#this had been sitting in my folders for a while so i finished it ig

[lapislazuli]

a clever mind is fatal

[anakinthetrashking]

Once again, I have batfam brainrot.... Which is what I get for,,, doing basic cooking ig????? No, cooking family recipes just always makes me think of Alfred, bc I always imagine him having a box of handwritten recipe cards, and a basic recipe book with notes in it, and old recipes cut out of the newspaper and just all this loose paper in a folder and stapled together with notes and stuff... And then me while cooking is like, why not make a sideblog called Alfred's kitchen and like,,, recreate that???? (I say recreate but actually it's literally me stealing ideas from my grandma's cookbook ahdkshskk but I don't have the braincells for a sideblog anyway)

Because I mean I have so many Alfred-cooking headcanons and I definitely absorb them from other people too but like, I mean I've talked about them before, it's stuck in my mind that he wanders the grocery store when he's stressed, puzzling through how he can help his family this time, because they go through SO MUCH. And inevitably he runs across another parent or grandparent in the store who immediately recognizes the look in his face as the "stressing and worrying about family" face, and they strike up a conversation with him and he ends up leaving the conversation with new courage and a calm heart and just the right recipe, somehow.... (This is actually in a fic of mine... Link )

And then there's the headcanon that while Bruce was away on his secret Becoming-Batman-World-Tour, he sent so many ingredients and recipes back to Alfred with little notes, because that was his way of saying "I'm thinking of you" and "I miss you" and "I love you". (I have a wip that talks a bit about this... Man I gotta finish that) And while Bruce definitely can't cook, I feel like he's GREAT at writing down recipes just by observing someone making it. Bc he's so observant and detailed he would put in things so exact and yet not be able to recreate it himself 😂 I'm talking, so overly detailed he writes stuff like "stir counter-clockwise 5 times, then clockwise 3 times" etc. And then when he sees Alfred cook and he's not stirring exactly like that but the dish comes out perfectly anyways he's just, SO confused.

I just. I can't help but think of Alfred's notes in the margins that have the calculations already done for doubled recipes, and then tripled as the family grows, and stapled in vegetarian versions for Damian, and maybe, oh gosh I'm gonna cry, but maybe little notes from each of the kids who saw Alfred writing in his cookbook or on notepaper and it's just like, Tiny Child Bruce handwriting because his mom taught him to write thank you notes and so he writes several to Alfred, because Alfred makes him food EVERYDAY! And he always knows exactly what Bruce likes! And of course Alfred saves all of those, and maybe after the Wayne's are gone, Bruce just writes this tiny "Thank You" in the corner of one of the pages that holds the recipe of his favorite food while Alfred's back is turned in the kitchen– and I'm thinking of Robin!Jason spending a lot of time in the kitchen and maybe helping create new recipes or give suggestions and his handwriting is still in the book and maybe that really REALLY hurts for a while, and maybe when Jason finally comes back, maybe he has his own cookbook in his apartment and Alfred returns the favor to write little notes in thwre

And maybe I'm thinking of Tim sitting in the kitchen doing his homework and looking over and seeing all the notes and still being a fanboy at heart and just, softly, oh so softly, tracing his finger over all the little notes in there and wishing that he had something, anything at home that screamed family and love HALF as much as this cookbook and folder of recipes did.

And just– Alfred, organized, put together, but oh so sentimental Alfred, has this messy recipe book and messy folder, with messy notes and stains from being accidentally splattered with something while cooking, and notes in so many different styles of handwriting and different colored pens and pencils, on so many different types of note paper and sticky notes and the backs of receipts,,, and stickers and doodles from Cass... And when Duke shows up, and he catches glimpses of all the notes and he recognizes everyone's handwriting and he's so hesitant because this is obviously a family thing, and he's not really sure if he counts, you know??? But as Alfred is cooking the book gets slid closer to where Duke is sitting and Alfred puts a pen right in his hand before softly patting his arm and saying something so simple like "It's tradition, after all", with that warm look in his eyes and maybe that's the moment that Duke realizes that the barrier he thought was there, in-between being accepted among them as a fellow vigilante and being family just, isn't there, actually. And there's been a lot of moments that led up to that realization but it's the act of putting his own mark on something as simple as their hodgepodge mess of family recipes is what erases that last doubt and he just, relaxes into it. 🥺😭💞

I have a lot of feelings about the Batfam and food, you guys

[excelsi-or]

just a little sweeter (pt. 10)

HELLLLOOOOOOOO~~ are you guys still there? LOL, it’s been like a month and a half since I last posted on here. The end of the semester just really got intense with projects, presentations, and finals. But I’m here and back for at least two weeks. I wanna see if I can bosh out the rest of this series before I move onto another one. 

I hope you’re all well. If you wanna update me on what’s new with you all, I’d love to know. I applied to grad school. I have one more semester left before graduation. Vaccinations have started in my area of the world. I started playing Hollow Knight (if anyone wants to talk about THIS GAME, please do. I love it.) Think that’s kinda it. 

BIPOC reeeeeccccc: N. K. Jemisin’s The City We Became is EXCELLENT. Diversity, racism, feminism, LGBTQ representation. I love it so much. One of my favourite books of the year, hands down. Nicole Crowder on IG does like upholstery and interior DIYs and content. I’ve been wanting to upholster these two chairs in my home and she put up a whole 2 min tutorial on how to do it. 

w.c. 3k (lol, it got really long oops! fluff and mature content, not quite smut, but it was definitely getting there. The first draft of this part was basically just smut, so I chopped and fixed it LOL. hope you guys still like it.)

pt.1; pt.2; pt.3; pt.4; pt.5; pt.6; pt.7; pt.8; pt. 9

“What do you mean you haven’t had sex with him yet?”

She rolls her eyes and sets a bowl in front of her previous roommate. Soobin had moved out months ago, shortly after she’d met Jihoon.

“It’s going really slow.” She slips into the seat across the table. “We haven’t really said I love you yet either.”

“What do you mean ‘haven’t really said’? What? Just ‘cause Woozi’s an idol he doesn’t know how to treat you right?”

She motions for Soobin to tuck into the food. “Jihoon is treating me wonderfully, thank you very much.” She pauses, her chopsticks hovering in the air. “It’s just… slow.”

“He has a whole child!” Soobin chews her noodles as she continues. “You’ve already passed the point of going slow.”

“It’s not as if Eunha is my child.”

“The kid spends more time here than any of our friends or your family.”

“Jihoon’s been busy.” She shrugs. “It’s easier for him to leave Eunha here than take her with him. Plus, you know the Terror likes her.”

Soobin chuckles. “That little horror of a brother of yours likes everyone.”

She smirks. “Okay, fair.” Then she waves her chopsticks between them. “But Eunha’s probably the reason why he’s going slow. We need to see if we’re compatible.” She meets Soobin’s gaze. “The man has a child.”

“It’s been months!” Soobin quickly cuts in before any interruptions. “Seven months to be exact. You would think that the next step at analyzing compatibility is whether you guys vibe in bed.”

She hums. She doesn’t want to admit out loud that yeah, she’s been having fantasies about Jihoon. However, she hasn’t gotten any clear signals from Jihoon that he wants to pursue anything further than making out on her couch after a date. And before she can broach the topic, he’s off to go get Eunha. If Jihoon never wanted to have sex with her, she wonders if that would be a deal breaker. But she really has no idea.

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“Sex? No.”

“So, what do you guys talk about?”

She throws her head back with a laugh. “You say that as if the only thing you and Jae talk about is sex.”

“Well, it came up a lot when we first started dating.”

“That’s because you guys started off having sex.” She sighs, turning her noodles with the tips of her chopsticks. “This relationship is really different. I don’t know how to gauge it.”

“Do you love him?”

“I haven’t told him.”

“But you do.”

“Yeah.”

“And does Eunha put you off wanting to be with him?”

She rests her cheek in her palm. “I honestly thought she would, but she only makes me love him more.”

“Then talking about sex, even if you’re not having it, is the next step.” Soobin gauges her friend’s reaction. “Even if Jihoon is the type not to want it. You should at least know that. He’s obviously done it at one point.”

There’s a pause before they both say, “The child.”

She nods. “You’re right though. We should talk about it.”

Seungcheol knocks on the studio door. “Hey. You needed me?”

Jihoon turns in his chair and nods. “Yeah. I need a second set of ears on this song. Bumzu hyung and Soonyoung are busy.”

Seungcheol nods and falls into the seat next to Jihoon. He notices the book on the desk. It’s been sitting there for a while. “You finish it?”

Jihoon glances at the book. “Oh.” Then, he resumes clicking through the excessive number of files open on his screen. “Yeah.”

And you haven’t returned it?”

“She reads it when she comes over.” Jihoon hands over the headphones and finally catches Seungcheol’s expression. “What? Is there some big meaning behind that too?”

Ever since he started dating, Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and basically everyone in the building has found various meanings in his songs and life that allude to how ‘in love’ he is. He’s not about to tell everyone he’s in love—she doesn’t even know that yet—but not everything going on is about his relationship.

Seungcheol shrugs as he adjusts the headphones on his ears. “You seem to think there isn’t.”

“God.” Jihoon sighs and turns in his chair. He drops his cheek into his palm. “Enlighten me.”

“She’s a big reader and doesn’t like to leave books unfinished. If she’s letting you hold onto it for her, for when she comes over here, that says something.”

“So does leaving my daughter in her care, but we all have something we need taken care of.” He turns back to the screen. “Now, listen to this hook for me.”

Seungcheol settles back into the seat. He bops his head along to the melody until the lyrics play clear in his ears. Wide eyed, he turns to Jihoon and pushes one headphone off his ear. “We’re not putting this on the album, are we?”

Jihoon looks over at him with an eyebrow lifted. “Why not?”

“This is such a… a bedroom… sex song.” Seungcheol shakes his head. “We can’t put this on there.”

Jihoon frowns. “What?” He looks at the file name and feels his cheeks heat up. “Whoa. Not that one.” He quickly closes the file and makes sure that it’s closed. But his checking gives Seungcheol time to see a folder with her name. There’s one for Eunha that none of the boys want to ask about, but his girlfriend? She’s fair game.

“You have a folder of songs for her?” He acts horrified. “And that was one of them?”

Jihoon tries to think of any way out of this conversation and realizes that due to his carelessness, he can’t. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

“How many songs are in there? Do they all sound like that?”

“I refuse to answer those questions knowing that everyone is going to know by tomorrow and it’s already embarrassing that you know about one of them.”

“Hey.” Seungcheol’s voice goes soft. He likes to tease, but he recognizes touchy subjects when he broaches them. “Sorry. I didn’t realize. You know you can talk to me, right?”

Jihoon side eyes him. “I don’t want to admit how I feel about her to you when she hasn’t even heard all the songs on there.”

“What’s the folder for?”

“Just… inspiration.” Jihoon leans back further in his chair. “The songs on the upcoming album have come out of there. At least the less… perverted ones did.”

“There are other songs like that.” Seungcheol tries not to sound too surprised.

Jihoon’s cheeks are so warm that he takes a sip of his iced coffee. “Lately… yeah.”

“Have you…” Seungcheol shakes his head. “No. How could you? You always come home for Eunha.”

At this, Jihoon looks at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well… just that if you guys were having sex, you wouldn’t come straight home to your daughter, would you? Not when all of us would know.” Seungcheol narrows his eyes. “Right?”

Jihoon doesn’t even know how to respond to that except with the truth. “Fine. No. We haven’t yet.”

“Because of her or because of you.”

“Things are going slow. I don’t know… how to broach the topic.”

“Why can’t showing up to her door with passionate kisses be enough?”

“And what? Leave Eunha with you guys overnight?”

“Yeah, why not?”

So, Jihoon does just that and it turns out so much better than he expected.

“Why does this shirt,” he mutters between kisses, “have so many buttons?”

She giggles against his lips and steadies his hands in hers. “You’re excited. Like a child. Calm down.”

Jihoon hums, obsessed with the taste of her lips and her hands around his. She guides him through the motion of unbuttoning her shirt. Once they’re undone, he pulls away slightly. She tips her head. Jihoon is gentle with her shirt, sliding it off her shoulders. Her eyes watch him the entire time, watch him admire her body as the fabric falls to the floor. His hands start from the sides of her thighs up her body, skimming over her underwear, and holding her under the arms, hands right by her breasts.

“You’re really gonna tease,” she chuckles. She closes the distance between them, kissing him and fumbling with his shirt. His shirt is easy, his sweatpants he practically steps out of. It’s once they’re both just standing in their underwear that she stops him.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Jihoon kisses her shoulder and up her neck to the base of her jaw. “Why would I want to stop?”

“Eunha?” she hums. The child’s face is prominent in her mind, but becomes hazy every time Jihoon sucks a spot on her neck.

“She adores you. Which gives me permission to also adore you.”

She smirks, arms wrapping around Jihoon’s neck to force him back to her lips. “I’m glad I pass the test.”

Jihoon scoops her up and carries her to the couch. She gasps in surprise, which forces him away again. Spread along the couch are a lot of her art supplies. When she turns back to him, there’s a grin on her face.

“I wasn’t expecting you to jump me tonight. I was planning to paint, so…”

“Do you want to clean first?” he chuckles.

She shrugs.

Jihoon snorts and picks her shirt up off the floor and hands it to her. As much as he wants to sleep with her, it seems tonight may not be the night. He finds his sweatpants and pulls them on then helps her move her art stuff. He sits on the coffee table while she manoeuvres her piece from the floor to the desk.

“Do you want to paint?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I want to spend time with you.” She moves some stuff to make space for her piece.

“Do you want to teach me to paint?”

She peers over her shoulder at him. “Really?”

“Well, I’m impossible to teach, but I don’t want to leave yet.” Jihoon glances at her bare torso, as she hasn’t bothered to button the top. “And I like the view.”

She rolls her eyes, an amused smile on her face. “Are idols allowed to say stuff like that?”

Jihoon looks around her home. “Unless you have a listening device and turn me in, I’m confident to say how I feel about you.”

A smile blooms on her face at hearing that. She pulls one of her watercolour pads off the desk and motions for him to join her on the floor. She flips past the first two pages, but Jihoon still catches glimpses of them.

He grabs her wrist to stop her. “Were those of Eunha and me?”

“Oh.” She tilts her head and flips back. “Yeah.” The first page is from the night he had come over to learn to cook. The second was their first date.

Jihoon looks to her expectantly and she can only shrug.

“I draw what I like.”

Jihoon doesn’t know why he finds that embarrassing, but his ears feel warm.

She tips her head back in a laugh. “Of everything that’s happened tonight, Jihoonie, I don’t think you need to be embarrassed to hear that I like you.” She returns to the one with Eunha on it and pulls the sheet. “I wanted to give it to you, but I thought maybe it would be creepy if you knew I was painting you and your daughter from memory.”

Jihoon stares at the paintings. He can see Eunha’s expression in them; how happy she had been with the meal and the dessert. If this is what he’d look like that night, he had been extremely relaxed. His finger traces over the skin, amazed at how seamless it appears.

When his eyes lift to meet hers, she seems surprised to see tears.

“What’s wrong?”

Jihoon shakes his head. “Nothing.”

She slides closer to him and her thumb brushes his tears away. “You’re crying.”

Jihoon sighs and his head tips back, as he tries to keep the tears in. “I… it’s just that…” Jihoon’s gaze rests on her again. “No one else has seen Eunha like this. The members do, but they helped me raise her. Which is why sometimes she’s an absolute menace.”

She smiles.

“But…” Jihoon studies the painting, at his baby so beautifully depicted. “I don’t know. This kind of reminds me that maybe I’m doing okay if she looks like this.”

“Jihoon, you’re doing great. She’s happy and she loves you.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m failing her all the time, and…” The tears appear again. “And I feel like I lost some of who I am, because I had her.”

She eases the sheet of paper out of his hands. Jihoon uncrosses his legs so she can move between them, draping her legs over his thighs. Her hands plant on the floor between them as she leans forward to press kisses to his face. His eyes close at the sensation. “Jihoon, she is all you. Your music is who you are. You live and breathe Seventeen. Just because you became a father doesn’t mean you lost any piece of the Jihoon that was there before she existed.”

Jihoon lifts a hand to the back of her neck to pull her closer. Painting is put on the back burner, as they get lost in the feeling of kissing each other. Jihoon’s legs curl behind her to prevent her from moving away. His free hand slips inside her shirt and finds home on her hip. His thumb moves back and forth across the skin there.

Meanwhile, her hands have pulled him as close she can get him, her fingers tangling in his hair. When she gives the hair at the base of his neck a small tug, he groans. This lets her slip her tongue into his mouth. He tastes like her coffee, unsurprisingly enough. And she has to admit, it tastes better on his tongue than in the cup.

She can feel his growing hard on through his sweatpants. When she pulls away to breathe, she asks, “So we’re not painting then?”

Jihoon hums something incoherent, because she latches her lips against his neck.

“Wait,” he breathes.

She slows her assault on his neck, but doesn’t stop.

“No hickies.”

“Simple enough,” she breathes against his skin.

Jihoon finds himself falling back onto the floor as her kisses trail all over his body. Her hands explore every muscle and memorize them. Jihoon enjoys the treatment, his eyes closing while he lets his other sense take over. She wiggles him out of his sweatpants again and then returns to his lips.

“Bed?” She adjusts her body over his, putting pressure against him, which makes it impossible for him to reply.

Jihoon looks up at her and his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. She sucks a spot on the soft skin near his jaw, but stops before it can leave a mark. He manages to roll them over.

“You’re making it really hard to think.”

She slides a leg between his, which seems just enough friction for him to grimace. “You’re thinking with something else.”

“Where’s your bed?”

Her eyes dart to her left. He helps her to standing and then lifts her. Her legs wrap around his waist. If there had been other objects in the way, he would have knocked into all of them, because she starts kissing him again. And it seems like his brain shuts off as soon as she does that. He presses her against her bedroom wall and when he ruts against her, her breath catches.

“So, you are needy.”

“Lee Jihoon, you are literally between my legs,” she manages between kisses. “Yes, I’m needy.”

Jihoon pulls away for a moment. “But you’ve seemed so calm and collected tonight.”

