Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"For the last time, no," O huffs out with a frustrated breath of air, fingers tightening around the worn leather of the steering wheel until their knuckles bloom white against tanned skin.

"You're crazy, O. It's only twenty minutes away." Clarke shifts herself around in the passenger seat, the worn leather creaking beneath her. She digs into the back pocket of her skinny black jeans—the ones with the artfully placed rips that Lexa always pretends to hate but actually loves—and fishes out her cell phone. The late morning sunlight catches on the small infinity symbol charm dangling from her case, sending prisms dancing across the dashboard. "I've been going there for years now and loved it. Denise is seriously like the ultimate hair whisperer. Even Lexa approves of her, and you know how picky she can be with that waterfall of brunette perfection she's so proud of. I'm sure Denise can squeeze you in if I just give her a call."

Clarke's already thumbing through her contacts, the blue glow of the screen reflecting in her determined eyes. "Way better option than driving two hours to some random barbershop in the middle of nowhere just 'cause a friend of a friend recommended it."

"No." The word is quiet but edged with steel.

"O..." Clarke's voice softens, taking on that nurturing tone she reserves for her hospital patients and her most stubborn friends.

O glances over at Clarke, cell phone ready in hand, and is suddenly hit with a gut-wrenching wave of conflicting emotions. Their knuckles ever so slightly whiten as they curl their fingers tighter around the steering wheel, the leather warm and familiar beneath their touch. Part of O wants nothing more than to just turn the car around, right then and there, and tell Clarke to forget about it. The Jeep's engine—always a bit too loud, always a bit too temperamental—would growl in agreement. But they know better. Doing that will only trigger Clarke to dive straight into one of her famous impromptu "I love you and will always support you" speeches, complete with those earnest blue eyes and the way she grips your hand just a little too tightly. And frankly, O can't handle sitting through it...

Especially not today.

It's not like O isn't beyond grateful for Clarke's unwavering love and support. Actually, it's the exact opposite. In all honesty, they wouldn't have made it even half as far in life, if it hadn't been for that girl sitting beside them in the passenger's seat of their Jeep Wrangler, humming softly to some pop song only she knows the words to.

The memory surfaces unbidden—the scuffed elementary school cafeteria table, the noise of a hundred children deafening to a painfully shy five-year-old O. The sound of a lunch tray being set down beside them, and then a sandwich—peanut butter and jelly with the crusts carefully removed—sliding across the table. "You don't have a lunch," the blonde eight-year-old had said simply. Not a question. An observation paired with a solution. Classic Clarke, even then.

Ever since that fateful day back in elementary school, some fifteen or so odd years ago, Clarke has been the one constant in O's life that they can continually count on no matter what the circumstance or situation. She's always just there. No strings attached or questions ever asked.

And life, unfortunately, has genuinely thrown them both more than their fair share of curveballs, each one harder and faster than the last. They've been by each other's side through the loss of parents—O's mother to cancer when they were twelve, Clarke's father to a workplace accident her senior year of high school—friends, and those that were supposed to love them unconditionally, never once doubting in each other's level of commitment or endless love for one another.

Clarke, in short, is so much more than just their best friend. She's their family... The only real family that O's got, aside from a half-brother who still sometimes slips and uses their dead name when he's had too much to drink.

And yet, if O's being completely honest with themselves, Clarke isn't the one that they desperately wish was by their side at this very moment in time. Yes, Clarke is so many, many things to them... but she isn't their "person."

The highway stretches ahead, a gray ribbon unfurling beneath a cloudless sky. O focuses on the yellow lines blurring past, trying to anchor themselves in the moment rather than spiraling into thoughts of why Raven isn't here. Why their person chose to stay home with a transparently fake illness rather than witness this transformation.

"You don't have to come, Clarke," O quietly responds, eyes returning to the open road. A semi truck rumbles past in the opposite direction, causing the Jeep to shudder slightly. "I can drop you off and—"

"O Blake Griffin, don't even think about finishing that sentence." Clarke's voice cuts through the air like a scalpel—precise and leaving no room for argument. The glare she fixes on O could rival the one she uses to keep unruly interns in line at the hospital. "You and I both know, I'd never in a million years let you do this alone. Even if it means accompanying you to the middle of Bumblefuck nowhere, where I'll probably get zero cell reception and have to make actual eye contact with strangers instead of scrolling through Instagram."

A small but noticeable smile creeps across O's face as Clarke's words fully sink in, warming them from the inside out like the first sip of coffee on a winter morning. "That's a first."

"What?" Clarke asks, already reaching for the AUX cord dangling from the dashboard, her bracelets jingling softly with the movement.

"You used my new name."

"Yeah. Well, I've been dying for the right opportunity to try it out ever since you changed it. Gotta say it's got a nice ring to it. Especially the Griffin part." Clarke gives a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders as if to say it's no big deal, but her eyes are warm with unspoken affection as she tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. And yet, her matching smile says else wise.

