Work Text:
8 Years Old:
You were always told that home was where you lived or some crap about it being your mother and daddy. Well, your daddy died and since then your mother has done nothing but cry. Some days all she does is sleep. You try to wake her, pushing her shoulders with every bit of strength you can muster. You’ll yell, “Wake up!” or “stop being such a cry baby!” but she doesn’t move.
After a day or two of your mother vacillating between crying and passing out, you can begin to hear your stomach growl. Food has run out and you are afraid to leave your quarters. You don’t think of this suffocating little box like home, but it is where you live. Most days your mom would bring food back, but she’s only been drinking from dirt caked bottles. You open up the bottle near her bed and your eyes sting from the sharpness of the vapor. You close the bottle and wipe the tears that threaten to fall.
Even though you’ve never been outside without your mom you decide you have to eat. It’s time to leave home, or whatever this cramped box is, and find food. Your stomach lurches in agreement. You take the grimy bottle with you and head towards what you think is the cafeteria.
“Hey, you’re Raven, Amanda’s girl?” a large lady asks you.
You don’t like the way she smiles at you. There’s something dangerous behind that smile. Like she’s going to steal your soul if given the chance. “Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Nygel, Little Bird. Are you hungry?”
“My name’s not Little Bird!” You hate the nickname. This lady with her dark smile and piercing eyes makes you want to run away, but you refuse to back down.
“Slow down, Little Bird. What you got there?” she says as she nudges your hand that is holding your mother’s bottle.
You shrug off her greedy fingers and hold the bottle tight to your chest. “None of your business.” You glare at her to let her know that you mean it.
“Maybe it isn’t, Little Bird. I bet you sure are hungry though.”
You want to yell at her to go away, but your stomach growls and gives you away.
That dark smile of hers twists to the side. “I tell you what, give old Nygel here that bottle and I’ll bring you some food. Then you can flap those little wings of yours back home.”
“That’s not my home” you manage before giving her the bottle.
“Whatever you say, Little Bird. I’ll bring that food by later.”
14 Years Old:
You glance up from the physics homework in front of you and smile.
“You know for someone so interesting, you sure like boring stuff” Finn scoffs at you.
You give him a sidelong glance, but you soften a bit when he hands you half of a sandwich. “Not everyone can get by on charm, Finn.”
“It’s not just charm. It’s good looks too. How do you think I got that extra half sandwich, huh?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you.
You look down at the sandwich. You know that as playful as Finn can be that he didn’t con his way into an extra half. Charisma is not a form of currency on the Ark. Rations and procuring items or services through Nygel is the only way to get extra food.
Finn smooths his hands through his hair and it falls back into its floppy form.
“Yeah, you’re so good looking you swept me off my feet.” You mumble in between bites of stale bread that you pick from the crust.
He walks with a slow purpose, almost methodical, over to you. You feel the welcome pressure of his hands on your wrists.
“Well, didn’t I?”
Before you can protest he’s pulling you out of your chair, but he falters as he attempts to life you up into his arms.
“Finn. Stop. Knock it off. You’re going to ruin my sandwich!” you say in equal parts mock protest and actual annoyance.
He looks up at your with big, pleading puppy dog eyes. “Come Raven, just admit it a little bit. Just this once?”
You succumb to whatever question is in his gaze and lean into his open arms. You rest your heart on his chest. The steady hum of his heart, calms you. You think you might start to understand this home thing. For now it’s the boy next door.
18 Years Old
The rain pounds against the side of your tent. You keep attempting to warm yourself up by rubbing your hands together, but it’s cold here on earth in a way that is never was up in the Ark. You can’t seem to shake the wet chill wracking your bones, but you’ll be damned if you’re going to ask Finn to help you.
This musty tent is all you have left. The wind down your spine keeps you from finding comfort. You glance at Finn in the sleeping bag. You could join him, but he would he even want you to? He’s made it clear that he doesn’t think of you in that way anymore.
The pain of that conversation stabs at your chest. Even if you saw this coming from a mile away when that perky blonde, Clarke, Abby Griffin’s daughter for fuck’s sake, had the folded deer in her hands, it still burns. You had accepted that the small room where you watched your mother rot wasn’t your home and leaving the Ark was necessary. What you hadn’t expected was how easily the foundation of what you had built with Finn would come crumbling down with a few days and the turn of a pretty blonde head.
“You’re freezing, come here” Finn calls out to you.
You can hear the apology in his voice and look into those familiar pleading, puppy dog eyes. For a second it’s easy to wash away the betrayal, to imagine the warmth of his body and the strength of his arms rooting you here. The wind rushes through the tent and you shiver once more.