She rolls her eyes and gently kisses his cheeks before saying, “If I was ready to pounce on you when you walked in here, would you have wanted to fuck me?”

Jihoon jumps at the blatant term, but he pivots so that he can lay her on the bed. One of his hand sneaks between her legs, his other arm propping his body over hers, and drags his fingers over the fabric. When she squirms beneath his touch, he says, “Maybe not. But… I’ve wanted this a while.” He meets her gaze. “So I don’t think too much have scared me away tonight.”

Her head tilts back as he begins to rub his fingers in circles. He watches her carefully.

“Stop staring,” her breath hitches, “and kiss me.”

Jihoon smirks. “Make me.”

She snakes a hand behind his head to pull him down towards her. Her kisses stutter depending on the speed of his fingers. His kisses trail down to her neck and nibbles the soft skin on her collar bone. She presses her hands into his shoulders to try to keep her bearings. When he kisses back up her neck and sucks the soft spot of her jaw and she moans something beautiful, he knows that’s a sound he’s going to have in his mind long after this is over.

He slows his fingers down. “How close are you?”

Her breath is heavy; she can’t even answer him. Her rut up into his hand is good indication though.

Two of her orgasms and one of his later, he returns from the bathroom with a washcloth and gently cleans her off. Then he lies on top of her again, her hands go to massage his temples.

“So, you’re going to tell your daughter we… coloured when you came over today?” she teases.

Jihoon rests his cheek against her chest, listening to her heartbeat slowing down after the exertion. “I told her she was staying with the members because I was coming over here for a play date.”

She laughs. “I mean, you’re not wrong.”

Jihoon can’t help but smile as he falls asleep.

[stardstgf]

thank you for tagging me @lyssismagical 💗💗☺️

1. what is your favourite genre to write?

In terms of like novel genres i love young adult fiction and in terms of fanfic anything with hurt and comfort, because it can be so raw and real and ugh i just love it so much.

2. Do you pull inspiration from real life, or do you pull things from other books/fanfiction you’ve read?

yeah! a lot of the one shots i do are kind of loosely based off life experiences (for example, last summer i had a period where i would wake up in the middle of the night and go downstairs for hot chocolate if i couldn’t sleep, which is where the idea from “the day always breaks” comes from 🥰.) I also take a lot of inspiration from tv shows with any sort of whump/ angst in them lol, and lots from books i’ve read.

3. Do you tend to write one-shots, short stories, or longer things?

i kind of alternate between one shots and longer things. i prefer one shots for irondad but when i write stevetony i get so hooked into just starting a multi chapter fic (that i never finish😂). i’ve also been writing a novel over the past few years so ig that is a long thing too?

4. Do you prefer writing description or dialogue?

description. oh my god, description. if anyone has read my stevetony fics especially, you will KNOW i’m a bit of a slut for a really wordy description😂 my biggest writing struggle is trying to keep it concise but also put lots of description in there 😂

5. Favorite fic/book of all time?

i have... two irondad. okay number one is “we all chase after a few dying stars” by @losingmymindtonight because that fic just... i connected with it in a way that i’ve never connected with writing before. also Peter’s Stars by @parkrstark just. i love that fic so much, literally with my entire soul. if i started picking my fave stevetony fics we could be here a while so i’ll just... not.

6. Favorite trope?

Tony playing with Peter’s hair. (please i would die for that trope) and also the nightmare trope for both stevetony and irondad and also. the kidnapping trope. because the angst possibilities are ENDLESS.

7. Are you the kind of person to work on more than on wip?

*glances at my 39 unfinished wips thay are sitting in a google docs folder, all various degrees of completed* um-

8. How long have you been writing?

literally as long as i can remember. i’ve been doing short stories at school for years. i’ve been writing fanfic since i was 12 (it’s on wattpad and no i’m not giving my usernam here) but i’ve been writing fanfic on ao3 for just under a year now :)

10. Do you prefer to post and update your wip chapter by chapter or wait until it’s 100% complete before sharing it?

I would love it if i had the patience to wait for it all to be done (trying to do that with a stevetony fic i’m writing and it’s HARD) but i genuinely need the validation as i go along otherwise i never finish anything 😂😂 i think it just depends on the story lol.

thank you again for the tag, this was fun :) idk if you have already done it, feel free to ignore if you have lmao but i’m tagging @parkrstark @coconutknightshade @akillerqueenwrites @searchingforstarss and anyone else who wants to do it 💗💗💗

[almostafantasia]

tenderly, tragically, beautifully

Summary: In which bad things happen to the people who deserve them the least and Lexa learns that although cancer can be treated, the scars it leaves behind take much longer to heal.

Read on AO3.

Trigger warning: Clarke has cancer in this fic but it’s non-terminal and she doesn’t die. There’s a fair amount of angst though.

She feels as though every pair of eyes is watching her from the moment that she steps through the school gates. Which is just paranoia at its absolute finest because the reality is that not a single person is actually looking at her, but with the very obvious way in which the other kids are deliberately trying not to stare at her as she walks up to the red brick school building, Clarke might as well have a giant flashing sign above her head.

A giant flashing sign reading this kid has cancer, with a vertical neon arrow pointing down at her.

Clarke knows that they all know. Even if Raven hadn’t already filled her in on everything that happened while she was in the hospital, this is high school so gossip spreads faster than a race car speeding around an asphalt track.

“Yo.”

Raven makes an unnecessarily loud entrance, clattering into the row of lockers beside Clarke’s and dropping her shoulder bag to the floor with an unceremonious thud. It catches the attention of those nearby, but upon realising that Clarke is there, those heads quickly turn away for fear of being caught staring.

“Everyone’s treating me like I’ve got a deadly virus. It’s cancer, it’s not contagious!”

She raises her voice with this last bit, startling the group of freshman boys who cross to the other side of the corridor in order to give Clarke a wide berth as they pass.

“Clarke,” Raven hisses, resting a comforting hand on Clarke’s shoulder.

“I’ve been here for two minutes and I already wish I was back in that stupid hospital,” Clarke complains through clenched teeth, taking a heavy textbook out of her bag and throwing it into her locker with slightly more force than actually necessary.

“They probably all heard the word ‘cancer’ and assume that you’re on your deathbed,” muses Raven.

“I’m not.”

“I know,” Raven agrees, as she reaches out to give Clarke’s fingers a reassuring squeeze with her own. “You’re going to be fine, you’ve just got a few shitty cells in your body.”

“John Murphy’s got more shitty cells in his body,” Clarke comments, as the shaggy-haired boy saunters past the two girls with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, giving Clarke the side-eye as he passes.

“Well unlike Murphy, your shitty cells are going to be killed by the chemo. He’s stuck with his for life.”

Clarke appreciates what Raven is trying to do, but that doesn’t mean that it works. As grateful as she is for her best friend’s insistence that she’s going to survive this new obstacle in her life, it doesn’t really detract from the fact that she has months of having her body pumped full of chemicals to get through first.

“Raven…”

“What? I’m just letting you know that I’m sticking by you no matter what.” With a wicked smile, Raven adds, “I’ll always be your best friend, even when you go bald.”

“Oh god, don’t remind me,” Clarke whines, shutting her locker and turning around to lean against it dramatically.

“You finish treatment just before Thanksgiving, right?”

“Yes,” Clarke nods, wondering in which unpredictable direction Raven’s train of thought is heading this time.

“So you’ll be rocking the cutest pixie cut in town by Christmas.”

Clarke lets herself imagine it for just a second. She hasn’t had her hair shorter than shoulder length since a disastrously bad haircut at the age of ten, but when she pictures herself with much shorter hair, barely long enough to curl ever so slightly around her ears and the top of her neck, she smiles slightly. Mostly at the realisation that with virtually no hair to have to deal with each morning before school, she’ll be able to get out of bed a whole fifteen minutes later than usual, but also at the thought that with minimal effort and a bit of strategically placed styling cream, she can probably make herself look hot as fuck.

“Thanks Raven,” Clarke smile gratefully.

But Raven’s brain is always moving way faster than Clarke is able to keep up with and she’s already onto the next thing.

“Hey, do you think the chemo is going to give you superpowers? Wouldn’t it be awesome if you got x-ray vision or invisibility or something even cooler?”

“Raven…”

Class is weird. Raven walks her to the door of her classroom like a mother dropping her young child off for the first day of kindergarten, and when Raven departs with a final wave over her shoulder, Clarke feels exactly like that scared five year old, out of her depth in a world that seems far too big for her.

It’s pretty much exactly the same routine in the classroom as it was out in the school corridors, except that now, in this more confined space, Clarke can’t really do much to pretend she hasn’t noticed how everybody is behaving around her. Each pair of eyes fall onto her as she passes, then glance away when they realise who has just walked by.

And then the hushed muttering starts. Clarke’s classmates must be seriously misinformed about the symptoms of cancer if they think that she isn’t able to hear the whispering as she makes her way to her usual seat on the far side of the classroom.

As the clock on the wall just above the teacher’s desk slowly ticks away towards the start of another day at school, the desk next to Clarke remains empty. Finn Collins, the desk’s former occupant, who Clarke is ninety-five percent certain was flirting with her in the few weeks leading up to the discovery of the tumour in her back, has moved to a previously empty seat in the back row next to Atom. It’s too much of a coincidence for Clarke to blame this on anything but the cancer. Who would want to flirt with her when there are plenty of other much prettier, much healthier girls in the school to flirt with, all of whom are still going to have a full head of hair in a few months’ time?

“Hey.”

Ten minutes into her first day back at school and already so used to being treated like a bomb that is waiting to go off, Clarke actually startles in her seat a little bit when the girl in the seat in front of her turns around to say hello.

“Oh, hi Lexa!”

Lexa Woods was Clarke’s elementary school best friend until the two of them slowly drifted apart as they grew up and their interests changed. Not to say that they no longer get along, but that they move in different circles now, with nothing more than a polite smile if they pass in the school corridors.

Until now.

“This is for you.”

Clarke’s eyes widen in surprise, then her entire face twists into a confused frown as Lexa places a thick ring-binder down on Clarke’s desk, upon which lies an envelope.

“Um, thanks,” Clarke replies tentatively, picking up the envelope and sliding her finger into the small gap at the edge to tear it open and remove its contents.

It’s just a card, white with pastel coloured butterflies surrounding the embossed words ‘thinking of you’ in a pretty cursive font. Surprised, Clarke flips it open to read the message inside.

Dear Clarke,

Wishing you all the best over the coming months for a speedy recovery.

Lots of love, Lexa xx

It’s pretty much exactly the same as the twenty other cards she has at home from various relatives and friends of the family, empty words that don’t really detract from the potentially life-threatening illness that resides in her body, but it somehow means so much more coming from Lexa than from anybody else. Coming from Lexa, who could quite easily have done exactly the same as Finn and everybody else in this godforsaken school and blatantly avoided having to go anywhere near the girl with cancer.

“And this is everything that you missed while you were in hospital,” Lexa continues, opening the folder to display the thick wad of handwritten notes inside, neatly colour-coded and underlined and separated into subjects by labelled dividers.

“Lexa, what the…?”

“You missed two weeks of school and you must be really behind in all your classes so I wrote out my notes again so that you could have a copy,” Lexa explains hurriedly, a pink flush rising to sit on her sharp cheekbones. “If there’s anything you don’t understand when you read through it, I’d be more than happy to go over it with you.”

“Lexa,” Clarke sighs, feeling a rush of affection for her former best friend as she flicks through page after page of Lexa’s impeccable handwriting, laid out under clear capitalised titles and broken up with nearly drawn diagrams and tables. “You shouldn’t have.”

“It was good revision for me,” Lexa shrugs, as if the gesture is insignificant.

“Wait,” frowns Clarke, as she reaches one of the coloured dividers and enters a different subject, “do you even take Chemistry?”

“No, but I know Monty through the debate club so I borrowed his notes and copied them out,” Lexa answers. “They might not make much sense because I didn’t understand a lot of it but I’m sure that Monty would be able to explain it if you need help…”

“Lexa, this must have taken you hours…”

“Yeah, well you’ve got cancer, it’s the least I can do to help.”

The word hits Clarke like a fist in the gut. It’s been two weeks since the diagnosis, two weeks where Clarke’s mind has been consumed with nothing but that one singular word going around and around in her mind until she’s half crazy. But Clarke realises that maybe the problem is that the word has only been in her head since the diagnosis – nobody around her has been brave enough to say the word aloud since the doctor who gave her the bad news two weeks ago. Even her mother, a doctor herself, skirts around the word at home, as if saying it out loud makes the whole situation far too real to comprehend.

It’s just a word, it shouldn’t hurt so much.

Except that it’s not just a word anymore, it’s a way of life. It’s chemicals being pumped into her body, and being ignored by even those who used to flirt with her, and the inescapable unsettling worry that despite the assurances of the oncology nurse, maybe she isn’t going to make it to the other end of this ordeal with her life.

“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” Lexa’s voice pulls Clarke out of her thoughts with a lurch, and she shakes her head to focus herself back in the real world.

“No, it’s just…” Clarke tries to explain, her voice just a croak as she tries to push past the lump that forms in her throat. “It’s still quite new to me.” Trying to articulate aloud for the first time, Clarke continues, “It’s weird because it’s all I think about but it still takes me by surprise sometimes. I’m so used to everybody skating around it like they want to pretend that it’s not happening, so it surprised me how forward you were.”

“Sorry,” Lexa mumbles, bowing her head apologetically. “I shouldn’t have…”

Reaching out a hand to touch Lexa’s shoulder in reassurance, Clarke says, “Lexa, it’s fine, I…”

But she doesn’t get the chance to finish. The classroom door clatters open as the teacher enters to start the lesson, and within an instant Lexa is facing the front once more with wide, attentive eyes.

The teacher’s eyes scan the classroom as his voice fills the room to get their attention, but he stumbles mid-sentence when he spots Clarke in their midst. There’s a moment that feels like an eternity, a moment in which Clarke knows the teacher is trying to decide whether to acknowledge Clarke’s return to his class, a moment in which Clarke wants nothing more than to melt into the hard plastic chair as if she has never even been here at all, but then it passes, and the class continues as if nothing has happened.

As if Clarke doesn’t have cancer.

But she does.

“Lexa,” Clarke hisses, when the teacher turns his attention to the computer and pulls up a powerpoint presentation for the lesson. Lexa turns around to frown inquisitorially at Clarke, who forces the resentment out of her mind and the sadness from her eyes as she smiles gratefully at her former best friend. “Thanks for the notes.”

Lexa thinks about it a lot, probably way more than she should think about somebody who she so rarely speaks to these days, but it really plays on her mind. Why somebody so young, somebody with such a bright future, somebody with so much joy and happiness and vitality should get diagnosed with cancer when there are so many bad people in this world that it could happen to instead.

It sucks, and Lexa isn’t even the one with cancer.

She almost wishes that she was. And yes, she knows that’s a terrible thing to think and that she should be grateful for her own good health, but it’s the truth. If there was a medical procedure that could suck the illness from Clarke’s body and transfer it to her own, then that’s exactly what Lexa would do. Clarke has everything; a big friendship group full of nice people that nobody in their year group seems to dislike, good grades, good looks, and an aspiration to be a doctor. Lexa, meanwhile, feels as though she has nothing in comparison - only a few people that she would consider friends, two parents who somehow manage to straddle the line between loving her too much and not loving her enough, and an unhealthy dose of anxiety. It should be her that has the cancer, but instead there seems to be an unjust system of reverse karma in place, where bad things happen to good people.

There are bad people in the world, and there are good people. And then there is Clarke. Clarke, who is so good and pure that Lexa isn’t entirely convinced that she isn’t an actual angel reincarnated in human form. Clarke, who on the second day of kindergarten, helped a tearful and bruised Lexa back to her feet after being pushed to the ground by John Murphy, then declared them to be best friends for life, though only after kicking Murphy in the balls for hurting Lexa in the first place.

Nobody deserves to be diagnosed with cancer less than Clarke.

Lexa almost wonders if Clarke’s illness is karma punishing her. Perhaps fate is saying a massive fuck you to her, not to Clarke, by forcing her to stand by helplessly as the girl she loves suffers. Because there is absolutely no doubt that Lexa does love Clarke. She’s known it for about a year, though she’s probably loved her since the day that six year old Clarke offered out a hand to help Lexa get back to her feet.

But what hurts the most is knowing that there’s absolutely nothing she can do to help Clarke, nothing she can do but sit by and watch as Clarke’s health deteriorates and the side effects of chemotherapy kick in.

Lexa has never felt more helpless.

Lexa almost doesn’t recognise the girl who walks into class the following Thursday morning with bright pink hair. Nothing has changed other than the hair colour – she wears the same worn out jacket she’s owned since freshman year, the same slightly pitiful frown that’s been on her face since the diagnosis a couple of weeks ago – and yet the vibrant pink that frames Clarke’s face makes it seem like she’s an entirely different person from the girl with the beautiful golden tresses that Lexa has known for most of her life.

“Clarke!” Lexa gapes, as Clarke drops into the seat beside her, Lexa having moved back a row now that Finn Collins has taken up his new seat at the very back of the classroom. “I – wow!”

Though Lexa, quite deliberately so, does not ask for an explanation for Clarke’s sudden and drastic makeover, Clarke gives her one anyway, as if she feels like she has to justify her new fashion choice.

“I’ve always wanted to dye it,” she shrugs, reaching up with one hand to play with a single pink curl, “and I might not have hair for too much longer so it seemed like as good of a time as any to get it done.”

As Clarke glances away, a brief moment of sadness passing across her face as she does so, Lexa’s insides lurch unsettlingly at the thought of Clarke’s hair falling out against her will. She quickly remembers that Clarke will be taking the day off school tomorrow for the first of many chemotherapy treatments, which explains the unexpected change of hair colour mid-week, and just tries to imagine for a second how terrified Clarke must be at the prospect of going into hospital for such a daunting treatment.

Lexa flails silently for a moment, wondering what, if anything at all, she can say that might ease Clarke’s mind ahead of her hospital visit but nothing comes to mind that won’t do more harm than good. Lexa settles instead for saying something a little different.