"I was always meant to be a Griffin," O says softly, memories of childhood sleepovers and matching friendship bracelets flashing through their mind.

"Just like you were always meant to be O," Clarke counters with a warm and loving tone to her voice that makes O's chest ache with gratitude. "Now where the hell's your AUX cable? I'm so not doing this ride listening to nothing but Disney's greatest hits. I still haven't recovered from our road trip to Portland last year."

"What's wrong with Disney?" O's eyes widen in mock offense, one hand clutching dramatically at their chest.

But Clarke doesn't even humor O with a response. She reaches over, snatches up the nearby cable, plugs in her phone, and then queues up some music. The opening chords of an old Arkadia song—a band they'd both obsessed over in high school—fills the Jeep's interior. "Don't get me started."

Two hours and a few pit stops later, O finds themselves camped next to Clarke on a row of less than comfy metal chairs in a barbershop on the outskirts of a town called Angel Grove. The shop is smaller than they expected—just four stations with antique-looking mirrors and worn leather chairs that have seen better days. The walls are a deep teal, covered in framed photographs of satisfied customers sporting various hairstyles through the decades. The air smells of sandalwood, hair product, and the faint metallic tang of scissors.

O nervously flips their cell phone over and over again in their hands, the smooth metal case cool against their sweaty palms. The rhythmic motion is hypnotic, grounding. Flip, check screen (no new messages), flip again. The background image—Raven laughing, head thrown back, silhouetted against a sunset at Mount Weather last summer—flashes with each turn.

O had first heard about this place from their jiu-jitsu instructor Zack. It had come up randomly one day after an extra grueling grappling practice, where O had found themselves beyond struggling with their outwardly feminine appearance. The gym had been packed that day, the air thick with exertion and testosterone, the fluorescent lights harsh overhead. Each time they would swap partners, it was the same pronoun song and dance. Yes, O had long hair that clung damply to their neck during practice. And yes, thanks in part to not being able to wear their binder during practice, they had a clearly visible chest beneath their rashguard. But they weren't a girl. Nor a boy. They were just O. A concept that most of their neanderthal-like counterparts couldn't seem to wrap their heads around to save their lives.

After the twentieth or so time of correcting a classmate on the use of the female pronouns, O had been more than ready to throw in the towel, their gear bag already half-packed, when suddenly, Zack stepped in. His voice had cut across the mat like thunder, but his eyes had been kind.

"Listen up!" he'd called, clapping his hands with enough force to echo against the gym's high ceiling. "Next person who uses the wrong pronouns when referring to O has to spar against me... without the use of their hands." A collective groan had rippled through the class, several of the larger men shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Everyone had seen Zack at the regional championships last year. No one was eager to face him, especially with a handicap.

It was a small gesture but nonetheless meant the world to O.

Afterward, Zack had suggested that the two of them go grab a beer together at a nearby bar called Grounders. O had been more than hesitant at first to say yes. They simply just weren't the type of person who up and agreed to hang out with a perfect stranger... Especially, the seemingly hetero male variety. But there was something about Zack that made O feel at ease. A genuineness in his smile, a comfort in his easy acceptance. Something that they rarely seemed to be able to find in others.

And so one beer turned into half a dozen, the amber liquid glowing in the bar's dim lighting, and before O realized it, they were spilling their entire life story to the lovable goofball of a boy sitting across from them. They talked for hours on end about everything and anything. Childhood—Zack's in foster care, O's with a single mom and a much older half-brother. Friends. Losing parents from illness—Zack's foster mother to Alzheimer's, O's to cancer. Coming out, Zack as pansexual and O, first as bisexual and later genderqueer.

Then, when the conversation shifted to O's current struggles with who they are and more importantly, who they want to become, without missing a beat, Zack reached for a bar napkin and scribbled down a name and address, telling them that if they were really ready to make a change, that they needed to go meet a friend of his named Tommi. That, out of anyone, Tommi was the one who could best help O take that plunge. The napkin had been slightly damp from condensation, the blue ink bleeding at the edges, but O had folded it carefully and kept it in their wallet for weeks before finally working up the courage to call.

"Ouch." O winces in slight discomfort as Clarke gives them a hard elbow to the arm, the sudden jolt pulling them from their memories.

"Look," Clarke whispers while motioning towards the raven-haired girl sitting with her back towards them in a nearby barber chair, her silhouette framed by the afternoon light streaming through the shop's front window.

"What?" O rubs their arm, eyebrow raised in confusion.

"That girl." Clarke's voice drops even lower, forcing O to lean in to hear her.

"What about her?"

Clarke gives O a slightly exaggerated eye roll and shakes her head, the small gold hoops in her ears catching the light. "You blind? She's freakin' hot. Like, should-be-illegal hot."

