Chapter Text
Octavia calls you at two in the morning on Tuesday night (Wednesday morning?), ringtone shrill and phone vibrating urgently, incessant.
You’re not quite exhausted as such but you had been looking forward to sleeping; your case was finally over and for the first time in two weeks you’d crawled into bed before one am.
So yeah, you will admit that when your phone goes off, you blindly reach out and mute it, end the call, and tug the blankets over your body again.
The warmth and drowsiness pull you back under and you’re just on the brink of sleep again when your phone vibrates with another call, silence be damned. You’re so tempted to ignore it again, but rational worry niggles at you and you sigh. It’d been 12 am when you’d collapsed into bed, so you know it’s well past that now. There’s a saying you and your co-workers are grimly fond of; absolutely no good news can come in the dead of night. And, well, the saying hasn’t failed any of you yet, so you sleepily reach for your phone, squinting at the bright glare of information displayed.
Octavia’s grinning face greets you, contact name neatly displayed as The Better Blake, and you’re reminded once again to change both her name and your phone’s passcode. How the hell did Octavia get into your phone, anyway?
(It’s a futile question to ask yourself when you know the answer is most likely a talented blonde with warm eyes and a raspy laugh).
You wouldn’t usually pick up, but it’s Octavia, and she’s Clarke’s best friend and by default yours too, at least since the past three months that you’ve been together; you’ve learnt enough about her by now to know that Octavia only calls when it’s an emergency, so you click the green button instead of the red this time and hold the phone to your ear expectantly.
(Carefully, though. A few centimetres away for good measure).
What you expect to hear in your disoriented state is her drunken laughter, perhaps Raven’s too; possibly accompanied by a few distant booms and bangs and the sound of them running from an angry crowd, followed by a garbled plea for a lift home.
What you don’t expect to hear is Octavia’s panicked ‘Lexa?’
You shoot up, suddenly wide awake. Your mind is suddenly awash with potential emergencies and that stupid team saying is suddenly taunting you.
‘Octavia. What’s going on?’ You manage to get out. A few impossible seconds pass before-
‘It’s Clarke,’ she blurts out, and then you’re tugging off your pyjama bottoms and searching for jeans because those two words combined with Octavia’s scared tone and the fact that it’s two in the fucking morning don’t go well together. You manage to awkwardly balance your phone between your shoulder and your neck as you yank your jeans up. When the younger girl doesn’t elaborate, you give a tight, ‘Octavia?’
‘Right, yeah, of course. So you know how Clarke had that surgery at 8pm-‘
(You do know. Your flustered girlfriend had called you at 7 pm, voice anxious as she explained that she’d been called in for a kid’s surgery who’d suddenly taken a turn for the worse. She had, of course, apologised profusely in that way that only Clarke could, overbearing and worried about being too much. But, God, she was so brilliant and dedicated and quite literally saving a kid’s life that you’d waved off the date night, with her favourite little restaurant near the beach that you’d had to book two weeks in advance. This job was Clarke’s life and dream and livelihood, and she’d supported you through 3 am cases and near hysteria so you’d be damned if you didn’t do the same).
‘-So she came out of surgery like an hour ago but I was busy finishing a surgery so I couldn’t see her ‘til just now-‘
‘Octavia,’ you warn again, voice stern but gentle, and Octavia stutters and curses as background noise rustles around her.
‘Right. Fuck. Clarke lost the kid. Well, it wasn’t her fault. From what I heard.’
It’s your turn to curse, albeit more colourfully. Clarke is brilliant at her job, and while you hadn’t experienced it personally yourself yet, you know it had torn her apart on the few occasions that she couldn’t save her young patients.
‘Where is she? What’s happening now?’ You ask, trying to scope out the situation. Octavia hesitates through the phone, and you grit your teeth as you pull on the rest of your clothes, trying to remind yourself that strangling the younger woman would be detrimental to your current goals right now.
‘Octavia.’ You plead instead.
‘Promise me you won’t fight someone,’ she rushes the words, and oh, do you know that sign; it’s a way of attempting to downplay the panic in her voice.
You think your teeth are going to break at the way your jaw is clenching. ‘Why the fuck would I need to fight someone? Where’s Clarke?!’
A jacket, your wallet, and your keys are the last things you grab as you rush out the door, taking the steps two at a time as you hurry out of the apartment complex. The air is chilly, but you don’t feel it as you unlock your car, the vehicle chirping. Octavia’s voice streams through the Bluetooth stereo as you jam the key into the ignition and take off at only a moderately illegal speed towards the hospital.
‘Um, so Clarke felt like shit afterward. Obviously.’ She pauses and you wince. Octavia has never really been one for subtlety or breaking news gently.
You push the speed limit a bit more as she continues. It’s freaking two am, and something’s clearly wrong, and you know that isn’t an excuse but – sue you, you’re scared. ‘But she went to see the parents of the kid to let them know personally, and to apologise. You know how she is. Always wanting to fix things. Even though she couldn’t help it.’
Octavia’s rambling, which means that whatever she’s hiding is important, although you’d already gathered that from the bizarre situation you’ve been flung into. Your irritated sigh seems to finally spur her on.
‘The dad kinda…lost it at Clarke. He, uh, attacked her. Before security managed to get him.’
You freeze, hands clenching around the steering wheel. A stab of panic rushes through your body, and the car jerks as you momentarily lose focus. It’s only the concern for your own life and Clarke’s that you manage to pull yourself together as fast as you do, hands shakily adjusting the vehicle. ‘What the hell do you mean he attacked her?’ You manage to force out, voice low and threatening, and Octavia flails, clearly searching for an appropriate response.
‘She’s fine. Mostly. But please tell me you’re close.’ You don’t miss how the younger girl’s tone is still too anxious for someone who’s mostly fine, or the cryptic responses she’s still giving you, but you’re pulling into the hospital parking lot now. It’s a lot easier to intimidate Octavia into answering questions when you’re physically there; you do have a few inches on her and an unsettling glare.
‘I’m walking in. You better be here to meet me.’ You answer in a clipped voice, and end the call, slipping the phone into your jean pocket.