“The pink really suits you.”

Eyes wide with surprise as she lifts her head to look up at Lexa, as if she hadn’t been expecting the compliment at all, Clarke softly mumbles, “Thanks,” before reverting back into a glum silence for the rest of class.

Clarke’s absence on Friday, despite her only sharing a couple of classes with Lexa, feels somewhat akin to Lexa having to spend the day without one of her arms. She’s a mess for pretty much the whole day, distracted with pondering thoughts of where Clarke is, of what the doctors will be doing to her, and of hoping that none of it is as bad as the scary word chemotherapy makes it all sound.

When she arrives home from school that afternoon, Lexa collapses on her bed with her phone in her hand, the screen unlocked and opened on a message conversation with Clarke, but she hesitates with her thumb hovering over the keyboard before she sends anything. Nothing that comes to mind quite seems right for the situation - casual well-wishes seem too impersonal and asking how the treatment went seems far too invasive and unsympathetic.

Lexa exits the conversation and locks the phone with a sigh, shaking her head in dissatisfaction. She wants to be there for Clarke, she really does, but there’s no class at school for how to be a good friend to somebody with cancer and it’s not really something that Lexa can do on intuition alone.

She decides, forty minutes later and after some assistance from her mom, on a simple Facebook post; an old photo of the two of them with their arms around each other and toothy grins on their faces at Clarke’s eighth birthday party, which she captions “Found this looking through some old stuff - partners in crime since kindergarten!” and then tags Clarke in it. Nothing fancy. It’s simple, it’s irrelevant, and it will hopefully let Clarke know that Lexa has been thinking about her all day.

She definitely doesn’t spend the next few minutes eagerly refreshing her new feed, waiting for a notification that lets her know that Clarke has seen the post.

It never comes.

She doesn’t know what she was expecting, if not a comment then perhaps at least a like, but each time the little red bubble pops up in Lexa’s notifications, it is with somebody else’s name and not Clarke’s. A selection of school friends like the post, both from their high school and old friends who knew the girls back around the time that the photo was taken. Some names are ones that Lexa doesn’t recognise, presumably friends of Clarke’s from elsewhere. Octavia Blake reacts to the post with a red heart that Lexa wishes came from Clarke instead.

The first comment is from Raven; “Double denim? Griffin, you were such a style icon!”

It hurts more than it should, two minutes later, when Lexa’s post remains unacknowledged but the little blue thumb icon appears underneath Raven’s comment with Clarke’s name next to it.

Clarke is back at school on Monday morning, almost as if she was never gone. There’s no indication that she missed a day of classes for the first of many life-saving medical treatments, no missing hair, no hospital gown or big sign around Clarke’s neck saying I had chemo. And Lexa curses herself for even thinking that things would be different.

(She decides that Clarke’s pale skin and tired eyes are just a figment of the imagination that is looking for something different in Clarke’s appearance.)

“Hey,” Lexa greets Clarke in their first class of the day. “How was the … uh, the treatment?”

Raising a single eyebrow at Lexa, Clarke replies, “You can call it chemo. That’s what it is.”

“Sorry,” apologises Lexa, feeling the mild burn along her cheekbones that is no doubt accompanied by a pinkening of the skin there. “I’m just new to all of this.”

She regrets the words the very second that they leave her mouth. The way that Clarke’s face falls, disappointment filling her blue eyes as her brow knits into a furrowed frown, is enough to inform Lexa that what she has just said was insensitive on every level.

“You’re new to this?” Clarke asks, her voice soft but laced with bitterness.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” Lexa says dejectedly. “That was insensitive of me.”

Lexa is more disappointed in herself that she would care to admit. She’s spent more than a little bit of time this weekend on her laptop, googling questions like what to say to a friend with cancer and the overwhelming number one piece of advice she could find was to not make it about herself and how she feels about Clarke’s diagnosis. And yet, all that research is for nothing as she lets herself down within the first thirty seconds.

“It’s fine,” Clarke assures her, though Lexa can’t help but feel that this isn’t fine at all, nor will it ever be until Clarke’s treatment finishes and she gets the all clear in however many months’ time. “I get it, you want help but don’t know how. The best thing you can do is to just act normal.” Lexa nods along earnestly as Clarke reaches out a hand and rests it tenderly on Lexa’s forearm, before continuing. “And Lexa, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. You’re treating me like a human, not like a time bomb. That’s more than I can say for most of the rest of the assholes in this school.”

“I’m sorry,” Lexa attempts to apologise a final time, but the arrival of the teacher for the start of the lesson means that she isn’t given the chance to take her apology any further.

“By all means, come on in,” Clarke says to Raven, pushing open her bedroom door as she leads her best friend inside. “But fair warning, it looks and smells like a hospital.”

Clarke wrinkles her own nose as she steps into her bedroom, the nasty smell of cleaning product invading her nostrils. Her bedroom doesn’t really feel like home much at the moment, the various medications prescribed to her for combatting the side effects of chemo scattered haphazardly across all available surfaces in the room. The smell, despite her desperate pleas, comes from her mother’s insistence of giving the room a thorough disinfect almost every other day so that Clarke doesn’t catch anything while her immune system is reduced.

“Jesus Christ,” Raven blanches as she follows Clarke into the room, lifting her hand up to her face to cover her nose and mouth. “Do you not have any air freshener?”

“I’ve asked my mom to get me some,” Clarke answers. “She insists on keeping this place spotless. I’m already sick, a few germs isn’t going to do any harm.”

Raven’s hand reaches out to Clarke’s, her fingers clasping around Clarke’s wrist to get her full attention.

“Hey. No. Mama G is a medical professional, you listen to what she has to say, okay?”

“Jesus, Raven,” Clarke whines, dropping onto the bed with a plop that rumples the freshly washed sheets. “Are you my mom now?”

Raven launches herself belly first onto the mattress next to Clarke, propping her head up with one elbow as she sends a wicked smile in Clarke’s direction.

“Shut up,” says Raven, rolling over onto her back, where she steals half of the pillows and cushions that decorate Clarke’s double bed and sets them up against the headboard behind her. “Are we gonna watch a movie or what? It’s so awesome that you’ve finally got a TV in your room.”

Shrugging and reaching for the remote control that sits on top of a pile of untouched pamphlets from the hospital, Clarke points it at the brand new television that sits on top of the dresser against the opposite wall and says, “Cancer perks.”

The end of the school year and the start of the summer break between Clarke’s junior and senior years of high school comes around two weeks later, shortly after her second chemotherapy appointment, and Clarke has never been more grateful to have a couple of months off school.

She can already feel some of the changes in her body – most notable is just how lethargic she’s starting to feel. Clarke has always been the number one advocate for power naps but since starting the treatment, she’s found herself passing out pretty much everywhere, including in class, though two hours of calculus on a Monday morning is probably enough to send anybody to sleep.

The other thing is her hair. It hasn’t started to fall out yet, not properly, but Clarke has started to notice a bit of thinning. Each pull of her hairbrush through the newly-dyed pink hair tugs strands out from her scalp that get caught around the bristles of the brush and when she showers, there is slightly more hair than usual to pull out of the drain at the end. It isn’t noticeable in the mirror yet, but Clarke knows that the worst part – when actual clumps of her hair start falling out in uneven patches across her scalp – is almost imminent, and she’s grateful that she won’t have to go to school during this in-between stage.

Lexa is thankful for the arrival of the summer break. Junior year has been a lot of work and she knows that her final year at high school will be even more tiring. As much as she’s looking forward to throwing herself headfirst into another year of challenging schoolwork and college applications, the two months she has before that to mentally and physically rest is exactly what she needs right now.

And yet, three days after the last day of school, she finds herself already missing the crowded corridors and the uncomfortable plastic chairs.

Well, maybe not those, per se.

She finds herself missing Clarke.

Their friendship is by no means rekindled to the level that it was at before they started drifting apart in middle school, but Lexa likes to think that they’ve reached the point once more where they can text each other and make social plans without it being weird.

Clarke, on the other hand, seems to disagree.

Lexa Are you free today? We could catch a movie or get lunch if you like! Or something else, I’m open to suggestions.

Clarke I’m pretty tired actually. Think I’m just gonna stay at home.

Not yet disheartened, Lexa is already prepared with another suggestion that might suit Clarke a little better.

Lexa I could come over and we could watch something at yours?

Clarke I think I just want to sleep tbh

Lexa tries to think of something to say, anything to let Clarke know that she’s always going to be welcome to hang out with Lexa later, but everything she tries typing out just falls flat. She doesn’t want to seem needy, doesn’t want to force Clarke to exert herself any more than she’s physically capable of doing right now, doesn’t want to make Clarke feel guilty for the way that the side effects of the chemotherapy are inhibiting their social interactions.

She just wants Clarke to know that she isn’t alone.

Lexa No problem!

Clarke stands in front of the mirror and adjusts the beanie on her head for what is probably the hundredth time in the last ten minutes.

“You look good,” Raven says. “Don’t worry about it.”

Except that Clarke is worried. Because Octavia is throwing a party tonight and Clarke has been coerced (by Octavia, by Raven, even by her own mother) into attending and it’s the first time she’s left the house for anything other than a hospital visit in the three weeks since school finished. And the first time in almost as long that Clarke has worn anything except for pyjamas.

Not to mention the fact that it’s the debut of her new hairstyle. If you can even call a patchy buzzcut a hairstyle. Hence the beanie.

“Are you sure people aren’t going to notice?” asks Clarke, turning to look at Raven, who is sprawled across Clarke’s bed, playing on her phone as Clarke gets ready.

Pushing herself up into a seated position, Raven grins up at Clarke and answers, “The only thing people are going to notice is how hot you look. Because damn girl.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not,” Raven insists, shaking her head. “Everybody is going to wish they were you.”

Clarke arches an eyebrow, because she’s pretty certain that there is not a single person in the world who would want to be a kid with cancer.

Raven doesn’t miss the look that Clarke shoots her and she jumps up to her feet, crossing the room to stand beside Clarke as they both look at Clarke’s reflection in the mirror.

“You’re hot,” Raven tells Clarke again. “The colours really suit you, your tits look great in that shirt, and you’re totally rocking that beanie. Fuck the cancer, you’re awesome!”

And for just a moment, Clarke believes it.

Parties aren’t always Lexa’s thing. She not a huge drinker, nor does she like big crowds of people, not to mention the fact that she doesn’t fall into the right social circles to get invited to most of the parties thrown by the kids in her year at school.

But for some reason Octavia Blake, who has never taken the time to talk to Lexa much off the soccer pitch that they share during training for the women’s varsity team, personally insisted that Lexa just had to come along to the party that she’s throwing tonight.

It’s not Lexa’s scene at all. Music thumps from two loudspeakers positioned on either side of the living room, questionable drinks are being poured into cups from a large keg being manned by Octavia’s college-aged brother, and sweaty bodies are crammed into every corner of the Blakes’ small house. But Lexa doesn’t get invited to parties often and she’s determined to at least try to enjoy this one.

(Her attendance has absolutely nothing to do with the possibility that tonight might be the first time she sees Clarke since school finished for the summer. Nothing.)

There’s a big shout from the already quite tipsy Octavia when Raven arrives at the party, and Lexa’s eyes desperately squint towards the door for Clarke.

And there she is.

Oh boy.

Lexa doesn’t know if it’s the jungle juice catching up with her or if the sight of Clarke entering the room behind Raven is really that mesmerising, but her head starts to swim a little bit. Clarke looks a little thinner than before, a little more tired, but Lexa hardly notices that because Clarke is still just as beautiful as ever. There’s a dark gray beanie pulled over her head, hiding her hair (or lack of it, as Lexa quickly realises may be the case), but it just emphasises everything else. The sharp plane of Clarke’s jaw. The blue in Clarke’s haggard eyes. The dip of the neckline on Clarke’s rather revealing tank top.

Jesus Christ, when did Lexa become so fucking gay.

Lexa’s heart is racing, and the only thing that stops her from passing out, or from locking herself in a quiet and soundproof room for the duration of the party, is that Clarke has an expression on her face that matches the same startled-slash-terrified feeling that Lexa has too.

And so Lexa pushes her own anxiety aside and makes it her main aim to make Clarke feel as comfortable as possible in this scary new environment. Lexa takes a sip from her drink for courage, then plasters a smile on her face as she pushes through the crowd to cross the room and welcome Clarke.

“Clarke!” Lexa beams, her smile genuine as she throws her arms around Clarke’s neck in a greeting. “I didn’t know if you’d be here tonight.”

Lexa didn’t know, but she hoped.

“Yeah, Raven came to my house and basically dragged me out of bed,” Clarke shrugs. “Also, my mom threatened to cut off the wifi at home if I didn’t leave the house. She’s worried I’m becoming a recluse. I swear parents are supposed to worry about kids going to wild parties and getting involved in underage drinking and sex, but apparently when you get cancer they actively encourage it.”

“Then why are you complaining?” Lexa teases Clarke. She gestures towards the kitchen, then asks, “Do you want something to drink?”

Clarke squints at the plastic cup in Lexa’s hand, inspecting its contents with a wary gaze, before she answers, “Sure. Why not?”

Clarke’s hand seeks her own so that they don’t get separated as they slowly navigate their way through the mass of drunk teenagers, and Lexa tries to ignore the erratic pounding of her heart in her chest and the feeling of Clarke’s warm palm against her own. It’s stupid to get so worked up about such meaningless platonic intimacy, but this is Clarke, who gets Lexa’s pulse racing by just looking at her. Lexa knows that being with Clarke in that way is beyond her wildest dreams, but even an act as simple as having Clarke’s hand squeezing her own as she leads Lexa towards the kitchen, is more than Lexa thinks she deserves.

“Are you having another?” Clarke asks, when they make it to the keg where Bellamy is pouring his homemade concoction into plastic cups and distributing it to the teenagers that surround him.

Lexa glances down at the cup in her hand and takes a moment to think, before knocking bag the dregs at the bottom and nodding as she passes it across to Bellamy for a refill.

“So,” says Clarke, when they both have their drinks, leading the way out of the kitchen and through the glass doors into the back yard, where the music is quieter and the air much cooler than the warmth indoors that feels heavy with the scent of cheap alcohol and teenage sweat. “You seemed surprised to see me here tonight, but I’ve never seen you at a party before.”

“Yeah, parties aren’t usually my thing.”

They reach the far side of the yard, where a rusty swing set stands under the branches of a tall oak tree, and Clarke sits on the seat, looping one of her arms around the chain to keep herself steady, while Lexa stands nearby.

“What’s different about tonight?” asks Clarke.

“Octavia was very persuasive,” replies Lexa. She takes a quick swig of her drink for courage, and then continues, “And I was hoping you’d be here. I wanted to see you. To know that you’re doing okay.”

The cover of the darkness, lit only by the crescent moon ad a few twinkling stars in the sky, does a good job of hiding the blush that rises to Lexa’s cheeks when she confesses that seeing Clarke was a motivator for pushing herself beyond her usual comfort zone.

“I’ve been bad at replying to your messages,” says Clarke. “And I’m sorry for that. Sometimes I just don’t have any energy and then I forget and…”

“No!” Lexa protests quickly, holding up a hand to stop Clarke before she can apologise any further. “You don’t have to say sorry. I probably text you way too much.”

“I like that you message me,” Clarke says in a soft voice. “It’s nice that you think of me.”

“Of course I think about you,” says Lexa, laughing softly under her breath, because there is hardly a moment that goes by where Lexa isn’t thinking about Clarke, even subconsciously. “You’re … I mean, you’re you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Clarke asks, an inquisitive smile on her face.

Lexa’s cheeks burn in embarrassment and she’s grateful that it’s late enough that the shroud of darkness hides her red-tinged cheeks.

“You’ve always been special,” Lexa shrugs as she answers, avoiding eye contact with Clarke out of fear that she’ll fluster and stumble over her words. “You were my first friend in Kindergarten. Do you remember that?”

“I do,” replies Clarke, and when Lexa finally looks up, it is to find Clarke grinning fondly at the memory. “Murphy pushed you over and I kicked him in the balls.”

“My hero,” says Lexa, mockingly fluttering her lashes in Clarke’s direction.

“God, even back then you were an adorable nerd,” Clarke teases, taking a swig from the plastic cup in her hand.

“Wait, you think I’m adorable?”

“I don’t think I said that,” Clarke denies resolutely, though Lexa can see that she’s trying to fight a smile that gives away the truth.

“You definitely said that,” insists Lexa.

“I also called you a nerd,” Clarke reminds Lexa matter-of-factly.

“Yes, but that’s old news.”

They fall into silence, and as Clarke gently pushes herself back and forth on the swing with her feet against the lawn, all Lexa can see are flashes of memories from years past, of two small girls chasing each other around the nearby playground and seeing who can fly the highest on the swings before losing their nerve.

“I’ve missed this,” says Lexa, smiling to herself at the memory. “Missed us.”

“So have I,” agrees Clarke, scraping her feet against the grass to bring herself to a standstill. “We should do this more often. Hang out, I mean. If you’d like to.”

Lexa’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Yeah, I … I’d love to!”

Lexa can’t remember why she was ever so worried about coming to this party in the first place.

The thing about promises is that they are easy to make and even easier to break. So when Clarke and Lexa promise to spend more time together, to rekindle a friendship that has been not much more than a pile of ashes since middle school, it’s far too easy to just let things continue how they did before the party.

It’s not that Lexa doesn’t try. Because she does. She sends Clarke occasional messages, links to things she’s seen online that she’s found funny, photos of the mundane happenings in her day to day life, little anecdotes that she thinks Clarke might enjoy. And Clarke replies most of the time, but it’s very rarely more than a one word answer or a laughing face emoji. When it is something more, the conversation fades out within the two or three messages after that.

Lexa tries her best not to push Clarke, because as much as she wants Clarke’s friendship to be the same permanent fixture in her life that it used to be, she also knows that Clarke is having a difficult enough time right now without having to fend off the unwanted attention of a former best friend who has a massive fucking crush on her.

When three weeks have passed since the party, three weeks since they promised to spend a little bit of time together, three weeks in which virtually nothing has changed since before their conversation at the party, Lexa decides to attempt to initiate a face-to-face meeting.