“That’s all right. I’ll manage” you say. You know he doesn’t belong to you anymore. He’s found a new home in Clarke.
20 Years Old:
Cool finger tips brush down the side of your cheeks. You scrunch up your face in feigned annoyance and continue to stare with determination at the motor in front of you. Giving the wrench in your hand a sharp yank, you feel the tip of your tongue go to the side of your mouth. The fingertips are now scratching at the base of your neck.
You give a brusque retort, “You know it’s hard to concentrate when you’re being such an obvious distraction." You sigh and fidget in your chair, resettling your weight back into the hands on your neck, continuing your game of pretend frustration.
“And you think it’s easy for me to sit back when you’re looking so…” You hear a hint of wistfulness in Abby’s voice.
“So charming, sexy, hot” you tilt your head backwards and lock onto Abby’s eyes.
Her brown eyes crinkle when she responds, “I was going to say cute.”
“Cute” you scoff. “Cute doesn’t keep the electricity running in Mount Weather. And cute doesn’t give you multiple – “
Your head tips back with the sudden vacancy of Abby’s hands. “Yeah, cute. The way you stick your tongue out reminds me of Clarke when she used to do her homework and a problem gave her trouble. She got that from Jake.”
Abby’s voice drops low at the end. You rarely talk about Clarke, and you almost never discuss Jake. The presence of Abby’s grief rises in the room until you can feel the air thick with it. You suck in a sharp breath and wonder how deep the water is before putting your tools down and getting out of your chair.
Abby’s back is facing you now. Time to dive in. “You can talk about them if you want. I know that they’re gone, but – “
Abby’s head whips around, her eyes are swollen and red from the tears that are on the verge of streaming down her face. “I may have lost Jake, but Clarke” she steadies herself and her stare bores into you, “Clarke is still out there.”
You are not sure what to do in this moment. You’re a mechanic and it is your job to fix things. Broken pressure regulator, sure, you can have the working in less than a day. Need to have a power coupling looked at, you can have it finished in half the time as Wick. But, consoling someone…that requires something else.
You can feel the anger boil up in your veins, the heat of it flash behind your cheeks. It isn’t fair that Clarke left immediately after she secured Mount Weather. Clarke did not even tell Abby goodbye. Abby may have picked up the pieces of your people after that blood soaked uprising, but no one had come forward to take care of Abby. No one except you.
“You’re right. She is out there. She chose to leave to go back to that Grounder that betrayed her, betrayed us.”
Abby’s eyes flash a warning at your words. You flinch, instinctively, a muscle memory from the last time you questioned the character of her daughter.
“Oh, honey, no. I wouldn’t. Not like the last time. I regret that so much.” The cold fingers from earlier are cupping your face, steadying you. You didn’t even realize you had been shaking.
“And I know you’re right. Clarke’s an adult and she made her choice. It just hurts sometimes. I miss her and I think she left because” Abby’s body lurches into yours, “she hates me.”
You reach up to cradle her hands. “Clarke doesn’t hate you. Her leaving has nothing to do with you. She’s in love and she couldn’t help it, even if she wanted to.”
You bite back the last of it like a whisper. Love has never come easy to you, but you’ve always been unable to abandon the ones you care for. You steel your nerves in an attempt to pretend like the oncoming rejection doesn’t matter.
“Do you want to help it, Raven?”
You meet Abby’s gaze. Her soft, brown eyes are calm and flat as they inch ever so closer to your eyes. Her humid breathe tickles your upper lip before soft yet chapped lips brush against your own. You realize the loud thrumming in your ears is the pounding of your heart. You lean in and press your lips further into Abby and you hold her there in a firm embrace. The stammering throb of what felt like cardiac arrest is replaced by pleasant warmth that creeps inside.
Abby pulls back and smiles. You know it’s genuine because you can see the crinkles around the sides of her eyes. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. I know you like having a place to hide out, to have your privacy, but I was wondering if you’d like to move in here?”
It surprises you how shy you feel. No one has wanted to live with you before, but the elated happiness overrides any self-consciousness. “What makes you think I’d want to give up my freedom? I mean lots of people want a piece of what I got and this might cramp my style.”
An eye roll responds to your false bravado. “Raven, I’m serious. Do you want to move in or not?”
You smile and rub the toe of your shoe into the floor, “Yeah,” you say above a hush, “I would.”
Abby brings you into a hug that almost pushes the air out of your sides. “Good,” she says, “I’ve begun to think of having you around like home.”
You grasp her even tighter, “Me too Abby.”