
"No, they can't.” She sighs heavily and presses her forehead against Clarke’s again. “But I'll see you again."
"How?" Clarke demands.
"I promise."
She kisses her once more, deep, and hard, and it lowers Clarke defenses so much that Lexa is able to pull away before she can protest; by the time Clarke opens her eyes, Lexa’s gone.
*
She doesn't know how much time passes in the garden, but once she's back inside, Clarke finds Raven, somehow. It’s a damn near miracle, in the drunken haze she’s in. Cloudy-eyed and dizzy, she forms only vague memories of Raven calling a cab for them, and falling asleep on Raven’s shoulder on the way home. Raven never asks, and Clarke never breathes a word of it to her.