Lexa Woods Do you want to hang out later? We could have a movie night? You wouldn’t even have to leave your bed!

She doesn’t have to wait long for Clarke’s reply.

Clarke Griffin Yeah, might be fun

Lexa Woods Cool! I’ll bring popcorn! What time do you want me to come over?

And that’s it. There isn’t a reply to that message. Lexa checks her phone over and over again, just in case she has accidentally missed the ping of her text tone, but there’s still nothing. She assumes that Clarke has fallen asleep, that her message goes unanswered for a completely legitimate reason, but Lexa soon starts to second guess herself and doubt begins to creep into her mind.

Maybe Clarke doesn’t want to hang out with her.

Maybe Lexa is being too pushy.

No, Lexa tells herself. Clarke likes you. Clarke wants to spend time with you. It’s not her that’s pushing you away, it’s the cancer.

With that in mind, Lexa slips into her shoes, grabs a jacket, and decides to head over to Clarke’s house.

When Lexa arrives at the Griffin house, she is nervous.

Nervous that Clarke won’t be in the mood for socialising and that she’ll be turned away at the door.

Nervous that she’s going to be invited inside and will have to somehow find a way to cope with spending two hours watching a movie with a girl that she’s basically in love with.

The fluttering of her heart is almost enough to make Lexa go home of her own accord before she can enter the house.

Lexa musters all of her courage and raises her hand, tapping on the front door sharply with her knuckles. While she waits for somebody to answer the door, Lexa’s heart pounds so hard that she can hear the blood rushing through her ears.

It feels like an eternity that Lexa is waiting on that doorstep, but the door finally swings open and Abby Griffin peers inquisitively at her.

“Hello, can I-?” Abby stops mid-question to peer closer, and recognition seeps across her face as she realises who is on her doorstep. “Lexa?”

“Mrs Griffin,” Lexa nods, smiling politely.

It’s been years since Lexa has been to the Griffin house, years since she’s seen Abby, and though things have changed – there are different cars on the drive, a new rug in the hallway just behind Abby, more gray in Abby’s hair and more crinkled lines around her eyes and mouth – Lexa feels like no time has passed, like she’s still a bright-eyed middle-schooler visiting for a slumber party with stolen candy and whispered secrets beneath the sheets long after the rest of the house has fallen silent.

“Please, call me Abby. And come in!” Abby steps aside, welcoming Lexa into her home and closing the front door behind her, before she continues, “It’s good to see you. It’s been far too long since we had you in this house.”

Lexa nods in agreement, and then asks, “Is Clarke around? We said we’d have a movie night.”

“I haven’t seen her for a while,” Abby answers with a frown, pausing to think before she speaks again. “She came down and made herself some toast just after two but it’s been quiet since then. She’s probably been sleeping.”

“Oh, okay,” says Lexa, trying to mask her disappointment.

“You can go up and see her if you like,” suggests Abby. Abby’s eyes widen as she has an idea, and she explains to Lexa, “I tell you what, I haven’t planned any dinner tonight so we could order pizza for your movie night. How does that sound? Why don’t you go and wake Clarke and ask her what she wants on her pizza? You remember where Clarke’s room is, don’t you?”

“That sounds great,” says Lexa, the anxiety from earlier starting to be replaced with comfort as Abby makes her feel welcome in the place that used to feel like a second home.

She can only hope that Clarke does the same.

Leaving Abby alone downstairs, Lexa ascends the staircase to the upper floor of the house and makes her way to the door that she knows leads to Clarke’s bedroom. And yet again, she hesitates outside the door as nerves begin to rise within her gut at what she might find inside.

After two deep breaths, Lexa knocks lightly on the door and then, when there is no response, she pushes it open and peers inside.

Clarke is asleep. That much is apparent straight away. Her eyes are closed, her mouth slightly agape, and she snores softly. One of her arms is flung casually above her head on the pillow, while Lexa can just see a few toes decorated with chipped red nail polish peeking out from beneath the covers at the foot of the bed.

The most glaringly obvious thing in the room, and Lexa tries her best not to stare at it for too long, is that Clarke has no hair.

Lexa always knew that Clarke was going to end up losing her hair at some point, but she immediately regrets not preparing herself for the sight. Clarke’s scalp is stubbly, like the hair has been shaven close to her scalp at some point in the last few weeks, but the little hair that remains is thin and wispy, like that of a newborn baby before their proper hair starts to grow in thick. It only adds to the childlike image that Lexa gets of Clarke, sprawled out on her bed like an infant taking a nap, and Lexa wants nothing more than to wrap Clarke up in bundles of blanket as she presses soft kisses to her forehead and whispers promises to keep her safe.

Grateful that Clarke is asleep and therefore unable to witness Lexa staring at her almost-hairless head, Lexa forcibly drags her eyes away from the sleeping girl and takes in the rest of the room. Though it’s still the same room that Lexa remembers from her childhood visits, it’s much different. The room feels smaller and less inviting, is Lexa’s first impression. It smells clinical in here, but that’s not it. Across the dresser, there are an assortment of medicines in bottles and boxes, labelled with names that are just as terrifying as they are long. Lexa had no idea that cancer treatment required so much medication.

A giant corkboard leans against Clarke’s closet door, upon which Lexa can see various information pamphlets from the hospital pinned up with brightly coloured pins. Most of the corkboard is dominated by a huge yearly wall planner, which Clarke has decorated with coloured stickers to denote which medicines she needs to take on which days, as well as written in all of her hospital appointments. At the bottom of the board, there’s a handwritten sign that says 12 days to next treatment, with a homemade flip chart to change the numbers as she counts down. Around the edge of the board, Clarke has pinned up a few inspirational quotes, and Lexa smiles to herself as she reads one in particular - scars are like tattoos but with cooler stories.

It’s all very strange to Lexa, seeing the evidence of Clarke’s cancer all over the same bedroom that she used to have playdates and slumber parties with Clarke in, but the reality of it sinks in a little more that it has before. Lexa feels a tinge of sadness at the realisation that this is what Clarke’s life has become now, but also a huge swell of admiration for how Clarke is refusing to let the cancer take her down without a fight.

When Lexa glances back at the girl still soundly asleep in the bed, she feels as though she’s looking at her in a different light.

“Clarke?” Lexa says in a hushed voice, crossing the room and sitting down gently on the edge of Clarke’s bed, trying not to cause the mattress to jolt suddenly under her weight as she takes a seat. Lexa is torn between wanting to wake Clarke up to spend time with her or leaving her to continue her peaceful slumber, but it is the selfish part of her brain that wins out in the end. “Clarke, it’s me. Lexa.”

Clarke stirs ever so slightly and Lexa reaches out with one hand to brush the back of her fingers against Clarke’s warm cheek, stroking the soft skin tenderly. Clarke leans into the touch, and her bleary eyes flicker open just a fraction.

“Your mom is going to order pizza for dinner,” explains Lexa. “Does that sound okay?”

Clarke lets out a little grunt that Lexa assumes is an affirmative, and so she continues her line of questioning.

“Great, what do you want on yours?”

“Cheese,” mumbles Clarke sleepily.

“Just cheese?” Lexa asks for clarification. “No other toppings?”

“No.”

Clarke rolls onto her side towards Lexa, tucking her legs up to her chest as she curls up and pulls the covers over her shoulder. Her eyes are closed once more, as if she never stirred at all.

“Do you want me to leave you to sleep?” asks Lexa, her voice just a whisper as she tries not to startle the sleepy girl beside her.

Clarke lets out a low hum that Lexa interprets as an affirmative, and Lexa slowly gets to her feet, careful not to disturb Clarke as she crosses the room and backs out into the hallway, closing the bedroom door with a soft click.

Once she is back downstairs, Lexa relays Clarke’s pizza order to Abby, as well as her own, then takes a seat on the couch in the Griffin’s living room.

“She’s fast asleep,” Lexa says, once Abby has phoned the pizza restaurant and placed their order. “It was almost like she was talking to me in her sleep.”

“She does that,” nods Abby. “Sometimes I can go into her room and have an entire conversation with her and she’ll have no recollection of it when we speak later in the day.”

“Wow,” gasps Lexa. “She must be really out of it. Does she spend a lot of time asleep, then?”

“You could say that,” Abby laughs softly under her breath. “Now, Clarke has always enjoyed her sleep. It’s difficult enough to get her out of bed in the morning at the best of times, but since she started the treatment, she spends most of the day in bed. She’ll surface a couple of times a day for a snack, but it’s rare to see her awake for more than a few hours at a time.”

“I…” Lexa starts, but then trails off, wondering if the way her thoughts are going aren’t appropriate for a conversation with the mother of a cancer patient. But Abby looks at her with warmth in her eyes and an encouraging smile on her face, and it makes Lexa feel a little like there isn’t a wrong thing that she can say, and so she continues, “This is probably going to sound really ignorant, but I’ve never known anybody with cancer before, and seeing somebody go through all of this is so different to how I imagined it to be. I don’t mean that to sound so…”

“No, Lexa, there’s no need to say sorry!” Abby is quick to shut Lexa down for she can start apologising. “I’m a doctor – I deal with people suffering from all sorts of things on a daily basis, and I even did a placement in an oncology ward when I was a student doctor – and there are things about Clarke’s treatment and the side effects that surprise me.”

Lexa smiles gratefully at Abby’s words, and then continues, “It’s just, media makes it seem like cancer is about your hair falling out and being connected to a machine by a tube.”

“And there is an element of that to it,” Abby interjects.

Nodding, Lexa adds, “But it seems like it’s so much more than that.”

“There is,” agrees Abby. “You also have to remember that not everybody experiences cancer in the same way, so the way that Clarke’s body responds to the chemicals fighting off the disease is not necessarily the same way that mine would, or yours.”

“Clarke is … I know it’s stupid for me to be saying this when it’s mostly my fault that we aren’t as close as we used to be.”

“Lexa,” says Abby, reaching across the space between them on the couch and resting a comforting hand on Lexa’s arm. “You and Clarke have been an important part of each other’s lives. It’s perfectly natural for you to be affected by what she’s going through.”

Lexa smiles gratefully, Abby’s words doing a little to quell the guilt that Lexa feels for finding it difficult to talk or even think about Clarke’s health.

“Clarke is special,” Lexa confesses to Abby. “Clarke has always been there for me. She’s been looking out for me since the day that we met, and it feels like it’s my turn to repay that favour, to look out for her.” Lexa pauses, before she admits, “And I’m worried about her. She doesn’t seem the same as she used to be.”

Lexa wonders for a moment if she has said the wrong thing, when Abby’s brows furrows and her eyes fill with sadness at the changes she’s seeing in her only daughter.

“She’s not,” agrees Abby. “And she may never be. But whatever she may seem like now, she’s going to be a much stronger person when it’s all over.”

Lexa is reminded of another one of the quotes she saw pinned to Clarke’s corkboard up in her bedroom - Cancer is always going to lose, because though it tries to make you weaker it only ends up making you stronger.

“To quote Kelly Clarkson; what doesn't kill you makes you stronger,” says Lexa, and Abby laughs softly at her words.

“Mom?”

They both startle at the sound of Clarke’s voice, having not heard her descend the stairs, and look up to find Clarke rubbing her tired eyes as she enters the room,  wearing pyjama pants and an oversized hoodie.

“Who are you talking to? I thought Dad was away toni-” Clarke stops mid-sentence when she notices Lexa. “Lexa?”

Lexa gives a meek little wave. Clarke looks completely surprised to see Lexa in her living room, as if she doesn’t remember either inviting Lexa over or even the short conversation that they shared in her room earlier. Lexa remembers what Abby said about Clarke often having entire conversations that she’s too tired to remember later and realises that must be the case.

“Told you she wouldn’t remember,” Abby's says, quiet enough that only Lexa can hear her.

“I came up to your room earlier to ask you what you wanted on your pizza,” Lexa explains to Clarke, smiling kindly in an attempt to reassure Clarke that it’s completely fine if she doesn’t remember. “We had a conversation.”

“We did?”

“Pizza is on its way,” says Abby. “Probably about half an hour.”

“I don’t know if I’m hungry,” Clarke protest, her voice feeble. She drops into one of the armchairs and curls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them to keep them close to her body as her head drops back against the cushion behind her.

“That’s fine,” Abby tells her. “But it’s there for you if you want it. Lexa says you two are having a movie night.”

“Oh shit, I totally forgot about that!” sighs Clarke, eyes widening as she remembers inviting Lexa over.

“Language, Clarke!” Abby scolds Clarke, though there isn’t actually any trace of anger in her voice.

“Sorry,” mumbles Clarke.

“I can go if you want me to,” says Lexa, trying to mask the disappointment as she makes to get up onto her feet.

“No!” says Clarke quickly, leaning forward in her seat slightly and letting her feet slide onto the floor as if preparing to chase Lexa if she tries to leave. “Stay! Please?”

Lexa drops back into her seat perhaps a little too eagerly, just pleased that she’s finally going to be able to make true of the promise they made at Octavia’s party and spend some time with Clarke. If her heart picks up its pace in her chest, then Lexa vehemently ignores it.

“Let’s use the den,” says Clarke. The Griffins have a room at the back of their house that they call the ‘den’, a small-ish room with a couch, a television, and several towering bookshelves along one wall, and Lexa remembers the room well from her childhood visits here, she remembers eating chips in front of cartoons, and making a fort to hide from the grown-ups. “My bedroom is too much like a prison.”

Lexa nods, her only concern being Clarke’s comfort at all times. If Clarke would rather host their movie night in the den, rather than the bedroom that has become almost like her own private hospital ward at home, then Lexa isn’t going to put forward any complaints.

“That sounds like a great idea,” says Abby. “Why don’t you girls go and set up in there? There’s some spare blankets and pillows up in the spare bedroom if you want to make it more comfy in there. I can bring the pizza to you when it arrives.”

“Thank you, Mrs Griffin,” says Lexa.

“It’s Abby,” replied Abby, a twinkle in her eyes, “and you know that, Lexa!”

They build what can only be described as a nest on the couch in the den, cocooning themselves in a warm bundle of blankets and cushions while they choose a movie from Netflix. When the pizza arrives, Abby brings it through to them and smiles at the sight of their heads peering out from under all the blankets.

The pizza box sits between them on the couch, resting on a small cushion, and they help themselves to cheesy slices while the movie plays in the background. Despite her earlier protests that she wouldn’t be hungry, Clarke’s stomach gives a traitorous growl when they lift the lid, and she manages almost two slices before she gives in and says that her appetite has gone.

Clarke falls asleep about halfway through the movie, and with her stomach full and the nest of blankets keeping her cosy, Lexa can feel her own eyes drooping with the onset of drowsiness not too long afterwards. She tries to fight it, to stay away and watch the movie, but her eyelids are heavy and she quickly succumbs.

When Clarke wakes up, she is uncomfortable.

Which is weird because she’s bundled up in blankets on the soft couch cushions in the den, with Lexa fast asleep against her side. She should be the epitome of comfort.

There’s an unsettled feeling in Clarke’s stomach, and it takes her a few sleepy moments to realise that she feels nauseous. The need to be sick is not an urgent one, but it is there, but as soon as she realises that she’s feeling queasy, it takes over her entire body and she can’t think of anything else.

Clarke tries to extract herself from the blankets without disturbing Lexa, but with the other girl asleep against her side, her head resting on Clarke’s shoulder, it’s a harder task that it seems. The blankets are tangled around their limbs and as she tries to remove herself from their warmth, Lexa stirs against her and her eyes blink open.

“Are you okay?” Lexa asks, her voice raspy in her newly awakened state.

“Just gonna go to the bathroom,” Clarke says, trying not to let her discomfort show. The last thing she wants is for Lexa to worry about her.

Lexa looks on in concern, but she nods silently and lets Clarke leave, helping to remove the blankets so that she can make her escape.

Clarke knows the drill by now. She reaches for a hair tie and pushes her hair back into a loose bun, then sits on the edge of the bathtub within reach of the toilet basin. She takes deep breaths, trying to stop the bile from rising in her throat, but by this point she knows it’s going to happen.

When she can’t fight it anymore, Clarke leans over the basin and retches, emptying the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl. When she doesn’t think she can be sick any longer, when there is nothing left to throw up, Clarke scrabbles with one hand for the flush, while the other reaches for a square of toilet paper to wipe the disgusting dribble from her chin and lips.

“Clarke?”

As if things couldn’t get any worse, Clarke glances up from where she is huddled on the bathroom floor to find Lexa leaning against the doorway with concern on her face. The very reason that Clarke rarely has friends over at her house is because she doesn’t want them to see her like this, but the illusion that she’s dealing with cancer with her dignity still in tact is lost the moment that Lexa lays eyes on the way that Clarke is clinging to the toilet seat with her own drool coating her lips.

“Go away, Lexa,”

“Can I do anything to help? Do you need anything? Water?”

Clarke is loathe to ask for help, but her throat burns and there’s an acidic taste in her mouth and water sounds like heaven.

“There’s a bottle of water that I left in the den,” Clarke reluctantly says to Lexa.

“I’ll go get it.”

Lexa hurries out of the bathroom obediently like a dog rushing to fetch a ball, and Clarke is only left alone for a moment because the commotion brings her mom along in Lexa’s absence. Abby enters the bathroom and takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub, rubbing a soothing hand up and down Clarke’s back.

“Clarke, are you okay honey?” she asks.

Clarke glances up and puts on a forced smile, as she replies sarcastically, “Peachy.”

Lexa returns with the water bottle, filled with fresh water, and gives it to Clarke with a worried expression still on her face. Clarke accepts the bottle with a grateful nod of her head and takes a huge gulp, swilling the water around her mouth to wash away the taste of her own vomit, before she spits the water into the toilet basin and takes another sip to actually drink.

“Lexa, I don’t want you to see me like this,” says Clarke, now that her throat isn’t quite so dry and scratchy.

Though Lexa looks as though she wants to say something, she remains silent.

Pushing herself up into a standing position, it is Abby who comes up with a solution, leaving Clarke on the bathroom floor beside the toilet as she says to Lexa, “Lexa, how about I make up the spare room for you and you can sleep there tonight?”

