Chapter Text
Clarke's feet were heavy with caked on mud. Her shoes, once a pristine white, were now a dull rust colour, stained with years of dirt, blood and grim. The soldier in front of her, of whom his friend called ‘Jacky’ was thrashing and wailing on the table, the large wound on his leg bleeding at a steady rate. Clarke’s hair; frizzy and unkempt, was falling out of the braid on the back of her head, whisps of it tickling her forehead, making it increasingly difficult to concentrate on stemming the bleeding. She wiped the back of her hand along her forehead, leaving a sticky trail of crimson red blood behind. Her hand went back inside the solider leg, raising her voice to the nurses around her,
“We need to clamp the femoral artery or he is going to bleed out right here. Hold him down, you hear me? No matter how much he thrashes, hold him down!” Clarke tells the young mans friend, who grabs the soldier’s shoulders and forces them into the stiff wood of the made-shift operating table.
As she is handed the clamps, the army doctor rushes over to her, taking the clamp from her hand and rushing her away. She is handed a damp cloth and is ushered to a more quite part of the destroyed building that was the British army’s make-shift camp. She rubbed the cloth over her face and neck, before scrubbing her hands viciously, trying to rid her hands and nailbeds of left over blood.
She stands still, listening to the faint sounds of wildlife, and the bustle of the camp behind her. A buggy full with soldiers and army nurses drives past her, them all laughing and cheering. She looks quizzically at the back of the car, wondering how a group of people can be so carefree when faced head-on with a war. she shakes her head before a fellow nurse runs up to her, her eyes shining, a giant smile plastered on her face.
“Clarke! Did you hear? The war is over, its finally over!” she cried, handing Clarke and open bottle of champagne and running over to the now large group, cheering and whooping.
Clarke stared at the bottle for a moment, before bringing it up to her lips and taking a long draw from the glass bottle, the slight sting at the back if her throat a welcome feeling. She looks over at the group and smiles. She can finally go home.
Clarke Josephine Elizabeth Griffin, named after her maternal grandmother was born April 12th 1918, to wealthy and loving parents. She grew up in the countryside, surrounded by lush green grass, rolling hills as far as her blue eyes could see, and constant love from both her mother Abigail and her father Jacob. When she was five, they died in a freak automobile accident, killing both Clarke’s parents instantly. She tearfully said goodbye to the countryside, and began living with her uncle Marcus, and archaeologist. She grew up travelling; not an upbringing that was the norm for a young lady of noble birth.
She met Finnigan Collins, who was 12 years her senior in 1937. After a whirlwind romance, they eloped and married a mere 3 months after their first meeting. Finn was a kind and devoted husband, a gentle lover, and a man of strong will. Both seemed to move in time with each other, one fluid body rather than 2 separate entities. Finn was a historian, focusing mainly on European Wars, which kept both him and Clarke busy but nomadic. After a mere year and a half of marriage, World War II broke out, separating the young lovers; Clarke as a combat nurse and Finn an officer for MI6. During the 6 years of the War, Clarke and Finn saw each other for a grand total of 10 days. Once the war ended, and both parties were safely back in London, they decided to go on a second honeymoon to Scotland; the same place they had their first honeymoon; Inverness. Partly as a holiday to forget the atrocities they had seen, but also as a way to relearn each other. They both had changed, the war aged them, not just their faces, but their minds as well. Both Clarke and Finn would rather forget what they had seen, and start their lives anew. If only is was that easy.
The fresh, crisp Scottish air reminded Clarke of one of her first memories as a child. She was four, possibly five, running rampant on the frosty grass, the crackling of the blades making her giggle. The cold morning air stinging her sinuses with each intake of breath. Her father was watching her from the doorway, a small smile on his face as he wrapped his cold hands around the cup of hot tea. She spun in circles, one after the other, looking up at the light blue, early morning sky, small cracks of sunlight hitting her small face and gold hair, shining a soft yellow light onto her and he father. It is one of the only memories she had of Jacob, and it is cloudy at best, but she loved to think about it. She became nostalgic driving down the hilly landscape, the sun high in the sky. She looked over at Finn, one hand on the steering wheel and one hand just above her knee and smiles at him, soft. He relayed the same smile back to her, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and moved his hand to grip hers. She looked down at their intertwined hands, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles before looking out the window at the Scottish Highlands, and let out a small sigh.
“This trip will be good for both of us, I know it.”
The couple arrived at the small Bed and Breakfast half an hour later, checking in with a friendly lady, who insisted on them calling her Callie, smiling at the two. She led them up to the guest room of the small building, Finn carrying their luggage up the narrow and slightly rickety stairs. Callie unlocked the room for the couple, dropped the key into Clarke’s waiting hands and left them to their own devices.
