Work Text:
i wanna find myself by the sea
in another's company
by the sea
i wanna go out to the pier
i'm gonna dive and have no fear
'cause you, you just know
you just do
--vcr, the xx
//
You aren’t sure how this is going to work. For years now, literal years, since your soul mate apparently discovered the wonders of having a pen on them at all times for notes, your hand has been covered in ink near-permanently. Anya gave up on even asking after the first few times, because there is no way you would ever write something quite as eloquent as “fucking call raven BITCH” or, for that matter write on your skin at all.
(“For Christ’s sake Lexa, you are not going to get skin cancer from a Bic pen.”)
It never hurts to be cautious.
//
At this point you’re wondering if your soul mate just dropped off the face of the earth or sincerely has no idea what a pen is. You almost feel bad, because you’re constantly scrawling stupid things across your back of your hand-- or palm if you run out of room because, yeah, that does happen sometimes. It’s not your fault that the hospital decides 24-hour shifts are the most effective way to maintain a high standard of care for their patients, which as a result makes your short term memory crap. And, being honest, you aren’t sure if Mr. Johnson down in room 214 is really getting the #1 standard of care when your shift magically bleeds into 28-hours, but that’s neither here nor there. The notes are a necessity, and the only way you ever actually remember what needs to be done in real life after leaving the hospital.
You make up for it with doodles, or you try to.
//
You’re getting ready for bed, setting out your nicely folded clothes for tomorrow on a chair when you notice it. Your sleeve hitches up, and a ring of green covers your wrist. You’ve gotten used to it by now, but you still instinctively worry about some kind of bleeding and staining of your clothes. You pull your shirt off and-- oh man.
An entire forest sprawls across your forearm, tips of evergreen in stark contrast to the swirling cosmos of an endless galaxy of violets and magentas. You trace over the colors silently, reverently, the hues vibrant and rich, blending into each other fluidly save for small pinpoints of the stars. It’s beautiful, it’s exquisite, you’re reverent, and you think you can understand why the universe chose this person for your soul mate.
//
You’re scrubbing at the ink on your arm but it’s just not coming off. It’s just Sharpie, you’ve done this a billion times before, but it’s never been this stubborn. You’d gotten bored waiting for Octavia and had just started doodling with your new pack of colored Sharpies because, hey, art is fun and wonderful and only ever takes a back seat to your love of medicine and probably Netflix, but good luck explaining that to health care.
Speaking of which, you had to be there in--you check the clock-- forty-five minutes, and this idiotic doodle is completely covering your forearm, and it’s like at least ninety degrees out. Your skin is pink and raw, and at this point you’re going to be late, so you sigh, throw down the washcloth, and start hunting through your drawers for a long sleeve shirt, because this thing is not going any- Wait.
You lift your arm again and inspect the ink. Generally, with the whole “soul mate” thing, any tattoo has to be carefully discussed because it’s not only going to be on your body for life, but also theirs. Knowing the person so you are able to discuss it would be a bare minimum. But this-- you sniff, is definitely not Sharpie ink. Your soul mate fucking got a tattoo, a tattoo of your drawing, which, okay, flattering, but still in the span of about twenty four hours and now you have to wear long sleeves every fucking day to work. You don’t know this person yet but for the first time you hope you don’t meet them soon, for their sake.
//
There’s an incredibly loud pair in line in front of you at the coffee shop.
“It’s not fucking funny, Raven, for fuck’s sake, if you’re going to get a tattoo you warn the other person first! Now I have this thing on my arm for the rest of my life, which is not what I had intended to happen when I was waiting for Octavia’s ass to show up!”
The blonde runs her hand through her hair distractedly, letting out a huff.
“I mean it looks great, so really, there are worse tattoos to have. Imagine if they’d gotten a dick or something stupid like that,” her friend says.
“That’s not the point, I don’t even know this person. And they just up and decided something for us.”
“Okay, but it was your art, so that’s pretty cute, right? It meant enough to them to get it tattooed, even without knowing you, they still thought it was beautiful. Which, now that I think about it, might give them more reason to like it. Real you is a bitch.”
“Fuck off Reyes.”
“Just telling it like it is, Griffin. It works for you though.”
The blonde grumbles a reply, and you glance down to check the time (they really are holding up the line with their disgustingly complex sugar drink), when you see it.
Your heart stops. The woman is frowning down at her forearm, covered in rich greens and midnight purples that fade into a rich navy blue, and it’s-- She staring at the exact same thing you got tattooed on your arm yesterday.
//
You hear the woman behind you clear her throat. Okay, yeah this was taking a little while and maybe you’d been a little loud but, really? Rude. You turn, raising your eyebrow, and are met by a pair of startlingly green eyes, wide and possibly frightened. You frown, confused-- maybe you should be working on that bitch thing-- but she’s speaking to you now.
“I’m sorry-- I just… I couldn’t help but overhear…” she trails off, extending her right arm towards you, and you look down.
You’re expecting a handshake. You’re expecting a pen that fell out of your purse, or your credit card, or something, What you’re not expecting is a fresh, barely-begun-healing, perfect tattoo replica of your doodle from yesterday.
Your eyes snap back up, and the woman holds your gaze.
“Yesterday?”
She nods, and you dig around for a moment, handing her a Sharpie.
“We should test this, then, just to be sure,” you say, ignoring Raven’s strangled sounds behind you, or the barista impatiently calling your order.
“What should we write?”
“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging. “Our names?”
She dips her head slightly and uncaps the marker.
“On three then. One, two….three.”
You bend over and press the tip against your skin, and you’re almost done shaping the C-L-A when four neat letters appear smack in the middle of your hand. Lexa.
Swallowing, you look back up, finding the woman with an equally dazed expression on her face.
“So,” she says, “you’re the one who has never heard of paper in their life.”
You grin.
"You’re the one who got it tattooed on our arms.”