Lexa keeps staring at Clarke with a frown on her face, eyes full of pity and something else, before she finally glances up at Abby and nods silently. Abby ushers Lexa out of the bathroom, leading her down the hallway, and it is only when Clarke has been left alone in the bathroom that she lets herself break down, tears cascading down her cheeks and her chest heaving with sobs as she collapses on the bathroom floor and just cries.

School starts up again at the end of the summer and so begins Lexa’s senior year.

Clarke doesn’t show up on the first day, nor on the second, and when she does finally show her face on the third day, she looks wearier than Lexa remembers, and her words are much more negative.

“I just don’t want to be here,” complains Clarke, when Lexa meets with her during morning break to give her a copy of Lexa’s notes from the two days she’s missed. “I don’t see the point.”

“Of course there’s a point!” Lexa tries to assure her. “This is senior year, your last year!”

“And what?” shrugs Clarke dejectedly, slumping against her locker. “I have to miss school for appointments but what about the days like yesterday where I physically couldn’t get out of bed? I’m tired all the fucking time!”

“I’m sure the teachers will be able to help you catch up on the work you’ve missed,” Lexa suggests.

“The teachers don’t give a shit,” replies Clarke. “I’m not in school enough for them to care. They’ve already written me off as a hopeless case. I’m just a kid they’ll talk about in a few years, like ‘remember when we taught that girl with cancer, such a sad story’. That’s all I am to them, a story.”

“Then I’ll help you!” promises Lexa. She hates seeing Clarke like this, hates how the cancer seems to have drained all of Clarke’s positivity. “I can come over to yours and help with the stuff that you miss and it’ll even help with my own revision.”

“I can’t ask you do so that.”

“I want to,” Lexa shrugs, her voice soft.

Clarke looks at Lexa in confusion, her eyebrows furrowed into a frown, like she’s trying to work out why Lexa hasn’t written her off in the same way that nearly every other person in the school has.

“But why? There’s no point. My life lost all its worth the moment they did the scan and found a tumour.”

Clarke chokes on her words towards the end, and Lexa catches her reaching up to rub at her eyes, as if wiping away tears. Within a few seconds, Clarke’s chest is heaving with sobs and her cheeks are damp.

“Come on,” says Lexa, putting an arm around Clarke’s shoulder and guiding her into the nearby girls’ bathroom.

There are two girls in there when they enter, standing at the mirrors touching up their eyeliner, but upon seeing Clarke in tears, they seem to sense the need for privacy and quickly gather their belongings, vacating the bathroom to leave Lexa and Clarke alone.

“It’s okay,” Lexa soothes Clarke. “Let it out.”

“Why me?” sobs Clarke. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“Nothing” says Lexa, as she pulls Clarke in for a hugs and wraps her arms around Clarke’s shoulders. Clarke’s own arms circle loosely around Lexa’s waist and her head falls on Lexa’s shoulder, her tears soaking the sleeve of Lexa’s t-shirt. “You did nothing. You don’t deserve any of this and it makes me so mad that it’s happening to you.”

“I had it all planned out,” says Clarke, another sob tearing through her body as she trembles in Lexa’s arms. “I was going to get a good GPA and go to med school and become a paediatrician but none of that is going to happen anymore.”

“It can still happen if you want it to,” Lexa tries to reassure Clarke.

Clarke pulls herself out of Lexa’s embrace and walks into one of the toilet stalls, emerging a few seconds later with some toilet paper scrunched up in her hand, which she uses to dab at her eyes and then blow her nose.

“That’s the other thing,” Clarke says to Lexa, tossing the used tissue in the nearby trash can. “I’m not sure I even want to be a doctor anymore. Why would I want to spend the rest of my life working in a place that reminds me of what I’m going through now?”

“Then that’s fine,” Lexa answers without hesitation. “There’s still so many other things you can so. You can still go to college without deciding what you want to major in yet, or you don’t have to go to college at all if you don’t want to.”

Clarke’s eyes narrow and she looks at Lexa with an expression on her face like she doesn’t understand why Lexa is so insistent that Clarke’s life isn’t as bad as she thinks it is.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” asks Lexa.

“Being so nice to me.”

Clarke still looks at Lexa with incredulity in her eyes, like the very idea of somebody showing her kindness is one that she can’t begin to fathom.

“Do you remember in Kindergarten when you helped me up after Murphy pushed me over and then kicked him in the balls?” asks Lexa, and Clarke’s glistening blue eyes soften with traces of amusement as she nods through her tears. “You’ve always had my back and now that things aren’t so great for you, I want to have yours.”

Lexa omits the part where she’s basically in love with Clarke and would do anything to ensure her happiness.

“I mean, Murphy hasn’t done anything but if you want to kick him in the balls anyway, it would really cheer me up.”

“Noted,” smiles Lexa.

Though her cheeks are blotchy and there are red rings around her eyes as evidence of her tears, Clarke is no longer crying and Lexa is grateful that she seems to have cheered up a little. She thinks that seeing Clarke like that, seeing the emotional impact that the cancer is having on her, is far worse than it is to see all of the physical changes on Clarke’s body. Even seeing Clarke hunched over a toilet bowl emptying her stomach that time Lexa went over for a movie night was more bearable than this, because at least Lexa knew that the nausea would pass. Seeing Clarke so upset and feeling like there is nothing she can do to help only leaves Lexa feeling completely helpless, and she wishes that there could be steps for her to take to ensure that Clarke doesn’t have to feel like her life isn’t worth anything now that she’s sick.

“Seriously, though,” Lexa tells Clarke, who has now turned to the sink and is splashing water over her face from the faucet. “I’m here for you. I know that things aren’t going your way at the moment, but I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re alone, because you’re not.”

Clarke’s eyes are still red and the skin around them puffy from her tears, but there’s something much deeper in them as she looks at Lexa, like maybe she might be finally starting to believe that what Lexa is saying is true.

Something changes in Clarke.

Lexa hardly notices it at first, because in many ways nothing changes at all. Clarke still misses a lot of school and when she does show up, she is still just as weary and down about her situation as she was at the start of the school year, keeping her head down on her desk for often entire lessons and secluding herself from most of her peers during break and lunchtimes.

But there’s definitely something different too. Something in the way that Clarke’s eyes seek out Lexa’s in the school canteen and her tense shoulders relax visibly as she comes to sit at Lexa’s table. Something in the way that Clarke will always choose to sit next to Lexa in the classes that they share, even if she ends up sleeping on her desk for the entire lesson. Something in the way that Clarke has started inviting Lexa over to hers after school every now and then so that Lexa can help her with the work she’s missed, even though their ‘study sessions’ usually end up with them binge-watching TV and reminiscing about memories from years past until their cheeks hurt from smiling too much.

Lexa likes it. Well, she doesn’t like that Clarke is still struggling, but she likes the way that even though Clarke is having a tough time, she’s giving Lexa the chance to try and make it a little less difficult.

Clarke has her last treatment in early-November and Lexa spends the entire day glued to her phone. Or at least as glued to her phone as she can be at school without the teachers noticing it and confiscating it from her. She checks it as often as she can, waiting for a message from Clarke to say that she’s out of the hospital so that she can congratulate Clarke on making it to the end of a gruelling six months of chemotherapy.

There isn’t a message, but when Lexa checks Facebook during her lunch break, there’s a post from Clarke at the top of her feed, dominated by a goofy selfie of Clarke at the hospital with a dumb filter that distorts her face and gives her a pair of animal ears.

Lexa taps the ‘like’ button instantly, then scrolls down to read the caption that Clarke has posted below.

Clarke Griffin 34 minutes ago Last ever chemo today! It’s been a difficult six months but I’m coming out the other side stronger and I couldn’t have done it without the most incredible support from the best friends and family I could ask for. Thank you to each and every one of you for sticking by my side during these tricky months. I love you all! All there’s left to do is to wait for the scan to confirm that the cancer is gone and then I can start growing my eyebrows back!

Lexa’s eyes prickle with tears and she wipes them away immediately, before anybody else can see her crying in the middle of the school canteen, but Lexa can’t stop the smile that spreads across her face with the growing pride that she feels for Clarke and the struggle that she has overcome as she types out a comment on Clarke’s post.

Lexa Woods So proud of you and the strength that you’ve shown! <3

It doesn’t come close to expressing what Lexa is really feeling, but when the notification pops up a few seconds later telling her that Clarke has replied with a heart emoji of her own, Lexa hopes that maybe it’s just about enough.

On the day that Clarke goes for her final scan and gets the all-clear from the doctors, who tell her that the chemotherapy has been successful and that she’s in complete remission, they go for milkshakes and donuts to celebrate.

“To you,” says Lexa, holding up her milkshake glass when the waitress brings them their drinks, and Clarke meets it with a soft clink of her own against Lexa’s, “for being the strongest and bravest person I know and kicking cancer’s butt.”

“To you,” adds Clarke, keeping her glass raised even after Lexa lowers her own, “for sticking by my side when so many others turned their backs.”

Lexa wraps her lips around the straw and sucks up some of her milkshake, sighing at how refreshing the drink is, before she puts the glass down on the table.

“Of course I stuck by you,” Lexa shrugs. “I just didn’t want you to feel alone.”

“I appreciate it,” smiles Clarke. “As long as we’re still going to be friends now that I’m healthy again?”

Clarke has genuine concern in her eyes, like she actually thinks that Lexa might stop being her friend now that she no longer has the excuse of wanting to help Clarke through her difficult times.

“Of course we are,” Lexa promises Clarke. “I’ll always be your friend, even when you have hair again!”

Clarke’s face cracks open into a grin and Lexa flushes with delight at having made Clarke smile, a sight that has been so rare over the last few months. It’s nice to see Clarke relaxed for once, instead of exhausted and void of hope, and Lexa can’t tell if Clarke is actually more radiant than before or if it’s just Lexa imagining things. Either way, Clarke looks beautiful as she sips on her milkshake, even more so when she smiles, and Lexa is reminded of all the un-friendlike feelings she has for Clarke as her heart stirs in her chest and makes its presence known by thumping rhythmically against her ribcage.

To distract herself from her racing heart, and to stop herself from doing anything stupid like telling Clarke that she looks beautiful and accidentally confessing her love, Lexa gestures to the box of donuts on the table between them and asks, “Powdered sugar or chocolate sprinkles?”

“Like you even have to ask,” grins Clarke, reaching for the donut decorated with chocolate icing and multi-coloured sprinkles.

The cancer might have gone, but Clarke’s social anxiety definitely has not, and the nerves that she feels upon entering the party that Octavia is throwing at her house for half their year is almost overwhelming. Her hair, barely starting to grow back and still a closely shaven fuzz on her head, is hidden beneath a comfortable gray beanie, and even though it has been months since she had long hair, Clarke still feels self-conscious about her current look.

The other partygoers greet her as if nothing has changed, as if she hasn’t spent months going in and out of hospital appointments and barely showing up to school. There’s the people who have always been her friends, even through it all - Raven wraps Clarke in a tipsy hug when she first sees her, Jasper greets Clarke with a fist bump and offers to pour her a drink from a suspicious-looking homemade concoction stored in an old plastic water bottle, Octavia drags Clarke straight into the middle of a makeshift dance floor in the living room and starts grinding up against her instead of Lincoln - but there’s others, people who have barely acknowledged Clarke during the last six months, who greet her and smile as she passes as if she has never had cancer at all.

It’s weird and Clarke doesn’t like it.

When Clarke has finally managed to escape from Octavia’s inappropriate dancing, using an excuse of needing to go somewhere a little cooler, Clarke makes her way to the slightly quieter kitchen and pours herself a drink.

“So the cancer is gone, huh?”

Clarke glances up, bottle of soda in one hand and a red plastic cup in the other, to find Finn smirking across at her. Finn, who was definitely flirting with her before the diagnosis, but who hasn’t even looked her way since, let alone spoken to her.

“Well,” says Clarke, trying not to let her disinterest in conversing with Finn creep into her voice. “I’m in complete remission, so…”

“So you’re basically cured.”

Clarke knows that she used to be attracted to Finn, though in this moment she can’t possibly remember why. Perhaps the chemotherapy has killed all traces of the former attraction along with the cancer.

“Finn, it…”

“When is your hair going to grow back?” asks Finn.

He must think that he’s flirting, because he wears a smirk on his face and leans closer to Clarke. Clarke decides that they must be living in alternate universes, because Finn clearly thinks that his advances are wanted, while Clarke is struggling to think of anywhere she would rather be less than here with Finn.

Except for perhaps the oncology ward with a tube pumping chemicals into the port on her chest, but it’s an incredibly close call.

“What if I like it short?” Clarke replies haughtily, folding her arms indignantly across her chest.

Still undeterred, Finn says, “I think you look really pretty with long hair. You know, how it was before.”

“Well, if you like it short then I guess I have to grow back.”

Finn completely misses the sarcasm in her voice because instead of getting the idea that Clarke doesn’t care about what he has to say and backing off, he instead leans yet closer and says, “How about we go and talk somewhere a little more private?”

It takes all of Clarke’s self-restraint to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

“And by ‘talk’, you mean hook-up?” she asks him, raising her eyebrows in disbelief.

“Well, I guess. If you like.”

Clarke loses it.

“No, Finn,” she snaps, spitting his name out like it’s a nasty taste on her tongue that she can’t wait to be rid of, “I don’t like. I don’t like the way that you think you can ignore me for six months and then as soon as I finish my treatment, you decide that it’s okay to start flirting with me again because you no longer have to deal with a girl who has cancer.”

“Clarke,” whines Finn, “I only meant that…”

“Well, guess what, Finn?” continues Clarke, barely allowing herself time to take a breath before she launches off again, not giving Finn the chance to try to wriggle his way out of this one. “I’m always going to be the girl who had cancer! You don’t go through something like this and just forget about it. This experience has changed me and I’m not the same girl who had a crush on you last summer. And if you didn’t want to be around for that change then that’s on you.”

“Clarke…” protests Finn.

“Finn, I don’t care,” Clarke tells him bluntly. “If you didn’t want to be my friend when I had cancer, then you don’t get to be my friend now that I don’t.”

Clarke is pretty proud of herself for that one, but she becomes aware that her rant at Finn has drawn a little bit of attention from the handful of other people in the kitchen. They watch her with mild fear on their faces, as if worried that she’s going to turn on them next and give them the same kind of treatment that she’s given Finn.

But Clarke is done ranting, and from the way that Finn is finally silent, Clarke thinks that maybe she might have got through to him.

Clarke decides that she has to make a quick exit to escape the judgement of the other people in the kitchen, but when she looks up at the door out of the kitchen, she notices that Lexa is standing there watching her, and Clarke realises that she must have seen the entire exchange with Finn.

With her conversation with Finn fresh in her mind, Clarke realises that Lexa is the only person outside of her tight-knit friendship group who has even looked Clarke’s way during the last few months, let alone tried to support her through the biggest challenge of her entire life, and the realisation has everything clicking into place.

Clarke pushes past Finn and walks towards Lexa, grabbing Lexa’s hand with her own on her way out of the kitchen and pulling Lexa with her.

“Come on, Lexa. We need to talk.”

We need to talk.

Put together in that order, they are probably four of the most ominous-sounding words in the English language, but Lexa has no time to process what they might mean or what Clarke wants to talk about. Clarke’s hand grips her own and Lexa is being dragged down the hallway of Octavia’s house, past a few other kids in their year, until Clarke opens up the front door and leads Lexa outside into the chilly December air.

“Clarke, what…?”

Clarke kisses her. Like actually kisses her, lips gently moving against Lexa’s while one of her hands comes up to tangle itself in Lexa’s hair.

It’s not at all what Lexa imagined their first kiss to be like - and Lexa has probably imagined and re-imagined a thousand different scenarios in which she and Clarke share a first kiss. Lexa has pictured it being tentative and clumsy, she’s pictured it being fiery and fuelled by lust, she’s pictured it taking place right after Lexa has delivered a smooth line to knock Clarke off her feet, and she’s pictured it happening in the darkness of her own bedroom late at night during a slumber party. In fact, had you asked Lexa just thirty seconds ago, she probably would have said that there is not a single version of their first kiss that she hasn’t already imagined.

But she never once imagined it to be like this, never thought that it would happen on Octavia Blake’s front step while a party rages on behind the closed front door, never expected that Clarke’s lips would be so soft or that her hand would caress Lexa’s scalp in the way that it does, never once predicted that Clarke kissing her would make Lexa’s heart beat in her chest like it’s having its very own high school house party in her chest.

Lexa tries to be as present as she can be, a task which is a lot harder than it seems when her entire body feels like it’s floating off the ground and soaring into space. She tries to kiss Clarke back, and she lifts her own hand to cup Clarke’s jaw, where her fingertips dip just beneath the soft material of the beanie that Clarke wears and her thumb traces patterns along the bone of Clarke’s gaunt cheek.

The kiss is a bit of a surprise - as far as Lexa is aware, her feelings for Clarke have been entirely one-sided until now - and Lexa can’t help but wonder what has changed in Clarke’s mind to bring them to this point. When Clarke draws back from the kiss to change the angle, Lexa pulls back from the kiss, though she keeps her hands on Clarke to hold her close, trying to let Clarke know that this is just a temporary pause, not a permanent halt on their kissing.

“Clarke, what…?

“Finn was hitting on me and it made me realise that there’s only one person I want to be doing that,” explains Clarke. When Lexa stares at her dumbfoundedly for a few seconds, not quite believing what she’s hearing, Clarke elaborates by saying, “You.”

Lexa’s jaw drops open like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing, even though she already has the physical evidence that Clarke wants her from the way that her lips are still tingling from the recent pressure of Clarke’s mouth sliding against her own.

“Listen, this isn’t going to be easy,” says Clarke, dropping the hand that is buried in Lexa’s hair so that it’s draped around her neck and bringing the other one up to match it. “I still have to go to the hospital for tests every few months and there’s always a chance that the cancer could come back. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but mentally I’m a bit of a fuck up right now.”

“Clarke…” protests Lexa, shaking her head.

