Chapter Text
Junior year was supposed to be brutal. That’s what everyone, from friends to professors to the RA on the day she’d first arrived on campus for Freshman Orientation, said, anyway.
Personally, Clarke didn't get it.
"I don't get it, Raven," Clarke huffed as she dumped another box in the guest room, wincing at the sharp rattle it gave upon hitting the floor.
From behind an outdated copy of Scientific American came, "I'm gonna need some more information if you want an actual response."
Clarke collapsed on the bed next to her friend and new roommate, sweaty and tired. The rest of the boxes could wait.
"Just, why has everyone decided that this is the year that's gonna suck?"
"Aside from the collective experience of our academic forbears?" At Clarke's earnest nod, Raven sighed. She tossed the magazine aside and gave the question some actual consideration. "Best guess? It's because professors don't wanna be too harsh on seniors, they have enough to deal with as it is, and freshmen and sophomores don't make satisfying targets. They take everything too seriously; there's no fun in baiting them. Whereas juniors are just jaded enough to know that this is all bullshit but they also haven't given up yet. It's like a nihilistic sweet spot. Now can I go back to reading about the way Mars smells?"
But Clarke was already lost in thought. She mulled over Raven's answer, but she still wasn't satisfied. Maybe some professors liked playing mind games with their students—okay, some definitely did—but there had to be a better explanation.
Maybe junior year was just when everyone started to realize that college wouldn’t last forever. That they were going to have to go join the real world in just two short years. That they'd suddenly be responsible for their debt and from there it was only a hop, skip, and a jump away to a mortgage and car payments.
Well, that was probably enough to unbalance some people, but Clarke has lived in the real world since she was sixteen. It would take more than a few essays and exams to going to faze her.
Still, she'd been bracing herself all summer. Clarke Griffin was nothing if not prepared for all contingencies.
Mostly, that meant she'd resigned herself to giving up any semblance of a social life in order to keep up with the mountains of work she'd been promised. Having finally cultivated a group of friends that she actually liked (rather than tolerated), this was more of a drawback than it might have been a few years ago. If only because she was going to have to deal with an unprecedented amount of complaining, which would be harder to avoid than ever.
Honestly, Clarke probably would have been more than happy in the dorms again, but apparently living in the same single two years in a row was "just sad." Conveniently, Raven had managed to convince one of the engineering professors, away on sabbatical, that she would make and excellent house sitter. Mostly, the negotiations had involved promises to actually mow the lawn and not explode the microwave. Clarke really had to wonder about engineering students if they managed to set the bar so low. She didn't give it too much thought, though, since it meant she could stay with Raven in an actual house, rent-free, for the whole year.
A house which, at any given moment, contained at least one extra body. Monty and Jasper had already drawn up plans to install their still in the basement—"Our super said he's going to evict us if we create any more water damage in the bathroom."—and Lincoln had always shown up unannounced, even when there wasn't a house to show up to. Clarke couldn't count the number of times last year that she had come back to her dorm to find him lounging against her door or arrived at the library to see him occupying her usual table. Access to a functional kitchen where he could indulge in his stress baking was only going to make him come around more often. Now, it seemed, his new girlfriend would tag along, too.
He'd introduced her to them all at the move-in party Raven had insisted on throwing. Mostly, it was a loose collection of familiar faces, though that was for Clarke's benefit rather than a desire for a small party. Her friends had long ago learned that she did not always react well to new acquaintances and they were generally understanding. If they wanted Clarke's presence, then it had better be in a carefully controlled environment without unnecessary strangers. All introductions were planned ahead of time with Clarke's full agreement, although only Raven knew the whole story. Thankfully, her friends were willing enough to leave the matter alone. As Jasper said, "Better a small party with Clarke than a rager with her hiding in the coat closet," which was maybe the sweetest thing he'd ever said about her.
So, Clarke knew that a new person was about to enter her radar, and she found herself stressing over it in the hours leading up to Lincoln's arrival. Which was probably why she drained at least four shots as soon as Raven set out the booze.