“It has character Clarke. It’s a nice place, and in close correspondence with Reverend Sinclair.” Finn said, placing their trunks at the end of the double bed.
“I’m not arguing with you Finn. I’m sure we will be very happy here.”
Clarke ran her hand across Finn shoulders before he sat down on the bed. The springs groaned against the weight, letting out a loud squeak every time Finn shifted his weight.
“So much for marital privacy, huh?” Finn sighed, Clarke giggled in return.
The two stayed stoic for a moment, before Clarke toed off her shoes, her feet clad only in her thin pantyhose, and jumped up onto the bed. She started jumping, the springs squeaking and groaning with every movement. Clarke’s well placed hair was now out, framing her face and she laughed and stuck her hand out to help Finn up onto the bed. The both jumped, laughing before collapsing onto the bed, laughing. Clarke’s hair was in disarray, bits sticking up in every direction. Clarke climbed onto of Finn, her body flush against him. She started to kiss him, sweet and delicate at first, before Finn nipped at her lips, willing her to open her mouth. The kiss became heated almost instantaneously. They explored each others bodies, remembering each part that they have forgotten in the almost 6 years they had been apart. They were slow and tender with each other, each stoke of a hand soft and gentle, every kiss scathing but full of sweetness and love, leaving a trail of red, wet marks. They moved as one, each movement relayed by the other, the constant banging of the old cast iron bed frame banging loudly against the wall, making Clarke and Finn laugh.
Before the war started, Clarke and Finn had been trying for a child, but with no success. She often though, during the cold, dank nights, Clarke shivering underneath light, scratchy blankets, that she might be barren. Children weren’t something Clarke had thought of often in her formative years. She knew she would probably have to, some day, but never dreamt about small, squirmy babies, nestled tightly between her breast and her arm. But during the nights, without her husband, she never wanted anything more in her entire life to be holding something that was equal parts hers and Finn’s, her most prized possession and her greatest achievement.
The next day, Finn rises early in the morning to meet with Reverend Sinclair, who was one of the most well-educated men on Scottish history, and more so Finn’s British Captain ancestor; Jonathan Wolferton Collins, more commonly known as Black-Jack Collins. He leaves Clarke to sleep, as he and the Reverend were meeting downstairs, and she was able to awaken and come to introduce herself. It too her almost 3 hours to wake up and introduce herself to the reverend, and she sat listening to the two men talking in loud, boisterous voices before she grew bored, excusing herself to take a walk around the town, breathing in the country air. She looked in shops, collecting some trinkets to bring back for her friends, and arrived just in time for Callie to have serves supper, scolding the Reverend for messing us her lounge room, bits of paper strewn all over the room, covering almost every surface. Both the reverend and Finn looked sheepishly at the two women, and Clarke couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh before bending down and kissing her husband.
For the next four days, Finn would go down and talk all day with the Reverend, leaving Clarke to her own devices; which consisted of her mainly reading through her small stack of books she brought with her on the trip, or soaking in a hot bath for hours at a time, something she missed dearly during the war. Finn finally realised how bored his wife was, apologising profusely, before vowing that the next two days he would be all hers, and they could do whatever she pleased.
“Anything?” Clarke asked wryly, looking up at her husband through her lashes, her eyes hooded.
“Anything.” Finn whispered, firmly, His breath fanning onto her face.
Clarke roughly grabbed her husbands face, pulling him down onto his knees so that they were eye-level with each other before they both bolted forward, kissing each other with such ferocity; which both parties haven’t felt since they were newlyweds. They wrap themselves around each other, fucking slow and loving, no one in this whole world mattered but Clarke and Finn Collins, finally together again after so much time spent apart.
They stayed like that for the entirety of the first day, both sticky and bone tired, but euphoric, laying naked next to each other, chests heaving, but so incredibly happy. They slept well, tucked into each other until the sun was high in the sky. Both Clarke and Finn got ready slowly, stopping every few moments to touch each other, Clarke trying to kiss Finn’s bare shoulder or bicep, and Finn grabbing Clarke’s hands, laying to palm down on his much larger ones.
“I used to fantasise about your hands.” Finn said, playing with her fingers.
“My hands? Not any other part of me?” Clarke laughed out, looking at her husband quizzically.
“well, yes of course Clarke, but I could never seem to get your hands out of my head. I would absentmindedly doodle your palm onto almost any piece of paper I could find. I got scolded plenty of times for handing in documents with your palm lines scribbled onto the margins” Finn replied, turning over her hand and lightly running his fore finger over the lines in her palm, making her giggle and pull back her hand.
“Do you study me on my sleep or something? Know every part of me?” Clarke joked, pulling on her pantyhose.
“Clarke, I will never be able to forget any part of you, no matter how hard I try.”