“What?” shrugs Clarke. “It’s true! I’ve still got a difficult journey ahead of me but I want to make that journey with you. I want you to still be by my side, because I can deal with the cancer - not very well, I admit - but I can deal with it. I don’t think I could handle not having you in my life.”

There’s a question in Clarke’s eyes, as if she’s waiting for Lexa to promise that she’s never going to leave. Lexa can’t find the words to do justice to the way that she’s feeling, so she decides to do it with actions instead. Her hands tighten on Clarke’s waist, pulling her closer as she leans down for a second kiss that feels like Lexa is arriving home.

“Just to be clear,” Lexa mumbles against Clarke’s lips, “are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”

Clarke lets out a little noise, something that Lexa decides must be the audible version of an eye roll, before she answers, “Yes, idiot. Be my girlfriend?”

Lexa doesn’t know how she manages to keep kissing Clarke when her mouth is threatening to crack into a huge grin, but she manages it, only pulling back for long enough to say, “Yes.”

[x-irememberyearsago-x]

Notes Pt. II – Zach Dempsey x Reader

Summary: 13 Reasons Why. On tape number 7, as we all know, is the chapter of Zach Dempsey and the “joke” that makes Hannah with the note in her bag.

Request.  “Part 2 to notes please?”

“If it is okay can you make a part 2. For the Zack Dempsey x reader notes story please? You're writing is amazing ❤”

“Second part to Zach Dempsey x Reader"Notes" pleaseeee💜🙏🏽😍”

I heard this song while I was writing.

Words: 2746

Reader’s point of view.

Enjoy it!

Don’t miss Pt. I

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The next few days became more or less normal. The atmosphere in the communication class had been regulated, that is to say, with a sideways notice that Hannah Baker's bag was again having those drawings of rabbits, her smile was coming back and on more than one occasion caught her looking at Zach every time she took out her paper from her bag, as if she still didn’t believe that he had really stopped teasing her about it. The one who didn’t even cross glances with him, was me.

I avoided the temptation to give him even a sidelong glance, I knew he was there, because I heard his voice, his laughter and sometimes another comment during the debates, and I was intimidated by his presence, I preferred not to speak, because I didn’t want to  be noticed, not by him, even though I knew it was impossible, because sometimes I felt like someone was staring at my back, It couldn’t be someone other than him. And I simply avoided it, because I didn’t know what to say after reading his note and that, practically made him angry when faced with something that, as he had said, was none of my business.

Me and my stupid reactions to seeing an unjust and immature act. Maybe it was Hannah's words said in the hallway that softened my heart. I had never heard a voice as broken and hurt as her own. I was struck by the fact that for some people a detail as small as that of anonymous compliments in a paper bag could be really important and for others it was simply a gesture that helped them to raise their ego or just let it go, take it only as a boring project, which had to be carried out to get a good grade with the teacher. No one passed the teacher's smile when she saw her students take notes from their paper bags. As for me, I had totally gone from mine. I was afraid, what if there was some note from Zach? Would it take me so long to read it again? What if he said that he regretted the first one he had left me? I didn’t want to wreck my heart any more than I already had it today. It seemed i had missed a chance with the boy i was in love with. Bravo for me.

Underneath my folder I took out a small piece of paper folded in half, I twirled my fingers indecisively, it wasn’t the note of Zach or another person, this time, it was one written by me for Zach Dempsey. On one impulse i had written "Yes, I want to go out with you" but my cowardice prevented me from leaving it in his paper bag at some point. And I had not written it today. The day I confronted him, I arrived at my house, went to my desk and immediately wrote it. I have carried this note for more than forty-eight hours, waiting for the moment when I had a fit of courage and do it. I didn’t feel brave on this day, either.

The doorbell rang and I jumped. I had completely lost the notion of time and above all, the interesting debate of the class. I didn’t move. I had become accustomed to waiting for the player to go out first and away enough, then I would sit for a few seconds at my desk, waiting for the note to fly out of my hand and end up in his bag. That was the way I was until I was alone in the classroom, and today was no exception. I closed my folder slowly, hoping to prolong my air of cowardice, I got up and taking my things and I walked to the bags. I pretended to check mine, there were at least four but I ignored them. My stomach contracted as I headed for Zach's. I held the note in the air, if I released it I would fall inside. My hands trembled as I imagined different scenarios about his reactions as he read it. Would he smile? Would he throw it in the trash can? Would he look at me with a bad face? Or would he make fun of me? I was about to let go, but finally I held it in my fist and left the classroom as soon as I could. Y/N, 0 - Cowardice, 3.

When I was under pressure, stressed or alert, one of my effective methods was to go to Monet's and order my favorite drink while I sat at one of the tables and watched life pass before my eyes. It was common for me to go there alone, from time to time I went with my friends but this time I didn’t want a kind of company. So, here I was, with the drink in front of me, my eyes scanning it as if there was something suspicious in it and the small but lethal note at my side, shouting at me to give it to his sender, to stop being such a coward, i lost more opportunities. I began to drink by sips, ignoring the calls of my mind for a piece of paper and a little wrinkled. The point of being here was to lower my heart rate to a remotely normal one, not to continue tormenting me for what I do and what not.

The doorbell rang. Voices began to announce themselves as if it were a party. My body tensed when one of them stood out more than the others. Zach stood out for having a pleasantly serious voice. I fixed my eyes on the drink just after hiding my note in the bag of my jacket, better safe than sorry ... or face. And I couldn’t face Zach Dempsey on matters of the heart, for my own sake.

Bad luck pursued me, indeed, it was one of my faithful friends. The basketball team passed me, without turning to see me, or at least the majority. Finally they settled on a table a few meters from mine. Zach passed slowly and then, looked at me. I looked back at him and he smiled, but in a gesture barely visible, and that if I had blinked, I would have missed it. My breath stopped and I swore my face began to redden. Suddenly I lost the taste for my drink and in my mind, I ended up turning the table and running out of the place ... and the city. But I forced myself to remain there, unconsciously clutched my hands to the chair, fearing that my body would take control and get me out of here. Sometimes, in intense moments, one acted by pure instinct. This time it wasn’t going to happen to me. Again I shared an "intimate look" with my drink. I had seen it more than I did, but I couldn’t turn anywhere, much less to my right. I decided that, I would finish my drink and with all the calm of the world, apparently, would leave of here. As if I didn’t care, as if his presence didn’t disturb me.

But, when I drank the last sip and was practically already taking my wallet, the chair in front of me moved. I swallowed so quickly that I felt drowned, I had to restrain myself as I raised my eyes to my new table mate, who more than the best basketball player of Liberty High. Zach Dempsey stared at me in silence, his hands folded across the table. His eyes bulged me and I suddenly felt that he made me small in my place. I had no escape, or perhaps if i was beginning to think it a good idea to run, although behind me i would leave stunned eyes, and, why not, laughs full of mockery. I didn’t calculate how long we looked at each other, it seemed like a competition, to see who gave up first and decided to speak, though, why should I? I wasn’t the one who invaded my table. He had the obligation to start a conversation, he was the one who sat down and also disturbed my ideas and instincts. I was grateful that he couldn’t hear the beating of my heart, it seemed that I had run a marathon.

"Are you mad at me?" He finally gave in.

But it took me a few seconds to find my voice.

"Should I?" I mumbled.

Little by little I relaxed, reminding myself that Zach wouldn’t kill me. We argued for some nonsense, it was even funny because we were not friends or anything, it even seemed to be our first real conversation. Maybe now we would talk like two civilized people. At least I would try.

"Because of ... you know" He sighed and I shrugged "Y/N, you haven’t looked at me for more than two days, in fact, this is the first time you look at me"

Then he realized, anyway, it wasn’t like i was trying to hide it.

"I'm not mad at you, Zach, I still think it was an immature act, but you were right it's not my business." He nodded and I set my glass aside. "Besides, why do you care if I'm mad at you or not?" Really, Y/N? Do you really ask that after reading his note? "I thought and wanted to punch my forehead.

"I don’t know"

"We aren’t friends" I said.

"We could be," he said softly.

I almost smiled. But I didn’t know what to say. Actually yes, I should have already let go that I had finally read his note and that the answer was in my jacket. I could slip it to him and go. I had to do it. Come on, Y/N, you can do it. You're no longer a coward. You're talking to him after days, it's a good start.

My hand flew to the pocket of my jacket, ready to take out the note and leave it on the table. I opened my mouth to finish with this, I shuddered.

"I have a lot of homework, so ..."

I dropped into place. I took my hand away from my pocket, took my backpack from the floor, protected my chest with the folder and got up quickly. I appreciated that my order was already paid, now I would only be in charge of fast home and lock myself in my room, possibly hiding under the sheets. If, speaking of immature acts, I was about to make one as well.

I felt the keys in my pocket as I made my way to the parking lot, the faster I got out of here, the more I would breathe normally.

"Y/N!"

I stopped, although I shouldn’t have done it. I turned acting more for the attraction to his voice and saw Zach trot straight for me. New opportunity I should not be wasted.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure"

I dropped at my own risk.

"Did you read my note?"

This is my opportunity. My lips were sealed, I had to, I had to answer him, I had to give him the note and stay here to observe when he read it and watch his reactions. I smiled. It was the right time and perfect.

But again, cowardice took possession of my mind.

"No, Zach, I'm sorry"

I quickly took the keys from my car and ran towards this one. Already inside I felt safe but so damn bad for lied, but above all, to have wasted what may have been my last chance.

It was midnight and I lay on my bed looking at the ceiling. My homework was ready and even my room was strangely clean. I had made sure that once I got home I would keep my mind occupied. I even volunteered to wash the dinner plates, when, normally, I was forced to do so. I also cleaned the kitchen and made sure to make an exhaustive inventory of the missing supplies. Maybe tomorrow I would offer to do the shopping, that wasn’t my task but if I kept my mind away from guilt, I would gladly accept it. But what could i do in hours when i should already be asleep? Especially when I didn’t have a hint of sleep. I turned around in bed, closed my eyes, counted sheep, and even listened to some music, but nothing, my mind was so awake. The damn fault didn’t leave me alone when I wanted to rest.

The screen on my phone light up, I picked it up again and noticed that an unknown number had sent me a message. I opened it and almost fell out of bed by surprise.

Get out of your house for a moment, please. - Zach

"What the hell?" I whispered looking at my window in a useless gesture, because it was covered by the curtains.

My heart fluttered and I got up, taking a sweater in my wake. The advantage is that the entrance door didn’t make noise when it opened, I could easily exit. I seized the impulse before I returned to my room to hide and pretend I had not seen the message, but I couldn’t live with two faults.

Zach was leaning in his car with his hands hidden in his pockets. He looked so damn handsome that I wanted to cry at that moment. A little frightened I approached him encounter, I hugged myself, wanting to protect myself from a danger that didn’t even exist, at least not physically, I wanted to convince myself of that.

"How do you have my number?" I let go as soon as I was close to him to speak in a low voice. The last thing i wanted was to wake the whole street. Besides, I'd be in trouble if I was outside at this hour.

"I didn’t come to talk about that," he replied, too serious for my taste.

"Then why are you here?"

"I came to give you back something you left lying on Monet's"

I quickly made a memory of whether something was missing, but everything seemed to be in order. Was it just an excuse to come here? What if he pulled something out and I had to pretend it belonged to me just not to "hurt" him? Probably someone sat in my place after I left, and it was that other person who forgot something.

I wanted the earth to swallow me when Zach reached into his pocket and handed me a folded piece of paper. I knew that note well. The world began to spin, I dropped my arms at my sides and stammered. My eyes traveled from the paper to his eyes, in these i could see that he had read its contents. I swallowed.

"Oh, God," I whispered, putting a hand to my forehead.

"Now we are on hand, Y/N" He said with a smile "You read the note that I fell, now I read the one you left"

I looked at him, not knowing what to answer. I thanked the poor lighting, my face must be the color of a tomato.

"I also came to face you"

"Okay," I whispered.

"You lied to me" He started taking my note, anyway, I didn’t want to see it again in my life "You told me that you hadn’t read my note and this proves that you did"

"I‘m sorry?"

Zach shrugged.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow at seven." He smiled.

I blinked several times.

"Wait what?"

He laughed and ducked his head for a few seconds.

"We'll have a team party at Bryce's house, and I already have your answer." He balanced the note in front of me. "And I want you to go with me, as my date, Y/N."

We were silent, I still couldn’t believe my clumsiness and that this really was happening. I had never fantasized that Zach Dempsey would show up at my house in the middle of the night to ask for a date... or actually let me know what his date would be. I covered my mouth and started laughing. I knew i had to respond, though, with that paper in the boy's hand, there was more of an answer.

So I pushed away the cowardice and came up to embrace it even with laughter. I no longer felt ashamed or afraid of anything.

Masterlist

[derekhaleimagines]

Remedy pt.2

Tags: @the-shewxlf, @megant22, @sexywolfsfordays, @houseofrahl, @sterek-basically, @kittycatgirlmaddie, @misshinehou, @unbreakablevoices, @champagneblues, @dallysgreasergirl, @juliaspnlover, @cineyou, @lipstickstainsandwerewolfchains, @fallenangel-13x, @urwarriorangel, @bless-my-demons, @lunaskyhunter, @arkhamirwin, @fangirlnerd101​, @m-a-t-91​, @meanwhilesmiley​, @edithambroreigns​, @totallovelesson​@kxttykatmichael​

Word count: 3605

Author’s note: I’m shamelessly taking advantage of the fact that I can now insert some good ol’ House gifs in my posts. Also, authentically depicting House’s character is way harder than I initially thought, but hey -- it’s my first time with him and I’m trying :) Aaaand prepare for some (a lot of) feels! Enjoy!

Betas: @i-am-a-misguided-misfit, @lipstickstainsandwerewolfchains, @mixed-up-fangirl, @kittycatgirlmaddie, @fallenangel-13x, @the-shewxlf, @b-chocolatelover, @from2016, @safiac, @random-fandom-fangirl2112

Masterpost

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“A shot man blacked out? You called me back to the hospital for this, idiot? There is no mystery,” House points out to me in a harsh, chiding tone. Clearly he’s moody because he’s back to work, and as such, he doesn’t fail to humiliate me in front of the entire Team for God knows how many time. But it’s fine; I’m getting used to it, and I’m usually not the only victim to his stinging snark.

“He doesn’t remember how it happened. After leaving the message I asked him further questions and it turned out that he hardly ever gets shot,” I say. House frowns at me, while his hand is rubbing his right leg instinctively, apparently without his conscious consent to it. A few seconds later, he averts his mesmerising blue eyes from me only to dart it at the dark grey rug, deep in thought.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” he states firmly, but the heat has now subsided from his tone. “Every cop gets shot from time to time.”

“Would it have been the better choice to leave him there just like that?” I snap. “I thought our priority was healing and making sure no one has further latent sicknesses by investigating until we’re convinced with one out of the many choices,” I retort, crossing my arms over my chest and giving House a meaningful look. When he glances at me, I hold gazes with him for a while before giving in to the temptation to lift an eyebrow at him. House is moving his lips and making faces in the process, while thinking through the options he has. No one speaks; we are all waiting for the boss’ decision.

“Alright. What’s your theory?”

My face lights up at his question—this means he officially accepted to take the officer’s case. I try to stifle my giddiness as I launch into my explanation, “It obviously has something to do with his brain. Most likely it was caused by Multiple Sclerosis or a tumor in his brain. I was planning to give him a CT and lumbar puncture.” House nods okay, and motions in the general direction of the glass door with his cane.

“Nice. Good for us, not good for the patient. Go ahead,” he says. I’m standing before he could even finish his sentence, and after closing the officer’s file on the table and picking it up, I head to the door with the folder clutched to my chest. However, before I’d leave the office, House warns, “If you’re wrong, you’re fired.”

The travel in the elevator seems suffocating after House’s threat. Cuddy has told him he’s not in the position to decide whether I stay or go, but I know him, and I’m definitely convinced that if he doesn’t want me to work on a case, he can sabotage my attempts to take part in it in any way.

Just to make sure, I quickly check the officer’s name once more when I arrive to the floor he’s housed on, then walk to his room, weaving my way through the few visitors and haphazard doctors. Upon entering, the man looks at me, and I give him a small smile in return, hoping he isn’t so worked up like he was yesterday.

“Derek Hale?” I ask politely, approaching the bed he’s laying on, now dressed in just a flimsy pale green outfit that the hospital’s patients are given. My eyes take a momentary glance at the monitor to see his ECG diagram.

“That’s me,” he answers. His voice conveys no distress, no anger, just resignation, like he’s surrendered to medicine. His eyes slip down to my ID then, tilting his head just the tiniest bit to align it with the angle of the card, eyes squinting to try and read my name.

“y/n Lockwood,” I introduce myself, for some reason feeling tempted to stick my hand out for him to shake. This is how it’s appropriate, right? He takes my hand in his—I’ve always known my hands are small, but the way his broad palm and long fingers wrap around it, makes it look even more insignificant in size. He gives me a firm squeeze, which I return, then we let go of each other. “I need to do a few tests on you,” I announce then, picking up his chart from the end of the bed, and pulling the pen out of the pocket over my chest, clicking it and writing on his paper the tests that are going to be done on him.

“What tests?” he asks curtly, crossing his impressively muscled arms in subconscious defence. I hang the chart back on the bed before walking back to stand next to him. “Just a CT and a lumbar puncture,” I answer. “No worries, the latter sounds worse than it actually is.”

“I’m not a vulnerable eggshell, you know,” Derek comments. For a second, I think he was offended by my statement, think that he took it personally, but the way his eyes twinkle slyly, I realise he’s just asserting his masculinity a little sarcastically. Once more, I reach out for him to help him move, but he dismisses it with a shake of his head. Throwing the blanket to the side, and turning to let his legs hang from the side of the bed, he adds, “I was just shot. I can walk by myself.”

I nod slowly, suddenly feeling embarrassed for some reason. My voice is a near squeak when I say, “Right. Follow me then, please.”

I wait while he puts his robe on to cover more of his body—the green outfit is short, like the patient is merely wearing an oversized T-shirt, and the V-neck of it leaves nothing to my imagination regarding Derek’s pectorals, collar bones and strong shoulders. He slips into his slippers, then we take off to the CT machine first.