(Not that Clarke really expected Lincoln's new girlfriend to be her soulmate, but that was the problem with this whole system. Anyone could be her soulmate and she'd long since learned that she could never be too careful.)
Which was why she was doubly glad when the first words out of Octavia Blake's mouth were: "I would literally kill someone for your boobs."
Definitely not her soulmate and definitely not someone who's ever had to worry about being careful. For a moment, everyone seemed to hold their breath. Monty's eyes darted between the two women and Jasper's mouth fell open. Lincoln looked as cool as he always did, but Clarke could read the worry in his set jaw. Only Octavia seemed undisturbed and Clarke took the moment to study her.
Octavia exuded the kind of energy that most cheerleaders would die for, boundless and enthusiastic. But there was something a little wild, a little feral, behind that spark. Clarke imagined she could almost see it pulsing, a counterpoint to Octavia's steady heartbeat. (Drinking did always make Clarke wax poetic.)
Still, she felt her head tipping back and let loose the wild laugh that sat in her chest, anxiety dulling at the wrong first words and the curl of alcohol in her stomach. Jasper joined in just a beat later and soon everyone was curled over in tipsy hysterics. Clarke looked around, warmth and affection for these people blooming through her. Happily, she let herself enjoy the first party of the year. There would always be time to worry about the ways in which the universe plotted to ruin her life. But later. Drink now, worry later.
As she lay in bed that night, head hazy from the rush of alcohol and laughter, Clarke felt her thoughts drifting. She sprawled on the nearly bare mattress, still a little sweaty and flushed from the party, the lone ceiling fan struggling to cool her down. In the sticky heat, she let herself turn half-formed ideas over in her mind, less critical than she would be sober.
Solitude was fine—she'd trained herself to live with it and the resulting loneliness—but there was still a spark of excitement about finally moving in with her first roommate. For all Clarke had told herself she was above the lure of friendships, she'd never quite believed it. Now, with the slightest encouragement, that need for companionship blossomed riotously, basking in the warm glow of Clarke's affection for this ragtag group of people.
Drifting on, Clarke reveled in a slow bloom of pride. There was something adult and almost radical about living with a roommate she'd chosen, for all that millions of kids did this exact thing every year. It felt like some kind of progress, a daunting step forward, but one that shed so much weight from her shoulders. Maybe to someone else, this feeling of accomplishment would be unearned, but it felt so real to Clarke. And, to be fair, Clarke would never say she didn't have a skewed perspective on most things even without shots of tequila swirling through her bloodstream.
So, there she was, sweat trickling across her forehead and into her hair. Even in her sweaty exhaustion, Clarke reminded herself that junior year was going to be amazing. Even without the comfort of her own Fortress of Solitude. Impulsively, just as sleep started to drag her under, she resolved to try and start relaxing about the whole voxnota thing. She'd made similar promises to herself in the past, but she was determined to really follow through this time. Maybe it was time to give up on the list and all her preparations. She was strong. She could roll with the punches. She'd face this ridiculous fear head on.
Content, Clarke finally let sleep claim her, unaware of just how soon she would be put to the test.
Fresh off her annual school supply shopping trip, Clarke could only reaffirm how awesome junior year was going to be. Sure, she had a lot of work ahead of her, but single-minded focus was one of Clarke's best attributes. (It didn't matter that Raven snorted any time she heard this, Clarke always maintained it was a virtue.) It wasn't as if Clarke was about to let the many distractions at the house foil her plans, anyway. Very little of her work could actually be done at the house. Approximately 75% of her semester was going to be spent in the art studios: Advanced Figure Drawing, Intro to Ceramics, and Alternative Darkroom Techniques. She was thrilled to finally be getting the chance to get out of the lecture halls and get her hands dirty.