. o O o .

“There is no tumor in his brain,” I inform the Team about the results of the CT. House gives me a look and narrows his eyes at me suspiciously. The only reason this makes me feel worse than usual is because this time he isn’t the only one standing in front of the rest of the Team—I’m there beside him, too. To relieve the tension a bit, I hold on to the folder in my hands for dear life, fingers gripping it just a touch stronger than a moment ago.

“You’re too calm,” he assesses. “Too calm for someone who was told could be fired if not everything goes smoothly. So I assume there’s more to it.”

I do my best to tamper down the smugness that’s bubbling up in my throat as I hand him over the paper with the results of the lumbar puncture. “As you can see, the amount of his proteins and leukocytes are increased.”

Chase’s head perks up from where he was playing with his pen until now, “That means encephalitis.”

“Told you it was something,” I say pointedly to House, who just looks at me in return. I suppose the knowing smirk on my face wasn’t overlooked by his insightful blue eyes, because he quips, “Come on, don’t be so happy about someone having an encephalitis. What kind of doctor are you? Sociopathic?”

I’m fast to react. “What if I told you I was?” I ask challengingly.

“The million dollar question is, what would you do upon hearing my answer, in case you’re actually a sociopath.”

“How about letting me know your answer and see where it goes?” I offer. The lightest, vaguest hint of a smile on his thin lips lights up House’s worn-out features. He tells me, “Go and give him antivirals. Also, make a test to find out if he has syphilis and check his body for potential marks of a sting from a tick.”

I don’t have to be told twice. I’m already worried about our cop just fine—I’m aware this is going against House’s number two rule here, the ‘don’t get attached to the patient’ rule. The uttermost policy is ‘everybody lies’.

I don’t find Derek in his room, so I have to go look for him. There was a case a couple months ago where we had to play hide and seek with the patient, and it was no fun for us; House was so livid, the Team was nearly snagged for someone getting fired. As for now, I couldn’t tell if my current frustration or my general worry for him is stronger at the moment—I know that if another blackout occurs, I would have to be there immediately. Besides, anything could happen to him while the time’s ticking by with me just searching for him everywhere frantically, even without him fainting.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take me more than a few minutes to find him—sitting on a couch next to the artificial waterfall, a woman on his side, the two of them holding hands. She’s wearing a black skirt suit with matching high-heels, her dark hair put in a neat ballerina bun, giving her a professional appearance. For some reason, it makes me feel utterly small, like she reminds me of the fact that I could never be like her; so strong, so attractive, so stylish. No, I’m just here in my jeans, my flat shoes and a casual shirt, all this adorned by my white labcoat and the ponytail I put my hair in this morning. I guess the clichéd roles—the queen bee and the nerd—will stick to the people for their entire lives. Inhaling deeply, I force a smile on my face before taking off towards them, but a part of Derek’s sentence is enough to stop me in my tracks.

“I’m afraid I’ll lose my job,” comes his quiet voice. The woman strokes his upper arm soothingly, then settles her hand on his shoulder and gives it an encouraging squeeze. Her other hand is still resting in her lap, palm facing up, welcoming Derek’s in it to provide him silent comfort.

“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” she assures softly. Contrary to what it does to Derek—calming him down and giving him hope—it unsettles me to no end. I’m just about to inform him about the very serious illness that could explain his condition, and now this burden feels even more unbearable than before. “You’ll be just fine. I’m sure in two days you’re going to be chasing criminals again.” No one should be punished with having to tell someone their life is in jeopardy, or how long they have before their disease takes over. No one signs up for shattering dreams, but for healing and saving lives—saving their dreams. My body feels like a cage to me, from which I can’t escape before I’m done with my duty. With the lump huger in my throat, I force my legs to take me to where they are sitting.

“Mr. Hale,” I greet him. My voice comes out as a squeak, despite how hard I’m trying to prevent that. But seeing how his face lights up with the hope the woman gave him? It makes me want to cry, because I know I can’t live up to those expectations.

“Dr. Lockwood,” he nods to me, then motions towards the elegant woman on his side. “This is my elder sister, Laura.” I shake hands with her, but the smile I give her is tight, and I’m sure she noticed it, because her brow twitches shallowly. The grip Laura gives is firm, giving it away to me that she’s a determined person who knows what she wants, and isn’t afraid to go for it.

“Did you figure out anything?” she asks, taking her hand back. I’m taken aback by that question—usually, people start with something like, ‘he’s alright, right?’. Clearly she craves effectiveness and results, not beating around the bush. I have to swallow against the dryness in my mouth before I could speak.

“Yes,” I answer. The siblings’ attention is availably doubled at that, and my heart twists painfully in my chest, knowing that what I’m about to say is not what they are expecting to be told. This is why, I give them a meek warning beforehand, “But you won’t be happy with the results.” My voice is ginger, but tight. Even without my eyes dropping lower than their eyes, I can clearly catch the way Laura’s hand closes tighter around Derek’s. I struggle to go on, “According to the lumbar puncture, Mr. Hale’s leukocyte and protein number is higher than normal.”

“What does that mean?” Laura asks instead of Derek, tone calm and measured, but I can sense the underlying vibrating anxiousness. As soon as the words left my mouth, Derek tilted his head forward to look at the ground instead of me, like he can’t bear seeing me. It feels like a punch to the gut. I close my eyes apologetically for a moment, then explain hoarsely, “It means that Mr. Hale has encephalitis.”

This is the point where Laura loses her perfect mask of the sophisticated woman she normally shows to the world—it perishes silently, in the form of a fat teardrop escaping from her eye and rolling down her cheek. On the other hand, Derek handles it exactly how a strong man would do; he even has the capacity to wrap an arm around Laura and pull her close to him to comfort her, even though it should be the other way around. Laura, though, refuses it for being too proud, already wiping away the stray drop from her face, like it’s never made it there. Derek’s face is expressionless, and the fact he isn’t looking at me anymore stabs me in the chest. His green gaze is fixed on Laura, and nothing else.

I decide to leave them, assuming it’s the best thing I could do, but only after muttering an apology, despite I know this isn’t my fault. I shouldn’t let it get to me, and lately I’ve been getting better at it, but this single occasion ruined all my past successes. I go for the medicine I have to give Derek, then to his room to find a nurse undoing the covers on Derek’s bed.

“Erica, what are you doing?” I ask, putting the antiviral on the nightstand beside the bed. She turns to look at me with a smile.

“Changing his covers, if it wasn’t obvious already,” she quips. I can’t force a grin even for a second after what happened between me and the Hale siblings. Erica doesn’t fail to notice my unease, and she inquires, brows furrowing, “Is something wrong?” Setting down the blanket that’s halfway to being freed, she comes up to me, touching my upper arm gently.

“No, nothing,” I lie, asking the first thing that comes to my mind just to change the subject as soon as possible. “Why are you changing those?” I nod in the general direction of the mess Erica has made. She sighs and goes back to resume her work.

“He’s been going a lot to the toilet. Last time he couldn’t make it there, though, so his vomit ended up on the bed,” she replies, grimacing at the story she shared with me. Clearly the stink is bothering her.

I acknowledge her answer with a nod, then I sit down at the bed, now lacking the sheets, to wait for Derek to return, regardless of the aversion I have for that.

. o O o .

In the end, it takes Derek almost an hour to migrate back and to take his place at his now clear, freshly covered bed. He halts at the door upon noticing me, and just watches me with an expressionless stare. The stretching silence is deafening me, especially with the glass walls shutting out every noise, but this time I can’t bring myself to break it. Instead, I opt to do my job to give myself something else to focus on; I place the plastic pocket of antiviral on the hook above the bed and, after Derek laid down, I inject the other end in his vein. To my surprise and relief, he speaks up.

“How bad is my sickness?” I look at him. Derek’s gaze is darted firmly at the ceiling, not at me, making it clear to me he’s still uncomfortable with seeing me. It stings, but at least he’s now talking—I should appreciate all the small victories. His face is still devoid of emotions.

“We’ll have to figure that out with an MRI later, but right now, the priority is to find out what caused the illness in the first place.”

Derek acknowledges my answer with a nod, then closes his eyes—I get the message loud and clear; he’s telling me without words to leave him alone now. I don’t have a reason to protest, so I consent.

. o O o .

I arrive to the restaurant twenty minutes late. Rushing in, I scan the place, searching for my dinner partners. I spot them in one of the hidden corners, at a dimply lit box with a table and four chairs around it. I stride over to them with a wide grin, greeting them and taking my coat off to lay it on the back of the chair.

“Hey, y/n, long time no see.”

“Scott,” I nod, hugging him briefly before wrapping Allison up in my embrace, too. “Sorry for being late,” I say genuinely, sitting down. “My boss likes to give his Team all the work.”

“We know; everyone knows House’s reputation,” Scott waves it off with a hand.

“How are you?” I ask then, turning to Allison. She beams at me with a shining smile.

“The baby’s due on 14th February,” she announces giddily. “I’m perfectly fine, and so is my baby boy. Only two more months to go,” she drops her eyes at her extended belly, reaching up to rub it fondly, delicately. I chuckle.

“So he’s going to be a Valentine’s boy, huh. How do you know if the baby’s going to be a boy, though? You had it checked?” I ask.

“We don’t exactly know. Allison doesn’t want to check it, wants to wait until he’s born, but she’s convinced he’s a boy,” Scott explains.

“That’s cute,” I coo. A waiter comes to me to take my order, and after the brief chat I have with him, I devote my attention to my friends again.

“And how’s your internship at Princeton?” Allison asks. I shrug; honestly I really don’t wish to talk about that right now—I’d just ruin the mood with it, and that’s the last thing I want. I give them a subtle hint, “I don’t think that’s a fitting subject at the moment.” Scott winces and gives me a worried look.

“Did something happen?” I shake my head no, and pick up my napkin to busy myself with something—also to give myself an excuse not to have to look into either of their eyes.

“No,” I respond a little too late for the other two to believe it. Not that the timing would have mattered anyway; they know me all too well since high school.

“Tell us about it,” Allison urges.

“I really don’t think this is the appropriate time to –”

“y/n, don’t expect me to leave my other best friend tonight without talking this over with her,” Scott demands, a serious gleam in his deep, chestnut brown eyes. “Your face gives you away easily, you know, and I can see it’s something that deeply affected you.”

“Oh yeah, how Stiles and Lydia are doing?” I ask, desperately trying to lead the conversation in another direction, shamelessly taking the chance to talk about the other best friend Scott has without a second thought. While Scott is already opening his mouth to tell me about the other couple, Allison cuts in with a sharp, “y/n”.

“Okay, okay, got it,” I cry out, throwing my hands up in surrender. “So we have a new case since yesterday, and after testing the patient, it turned out he has encephalitis. And he’s a cop.” I take a deep breath before going on, “I had to tell him while his elder sister was there, too.”

“Poor baby,” Allison coos, reaching over the table to stroke my hand soothingly. I’m not surprised by her being so touchy-feely, nor the nickname she addressed me by—I blame it on the raging hormones in her body; thanks to them, she’s way more sensitive to emotional distress than an ordinary person, who isn’t carrying a blooming life under their heart. I manage to smile at her, albeit it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“We’re staying here in New Jersey until the baby’s born,” Scott chimes in to whisk the tension away, and the news don’t fail to light up my face.

“Seriously?” I ask, eyes excitedly commuting between the future parents, who just nod at the same time to me with a smile on their faces.

“Yes. And I’m going to attend controls at Princeton-Plainsboro,” Allison says proudly.

“Oh my God,” I chuckle, leaning back on the chair to rest against the back of it. “Give me a call whenever you’re there.”

“Definitely,” she promises. Scott places his hand on her belly to stroke it affectionately. I have never seen such an expression on Scott’s face before—it’s a mixture of responsibility-consciousness, fatherly protection, undying love and slight possessiveness. But above all, it’s meek.

Scott is now officially a grown-up man.

[teamfreewill-imagine]

Nightmare

Summary: Sam’s nightmares lead you in pursuit of a string of mysterious deaths in Michigan. You and Dean talk about what happened with Cassie and Dan. Words: 3.1k+ Dean x Reader, Sam x Jess (past Dean x Cassie, OMC x Reader) Warnings: past infidelity, angst

A/N: this is part of my ‘Jess never died’ rewrite, find the masterpost here  Beta: @blacksiren​

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You woke up with incessant knocking on your motel door. Your eyes opened and you squinted at the clock, seeing it was just past 3am.

Gently peeling Jessica’s arms from around you and grabbing the gun from under your mattress, you walked over to the door.

Pistol raised, you carefully opened the door to be met with-

“Don’t shoot,” Sam said, knowing that you’d be instinctively defensive. “We have to go.”

You nodded, closing the door to take it off the latch before letting him in, instantly going to wake up your sister.

“Smalls, we’ve gotta move,” you told her, carding a hand into her unruly hair.

She blinked awake, taking a few seconds to come around before understanding what you’d said.

Jess nodded, getting up and pulling her hair back into a bun.

You pulled on pants and a leather jacket to cover the long band tank you slept in, stepping into your boots and grabbing your permanently packed duffel.

Sam did a quick reccy of the room, making sure you hadn’t left anything behind, as Jess swiftly got dressed.

The three of you made your way out to the impala, where Dean was waiting with the engine running.

Your heart twinged when he looked at you, but you quickly looked away. You shouldn’t feel guilty. You hadn’t done anything wrong.

You slid wordlessly into the back passenger side, Jessica getting in behind Dean.

Sam threw your bags in the back before getting in beside his brother.

“Where are we going?” Jess asked, and Sam looked back at his girlfriend, trying for a reassuring smile and failing.

“Michigan.”

“I’m worried about Sam,” you blurted when you and Jess were once again left behind in another motel room.

You’d wanted to go along to the Miller house but Dean shot you down quickly. He claimed that it wouldn’t be appropriate for all of you to go but you knew the real reason was that he was clearly pissed at you..

Jessica finished toweling off her hair, looking across at you.

“So am I,” she sighed, putting her towel over the radiator and coming to sit beside you on your bed. “But I’m worried about you, too.”

You laughed softly, looking at your hands in your lap.

“I’m fine,” you assured her, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“Bish, your boyfriend slept with his ex,” she reminded you, and you scoffed but let her continue. “And then you went and fucked a stranger. You’re not fine, you’re hurting.”

You rolled your eyes, not wanting to talk about it but sensing she wasn’t going to let go.

“Firstly, Dean’s not my boyfriend,” you corrected, “And second, I’ve fucked strangers before and you don’t usually complain about it.”

“This is damn well different from college and you fucking know it,” she snapped, taking you by surprise.

You shifted to face her, frowning at her tone and the anger in her expression.

“Jessy, why does this bother you so much?”

“Because you were falling in love with him,” she stated, matter of factly. “Don’t even try and deny it. You finally found something good and now you’re intent on fucking it up because you’re scared.”

“I wouldn’t be fucking anything up if he hadn't left me behind waiting for him like an idiot while he went out and fucked someone else.”

You ran a hand over your face, breathing against your palm.

Jessica smiled sadly, nodding.

“You’re hurting,” she repeated, “But you don’t have to do this self-destructive crap. You and Dean can work it out.”

You shook your head, “Sweetie, he doesn’t care about me. I’m here and I’m convenient, but he’s just proved he doesn’t want anything exclusive so I’m not gonna sit here and wallow in self-pity.”

Jess opened her mouth to reply when there was a knock on the door.

“Don’t panic, it’s us,” Sam called, and you laughed softly, getting to your feet and letting them in.

“What’ve you got?” you asked, noticing the folder in Sam’s hand.

“Whole lotta nothing,” he sighed, sitting down next to Jess and placing a quick kiss to her lips before continuing. “Nothing bad has happened in the Miller house since it was built.”

Dean walked further into the room, his hand automatically finding your side as he walked around you before you stepped away, the light touch making you irrationally angry.

He pulled his hand back as if scalded, and you held awkward eye contact that both of you were too stubborn to break.

“What about the land?” Jess asked, breaking the tension by getting you both to look at her.

“No graveyards, battlefields, tribal lands, or any other kind of atrocity on or near the property,” Sam sighed, leaning against the headboard as Jess rested her head on his shoulder.

“Hey, man, I told you,” Dean shrugged, “I searched that house up and down. No cold spots, sulfur scent. Nada.”

You frowned, leaning against the wall as Dean sat on the spare bed.

“And the family said everything was normal?” you clarified.

“Well, if there was a demon or poltergeist in there you think somebody would have noticed something?” Dean snarked before looking at his brother. “I used the infrared scanner, man, and there was nothing.”

“So, what?” Sam snapped, “You think Jim Miller killed himself and my dream was just some sorta freakish coincidence?”

Jess rested a reassuring hand on Sam’s thigh, trying to calm him down.

“I dunno,” Dean shrugged, either oblivious to or not caring about his brother’s evident distress. “I’m pretty sure there’s nothing supernatural about that house.”

Sam began rubbing at his temples.

“Yeah. Well, maybe it has nothing to do with the house.”

He took a deep breath, holding his head.

“Maybe it’s just… Gosh,” he paused, shaking his head with a hand against his forehead. “Maybe it’s connected to Jim in some other way?”

Concern pulled at Jessica’s brow as Sam continued to rub his head.

“Babe, what’s wrong?”

Sam groaned, falling from the bed to crouch on the floor, his hands either side of his head.

“Sam? Hey,” you rushed to crouch in front of him, grabbing his arms. “Hey, what’s going on? Talk to me.”

His eyes met yours, but it was as if he wasn’t there, wasn’t present in that moment.

All of a sudden he blinked and he was back, and he instantly began scrambling to his feet.

“It’s happening again,” he told you. “Something’s gonna kill Roger Miller.”

They were too late for Roger Miller, too.

Sam called Jess to keep the two of you updated with what was happening, and when she got off of the phone her face was pale with worry.

“What’s up?” you asked her, putting down John’s journal where you’d been looking for anything about psychic abilities.

“He keeps getting these visions,” she sighed, shaking her head. “They started as nightmares, but now they’re happening during the day. They’re hurting him, Y/N.”