That was a conservative estimate, too, especially after Clarke landed a second job as the photo lab attendant. (The first was less exciting: sorting packages in the Student Union's mailroom.) She'd have to come in a few nights a week and make sure there were enough chemicals on hand and the photo paper was still stocked, the harried photography instructor had explained. Clarke would also have to be on call to answer any questions from the other students and keep scheduled hours where she would be on hand to provide demonstrations or help. Of course, the professor rushed to assure her, she would be paid for all her time and Clarke was welcome to use any of the equipment or supplies at no charge.
It almost seemed too good to be true, but Clarke had already gotten through a few shifts and she was ecstatic. No one came in. That was the one thing she'd worried about, even with her New (School) Year Resolution. And she was sure that would change as the semester progressed, but for now the photo lab was her quiet, well-organized haven. In the darkroom, the trays of developer and stop bath were always pristine and the counters devoid of splashes. And the rest of the lab housed a bank of computers all running the latest software for photo editing and animation. Clarke was in heaven.
Even more now, Clarke didn't understand the haze of despair and dread that colored junior year for everyone. So far, she only had good things to say about it. Aside from the photo lab, she'd already scoped out all the art studios and even reserved a private space for the semester. (Raven had told her she could set up a studio in the house's basement, but Clarke had no interest in being in the basement when Monty and Jasper's still inevitably exploded.) There was, of course, the added bonus that this job meant Clarke had one more reason not to hang around the house with its many distractions and potential pitfalls.
Her one concession to actual academia was a lecture with the best reviewed professor in the Art History department, so she wasn't too bitter about the loss of studio time.
She committed to that attitude more firmly upon looking over the syllabus that waited at every seat in the rapidly filling classroom. Discussion-based with short, weekly papers, Clarke could see herself liking this class almost as much as her others. The reading material had interesting titles, even if Clarke had only heard of a few of the authors, and every few weeks something simply titled "EXCURSION" had been inserted into the class schedule, although there was no accompanying explanation. This was definitely not one of those massive lectures that Clarke had struggled through last year in the name of general education.
“Hello and welcome to Art and the State,” intoned Professor Wallace from his podium at the front of the room just as the clock struck the hour. “If this is not the class in which you are enrolled, now is your chance to escape.”
A murmured chuckle swept through the room as someone, a freshman probably, frantically packed his bag and dashed out the door.
“There’s one every year,” Wallace drawled with a rueful smile before launching into a discussion of the syllabus. After outlining the coursework and required reading, he said, "Now, I see no reason not to let you go early today. Just please make sure you fill in the survey attached to your syllabus and pass it in to my teaching assistant, Mr. Blake."
Clarke glanced up at the man in question before starting in on the form and had to do a double take. Dark, unruly curls spilled across freckled skin and Clarke found herself wondering if human beings, let alone her art history TA, could look like that. He couldn't have gotten those shoulders just from lifting textbooks, right? And good lord, his arms. Clarke wasn't sure if she wanted to sculpt them or—
"Any day now, princess."
Oh, shit. Clarke never let herself get caught up in daydreams about attractive strangers. (Too much temptation and not even Clarke was immune to stupidly hot people.) But bad enough that Clarke was just called out for ogling her TA, but of course it had to be worse.
Clarke was just forming a scathing retort when his comment finally penetrated the haze of embarrassment.
Any day now, princess.
Shit.
All lofty dreams of personal development immediately flew out the window. Years of conditioning and planning and worrying kicked in. Feeling like she'd choked on her tongue to stem the words in her mouth, Clarke scrawled out her email address and schedule conflicts, mortification overset by sheer, unadulterated panic. She shoved the paper at her—The TA. He's just the TA.—and fled the lecture hall.
Somehow, Clarke couldn't supply the particulars if her life depended on it, she made it back to the house without giving into the mounting panic drumming against her sternum. As soon as she was safely inside, she slammed the door and pressed her back into it as if she could keep fate and words and everything at bay through sheer force of will and two inches of wood.
"This isn't happening. This isn't happening. This isn't happening," she chanted to herself, hoping repetition would make it true. Common sense and experience told her it wouldn't, but she kept at it anyway.
That was how Raven found her: eyes squeezed shut and muttering to herself as she bodily barred the door.