“I know,” you agreed, opening your arms for her to flop down next to you, hugging her tight. “We’ll figure this out though, I promise.”

“It was Max,” she mumbled, looking up at you from where her head was resting against your chest. “He killed both the vics with his mind. Psychic stuff. Like-”

“He’s nothing like Sam,” you interrupted before she had the chance to say it. “Sam’s not a monster.”

She nodded, and your fingers soothingly massaged her scalp, getting tangled in her untamed curls.

“Jessy, your hair’s a mess,” you told her, getting her to laugh and ease the tension.

“You wanna braid it for me?” she asked, sounding exactly like she did when you were kids.

You smiled, kissing her cheek.

“Go get a brush.”

You switched off the TV when you heard the impala pull up outside, taking the door off the latch so that they could let themselves in.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sam said as he came through the door, and you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Well that’s never a good thing,” you teased, and he rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious,” he sighed, kissing your cheek before sitting with Jess, Dean locking up the car and coming inside. “I’ve been thinking, this demon, whatever it is. Why would it kill Mom, and Max’s mother, and come after you and Jessica, you know? What does it want?”

You frowned, sitting on the other end of the bed, facing them.

“I don’t know.”

Dean and Jess’ expressions matched yours as they watched Sam, waiting for an explanation.

“Well, you think maybe it was after us?” he offered, “After Max and me?”

“Why would you think that?” Dean asked, sitting next to you but leaving a respectable distance.

“I mean, either telekinesis or premonitions, we both had abilities, you know?” he reasoned. “Maybe he was- he was after us, for some reason.”

“Sam,” Jess said, softly, “If it had wanted you, it would’ve just taken you. Okay? This is not your fault, it’s not about you.”

“Then what is it about?” Sam asked, defeated.

“It’s about that damn thing that did this to our family,” Dean insisted, his hand motioning to your stomach and your almost-healed scars to tell you that ‘our family’ also included you and Jess. “The thing we’re gonna find, and the thing we’re gonna kill. And that’s all.”

Sam scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Actually there’s, uh, there’s something else, too.”

“Ah, shit. What?” Dean sighed, and Sam took a long breath.

“When Max left me in that closet, with that big cabinet against the door,” Sam began, and you nodded, “I moved it.”

“Huh,” you huffed, “You got a little more upper body strength than I gave you credit for.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“No man, I moved it,” he clarified. “Like Max.”

Jessica’s eyes shot to yours, worry evident in her features, and you shook your head slightly.

“Oh,” Dean breathed, after a moment’s pause. “Right.”

“Yeah,” Sam murmured.

Dean got to his feet, grabbing a spoon from the kitchenette and holding it up to his brother.

“Bend this.”

Sam huffed, frustrated. “I can’t just turn it on and off, Dean.”

“Well,” Dean shrugged, “How’d you do it?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, annoyed. “I can’t control it. I just, I saw you die and it just came out of me, like a- like a punch. You know, like… a freak adrenaline thing.”

“Yeah, well I’m sure it won’t happen again,” Dean said, his tone final.

Sam sighed, and Jess leant against him, closing her eyes and taking a grounding breath as he threw a tense arm over her shoulders.

“Maybe,” he mumbled, “But aren’t you worried, man? Aren’t you worried I could turn into Max or something?”

“Nope,” Dean shook his head. “No way. You know why?”

Sam shook his head.

“Because you’ve got one advantage Max didn’t have,” Dean told him and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Dad? Because Dad’s not here, Dean.”

“No,” Dean rolled his eyes back, “Me. Us.”

You nodded.

“He’s right, Sammy,” you assured him. “As long as we’re around, we’re not letting anything bad happen to you.”

Dean nodded, and Sam gave the two of you a small smile, his arm relaxing around Jess as he kissed her head.

“Now then,” Dean grinned, “I know what to do about your premonitions. I know where we have to go.”

You frowned at him.

“Where?”

Dean looked Sam dead in the eye as he replied, in all seriousness, “Vegas.”

If looks could kill, Dean would’ve dropped dead on the spot from the glare he got from Sam and Jess.

“What?” he asked, intentionally oblivious. “Come on, guys. Craps tables. We’d clean up!”

Jess rolled her eyes.

“Go to your room, Dean,” she told him. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

He nodded, walking to the door before looking back at you.

“Y/N, can I talk to you?”

You were about to say no when you caught Jessica’s pleading eyes, willing you to go.

Getting to your feet wordlessly, you grabbed your room key and followed him to the next room, standing in the doorway as he dropped his bag down beside the bed.

He looked across at you, biting his lower lip before speaking.

“You slept with a stranger in our bed.”

“You slept with your ex while I was waiting for you,” you shot back, closing the door behind you and leaning against it. “At least you were there when I picked up Dan. You just left me at the motel and fucked someone behind my back. You wouldn’t have even told me if Sam didn’t prompt you.”

He shook his head, “That’s not true.”

You raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’d have told you,” he insisted, “Y/N, I tried to explain but you just left-”

“Don’t make this my fault,” you told him, taking a step forward and motioning between the two of you. “You fucked up this relatio- whatever we are, on your own.”

“I know, I know,” he sighed, running a hand down his face before motioning to the bed. “Will you sit down?”

You folded your arms, “No, thank you.”

He nodded, perching on the edge of the bed and looking up at you.

“Before Dad went missing, I was with Cassie for- for quite a long time,” he told you, and you bit the inside of your cheek to focus on the physical pain over the emotional. “I told her about what we do. All the- the hunting, the things that go bump in the night, because I had to leave and I didn’t want her to think I was going off with other people.”

You scoffed and he hung his head.

“I know,” he mumbled. “I know, alright? But I told her everything and she said I was insane if I thought she’d buy all that crap and she kicked my ass out and… fuck, Y/N, she broke my heart.”

Your gaze softened as his voice cracked.

“And then this shit happened with her dad, and she realised I wasn’t lying to her, and I just- I got caught up thinking it could be how it was before,” he continued, and your guard was back up instantly. “Whenever I thought about settling down, finding someone, it was always with someone who knew about all this crap, all my baggage. I thought- for one stupid second I thought I could have that with her.”

You sniffed, angrily wiping the tears you didn’t want to shed from your eyes.

“You could’ve had that with me,” you snapped.

“I know-”

“I get that you loved her, but did you not even think about me?” you asked, eyes burning as you wiped tears away quickly. “We were supposed to be trying to work us out, or did you forget about that?”

He stood up, stepping towards you until you held up a hand.

“Y/N, I fucked up,” he admitted, and you nodded.

“You did,” you told him, allowing yourself to openly cry now that you were about to leave. “You made me think I could do this whole ‘girlfriend’ thing. You promised you didn’t just see me as another lay, we didn’t even sleep together, for fuck’s sake. I thought maybe I was being treated right, for once. But you’re the same as everyone before you. You found someone better than me and you grabbed her with both hands. So I went out for a revenge-fuck, and yeah, I’m not stupid enough to deny that’s what I was doing, but it didn’t make me feel any better. It made me feel even more shitty than you did.”

Dean’s expression was as open and vulnerable as your own.

“Y/N-”

“No, Dean,” you cut him off, sniffing. “You know, I think that shifter was right. ‘Ass and tits’, that’s what you thought, right? Ass and tits. Made to be used and discarded. You proved that.”

You walked to the door, opening it before turning back to see the hopeless look on his face.

“I could have loved you, you know that?” you told him, nodding sadly. “And, for all it’s worth… I wanted to. But Cassie broke your heart and you broke mine.”

He started to walk towards you again, “Y/N, wait-”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Dean,” you told him, closing the door behind you before he had a chance to say anything more.

Tears were streaming over your cheeks as you walked back into your room, planning on heading straight to the bathroom and sobbing against the door.

The plan went out the window when, as soon as you closed the door, Sam was pulling you into a tight hug.

His large hand held the back of your head as you sobbed against his chest, unable to hold it back.

Jessica walked over to the two of you, wrapping her arms around your waist from behind and resting her chin atop your shoulder.

“It’s okay, Bish,” she murmured. “I’m sorry for making you talk to him.”

You shook your head against Sam, sniffing as you pulled one arm free to wrap around your sister.

“I’m fine,” you lied, despite knowing that neither your best friend nor your sister would believe you.

They looked at you, wearing twin expressions of unamusement.

“I just want to sleep,” you admitted, and you watched as they shared a look before nodding.

“I’m sharing with you,” Jess told you, shaking her head when you tried to respond. “No arguments. You need me tonight.”

You washed your face in the bathroom and changed into your most comfortable pyjamas, letting Sam in to brush his teeth as you pulled your hair up into a bun for sleeping.

“I’m sorry Dean’s such a dick,” he told you, and you laughed softly.

“It’s fine,” you told him, looking at him through the mirror. “We should be focussing on you, not my bullshit love life.”

He shook his head, “Your feelings matter.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, walking back through to the bedroom and getting into bed beside your sister.

You moved to the middle of the bed, laying on your side and pulling Jess’ back against your chest, your arm draped over her waist.

“Love you, Jessy,” you murmured.

Jess smiled, leaning back into you, “You too.”

You heard Sam switch off the light to the bathroom, and you were entirely unsurprised when you felt the bed dip behind you as your best friend turned out the lamp.

“This okay?” Sam asked, his arm resting over the two of you.

You sighed softly, knowing that he needed it as much as you did. It’d been the same way when you flunked an exam and Dean stopped talking to Sam in the same week back at college - you both needed support and your sister was there for both of you. This wasn’t anything that hadn’t happened before.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, closing your eyes and praying that sleep would come quickly.

@aprofoundbondwithdean, @adriellej, @deansbaekaz2y5, @danijimenezv, @ruined-by-destiel, @starswirlblitz, @thepinkgremlin, @torn-and-frayed,  @prideandprejudiceandbrendonurie, @bbywinchester67, @xtina2191, @latinenglishfandomblog, @purgatoan, @mindlessmegzz, @winchesterprincessbride, @sandlee44, @waywardlullabies, @treasurecastiel, @allinhishands, @helloangelicaaaaa, @destielxspn, @hiddenwritingsintheworld, @riddikuluslysupernatural, @sdavid09, @keepingitrealcas, @lennyways, @spnhybrid, @chaos-and-the-calm67 , @dontcrydean, @shameless-danni , @a-girl-who-loves-disney, @maxwellthemajestickoala, @supernatural0826, @run-your-cleverboy, @nerdwholikesword, @tiarna-spn, @ashiewesker, @tolaughistolobe, @lakama15, @spnolivia, @creatively-charlie, @bideanismykink, @highonpastries, @wanderer-tan, @a-sea-of-fandoms, @niamandthings, @acreativelydifferentlove, @damnitfandom

[calvin-af-crone]

Zane Lowe Interview

I gave myself the arduous task of transcribing Calvin's recent interviews & started w/ the last one. What a chore! I reacted strongly to some of this but I'll cover that later.

Calvin: This new one has felt like nostalgia to me in a nice way, the sort of thing nobody else is making it. So that feels good & regardless of how it does or whatever it felt really nice to me.

Zane: How do you go about choosing the voices? We’ve talked about this in the past but I wonder if that’s changed or how you settle on a voice like Tom’s for a song like this.

C: I couldn’t think of anyone else suited to it, to be honest w/ you. The first thing is I liked his voice a lot & stated following him on IG & I was struck by his positivity, his relentless positivity in his posts. I thought this guy, gee, I liked it. So yeah, when I kinda figured out what the song was gonna sound like he seemed like such an obvious choice. I wasn’t sure if he was gonna be up for it either. So I very happy he was & just good vibes, just nice good vibes.

Z: This idea of relentless positivity catching your attention, ya’know, I think a lot of time immersing ourselves as human beings in the other side of it cause it’s just really Moorish and we get attached to it. Is that a big driving force for you right now is like, ah, really trying to surround yourself w/ collaborator-wise or in your life w/ relentless positivity…

C: Yeah, yeah, that’s exactly what it is. Yeah, yeah, no point in doing the other thing & had enough experiences that were making records w/ people who were kinda like oh-wow this is a fun <mumble> weird.

Z: So is this the start of something new on a Calvin Harris level? I mean it’s been, it’s been what, what—I know we had Love Regenerator & I loved those projects as a DJ & someone who loves to listen to dance music. Those are about as authentic as you can get in the last sort of half decade but it has been close to half a decade since the last one for real, for real. So what’s your feeling about releasing albums—quote unquote.

C: To be completely honest w/ you, I don’t really think about it.

Z: So you’re not making an album per say, you’re just making music & if it works out that way—

C: No, I, absolutely not. I mean I’ve made albums since 2010 & then my albums became compilations of singles. They kinda like became compilation albums. And that’s a more fun way of doing it because on—firstly, every song’s gotta be good & secondly, cause it’s coming out as a single. And then secondly, zero pressure…just nothing, ya’know, fun. So nah, I can’t imagine me doing one probably ever at this point. But then next week I’ll start working on one.

Z: <snickers, chuckles> Well, someone will tell you when you’ve got enough singles for one & that will be easy.

C: Nah, because I had enough singles for one. There was like from 2015 to the end of 2016 I could have done 4 more tunes & then put out an album & got like 3 billion streams & that proved that I’m not that guy. That would have worked a treat. I would have got me another platinum disk or whatever. But it just felt a bit sorta cheap so I didn’t do that. But I like <laughing> being cheap.

Z: What’s motivating you now? If…because a lot of the traditional motivations are like what you just pointed out to be not as quite as cheap sounding as that but the idea of making an album & taking another step & another step…

C: Oh gawd, no. Imagine that. Step where, to what? What are we trying to get to?

Z: Exactly.

C: <laughing> You know what I mean? That’s what, you know, we’ve all been there but ultimately we’re the same person no matter how many rungs on the ladder we’re climbing. We got to sit w/ ourselves at the end of the day & ask ourselves are you actually happy now? And, uh, even if you’re top of the ladder some of the most desperately unhappy people I’ve ever met have been the ones w/ absolutely everything at their disposal. So yeah, it’s not that for me. For me it’s making records that make me feel good in the hope that other people feel good from it & ya’know it’s like I’m a service provider. If, like, if you wanna listen to my songs & you enjoy them then that’s absolutely fantastic. I don’t really ask for anything more than that for me.

Z: Calvin Harris, it’s great to see this brand new song featuring Tom Grennan, which is called By Your Side. You know it’s the kind of lyric, the kind of moment that will resonate with a lot of people because there’s been a lot of loneliness & there’s been a lot of anxiety & a lot of uncertainty in the last 18 months. Um, is that to some degree kinda even where subconsciously the message from this came from, ya’think?

C: I had the idea for a while & I was going thru things I forgot that I made &, um, it was one of the things that sort of jumped out at me & I thought oh I should finish this, it’s the max, you know. It’s just if it makes you feel good then, ya’know, stick it out probably it’s a good idea.

Z: Definitely. It’s why we’re talking cause it’s out. I wanted, how many things like not being a reflective human being, but also knowing that you created a lot of music that could just sit somewhere in the background forever & then you could just literally completely forget about it, how is that experience of going thru ideas & tracks & stuff…

C: Yeah, it’s funny I used to release everything that I made & I never had any folders of anything. Everything that I made used to come out. Um, & yeah, recently I’ve done a lot of tracks for people that have either fallen thru or, um, their label said no, or they changed their minds, or I changed my mind. So now I have like folders like I finally feel like a normal kind of producer cause that’s apparently what people have.

Z: Remember you saying to me like 3 years back that you, like, don’t have anything left, like, I make it, I put it out—I think at the time I, like, mostly believed you because of what you just said. Like producers gotta have ideas that don’t make it to the cut but you would literally put yourself into a situation where it’s like if this one isn’t complete then it’s not even gonna go in a file anywhere, nothing's going to happen.

C: Yeah, just getting deleted so that’s what I did & it worked a treat as well because, you know, um, especially like, not that I’m a nostalgic person at all, but 10 years ago when I was putting out loads & loads of singles & also I was touring a lot at the same time so I didn’t have a lot of time in the studio. So, you know, if you got 2 days a month you better use those 2 days to finish this song. So, you know, no time for any, you know, messing around & like trying things out. Um, & that’s the sort of thinking that leads you to using the same kick drums across a whole album because it’s easier…& it sounded great. I don’t know. Now I use other kick drums & enjoy the process of creation more. Less of a treadmill or what do you call it? What’s the, you know, less of a factory line mentality.

Z: You still got that kick drum tho—the good one.

C: Yes, it’s actually from Steve Angelo from 2010 & it’s banging. It’s a little too high for today’s sub.

Z: The way that those kicks used to thump. I feel like when we were all touring & everyone was making big records & it was all crazy, kick drums probably reached their apex of thump-ness. I don’t think we could thump any harder & we had to pull back a little bit. But we may be thumping harder back then.

C: Yeah, you couldn’t use them in a house record now. But I actually, if you were going to press me on my favorite kick drum, Zane, or my favorite era it would be 2010 w/ a close second & this is, ah, really for the demographic of whoever is still listening to this, Ummet Ozcan in 2014, what a kick— unbelievable.

Z: You’ve got a few in the can yourself, my man, I mean I’ve played a few Calvin Harris bangers in my life & there’s a few kick drums that come in a bit shy after yours.

C: Nah, but I never made them. That’s the thing. I always just stole them off other's records.

Z: Everybody did, most people did.

C: But that’s, the best thing. I made a song called Awooga, big EDM track, & I stole an Afrojack kick & 3 years later he asked for the Awooga kick & said I love that track, every time I play that track it really bangs, can you send me that kick. So I send him back that kick. I didn’t tell him that it was his kick.

Z: <laughter> That tickles me in a wonderful, wonderful way. So we have this brand new song w/ Tom that’s wonderful. Are you inspired? Are you going to make another song?

C: Another song, oh, that’s asking a lot that.

Z: I thought I was being really delicate, you know.

C: Yeah, nah, I don’t think, I don’t know. We’ll see. We’ll see. If I have, it’s like that thing, sort of what I was doing before, but much slower because I’m allowing myself to live life at the same time. So it’s, you know, if it’s a good idea & someone wants to sing it & stuff then yeah, absolutely love to but no pressure. I’m not trying to climb that ladder, dude.