"What the hell happened to you?"
Clarke chanced a peek at her best friend, took in the smear of grease she'd missed on her neck and the palpable concern couched in her gruff question and felt her pulse begin a slow descent. Raven meant safety. Raven meant everything was going to be fine. She could tell Raven. She should tell Raven. If anyone could understand the fear that invaded Clarke's brain, it would be Raven.
But Raven was braver than Clarke. Raven could understand and feel fear and keep on going in spite of it and she would tell Clarke to do the same. (Which was objectively good advice. Obviously that was the healthy way to approach this whole situation. But, well, that didn't really matter because if Raven was brave, then Clarke was stubborn.)
No. Clarke would not tell Raven that today she went to class and ended up meeting her soulmate. Not because it wasn't true, the brand on her neck was proof enough of that, but because she wasn't ready to be brave. Clarke wasn't ready to abandon her years of careful planning, no matter how many resolutions she made, no matter how tempting the alternative. And, God, was it tempting.
So, Clarke took a shuddering breath and pushed away from the door. "You would not believe what a huge dick Wallace's TA was," she complained, aiming for truth and levity.
(Honestly, Clarke had never really given a lot of thought to the content of her words. All that mattered for the past four years was that she had them at all. But having finally heard them, Clarke was surprised she hadn't been annoyed with the words to begin with. How much more condescending could a guy get? Any day now, princess. Please. She'd been indignant. That was the only reason she wanted to respond in the first place; Clarke very carefully did not think about how much stronger the urge became once her brain finally caught up with the situation. How she'd hesitated before leaving, had actually considered opening her mouth and letting that scathing retort fly.
She wasn't prepared for that. When she read stories about hearing the voxnota and the instantaneous desire to reciprocate, she'd chalked it up to an unerring and obtuse belief in the system. Clarke would be better than that, she was sure. But it had been so difficult to stem the words that wanted to burst from her lips. It had been so difficult to walk away without saying anything at all. That, more than anything, burned bitterly in her gut. How dare the universe try to undermine her careful plans? How could she be so weak as to nearly melt in the face of this boy who should mean nothing to her.)
"He's a grad student. He's honor bound to be a dick," was Raven's response. She examined Clarke more carefully. Pale and probably clammy if the beads of sweat collecting at her hairline were any indication, the normally unruffled Clarke looked like she'd seen a ghost.
"He called me Princess."
Raven's jaw clicked shut and she nodded brittlely. "That'll do it."
It was surprising, sometimes, how suddenly Finn could worm his way back into her consciousness. Raven could go days without thinking sad thoughts about him and then bam! there he was again.
Sorry that she'd brought Finn up, even obliquely—Well how else was she supposed to throw Raven off the real scent?—Clarke did her best to grin cheerfully. "Hey, my righteous indignation in the face of patriarchal bullshit has made me hungry. Wanna make nachos and yell at Fox News?"
As she hoped, Raven rolled her eyes. "That gross microwavable cheese sauce on tortilla chips is not nachos, Griffin. If we're gonna yell at bigots on tv we need the good snacks."
Just like that, Raven shook off her brief melancholy and marched into the kitchen, muttering that Jasper and Monty better not have eaten the last of the popcorn. Clarke watched her go fondly but jolted when she realized she'd been rubbing the delicate, faint words seared onto the back of her neck. She jerked her hand down, fists clenching in frustration.
"Hurry up, Griffin! These idiots aren't gonna yell at themselves!"
Clarke shook herself. Maybe she heard him wrong. Maybe he said something else. Maybe this really wasn't happening. She took a deep breath, shakier than she hoped, and headed after her friend.
This was what the plan was for. Screw resolutions, Clarke was going to hunker down and assess before she made any life-altering decisions. Yeah, that was what she would do: make a decision after she had all the facts. If she wanted to pursue this soulmate thing, she would, but first she had to make sure it was the right choice. Feeling a little better with a plan in place, she tried to reassure herself. Nothing would go wrong because she had a plan.
Right?