O briefly glances up at the girl, who's too busy texting away on her phone to even notice that they are talking about her, thumbs flying across the screen with practiced ease, and then back at Clarke with a general look of confusion. The raven-haired girl is beautiful—high cheekbones, perfect posture, an aura of confidence that seems to radiate from her even from behind—but O has more pressing concerns at the moment. "Clarke, you've got a fiancée..."

"Technically, Lexa's still just a girlfriend. Unless you know something—" Clarke narrows her eyes suspiciously, leaning even closer until her shoulder presses against O's.

"I know nothing," O blurts out, in a rushed exhale of breath that signifies one thing and one thing only... They're lying through their teeth. The small black velvet box hidden in the back of their sock drawer—entrusted to them by Lexa three weeks ago with strict instructions to keep it secret—feels like it's burning a hole in their memory.

"Riiiight." Clarke chuckles with an all-knowing smirk that says she's not buying it for a second. "Well, anyway. I can still think a girl's hot. Especially a girl who looks like that. I mean, did you see her jacket? Vintage leather. Lexa would approve."

O gives a half shrug of their shoulders and then goes back to compulsively rotating their phone, checking the screen for any new notifications with each and every flip. The glass is smudged with fingerprints, and there is a small crack in the corner from when they dropped it while rock climbing last month. Still no message from Raven.

"Still nothing?" Clarke's voice softens, the teasing tone gone completely.

"Nope." The 'p' pops sharply between O's lips, trying to mask the hurt with nonchalance.

"She'll come around, O. Promise. Raven's just being—"

"It's fine," O abruptly cuts Clarke off, not wanting to go any further on the topic. The barber shop suddenly feels too small, too warm, the buzz of clippers and murmur of conversation too loud in their ears. They shove their phone into the back pocket of their jeans, the denim worn soft from years of wear, and then let out a light sigh.

Clarke scoots herself closer to O, playfully resting her head on their shoulder, her blonde hair tickling O's neck. "Liar," she whispers, not unkindly.

"I'm fine, Clarke." O stares fixedly at a swirling pattern in the wooden floor, counting the whorls to keep from dwelling on Raven's absence.

"And I look forward to my Sunday morning couple runs with Lexa," Clarke responds, sarcasm dripping from each and every one of her words. "You know, those magical 5 am jogs where she doesn't even break a sweat and I look like I'm auditioning for a zombie movie."

"I'm okay." O closes their eyes and rests their head on top of Clarke's, taking momentarily comfort in just existing in their pseudo-sister's presence, encompassed by the ambient sounds of the shop around them—the rhythmic snip of scissors, the low hum of clippers, occasional bursts of laughter, and the faint melody of a rock station playing overhead.

"O, right?"

O's eyes pop back open at the sound of their name and instantly comes face to face with nothing short of a real, live Greek goddess of a woman. Her skin is a rich bronze, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun with electric blue tips peeking out. Silver hoops line the edge of one ear, and a small tattoo of scissors decorates her wrist. But what captivates O most is her smile—it seems to radiate beyond the boundaries of her face, virtually lighting up the space around her with a warmth that's almost tangible. It's infectious, and suddenly, O feels as if they can breathe again, the knot of anxiety in their chest loosening just slightly.

O raises their head and gives a slight nod in response, attempting to match the woman's smile. "Yeah."

"I'm Tommi. Let me finish up with Kim here, and I'll be with you in a moment," Tommi replies, giving a little bit of a flirtatious wink before turning back toward the raven-haired girl in the chair. Her movements are fluid, confident, like a dancer or martial artist, each gesture purposeful.

"I take it back. Tommi's hot," Clarke perks up, eyes glued to Tommi's athletic form as she returns to Kim's chair. "Like hotter than hot. Like surface-of-the-sun hot."

"One word. Lexa." O nudges Clarke with their elbow, grateful for the brief distraction from their anxiety.

"Two words. Just looking," Clarke responds in her ever-so-irksome, sing-song-style voice that has annoyed and endeared O in equal measure since childhood. "Geez. Lighten up. You're no fun, O."

"Yeah. I've been told that." O exhales as they feel their hand unconsciously move towards their back pocket, the phantom weight of the phone and its silent screen pulling at them like gravity. They stop, though, just short of reaching for it and instead opt to run their hand over their signature ponytail, the familiar weight of it suddenly feeling like a stranger's limb attached to their head. A single and sobering thought runs rampant through the confines of their head...

Maybe their "person" isn't really their "person" after all.

"Okay. So what are we doing today?" Tommi asks as she finishes adjusting the cape around O's neck and pumps up the chair with practiced efficiency. The black fabric settles around O's shoulders like a protective shield, cool and smooth against their neck. The mirror before them shows a face O recognizes but doesn't quite know—eyes wide with anticipation, jaw tense with nerves, their mother's high cheekbones and their half-brother's stubborn chin.

"I... Um... I..." O trails off, suddenly at a complete and utter loss for words. The fluorescent lights overhead seem too bright, the eyes of everyone in the shop feeling like they're drilling into O's back. They've rehearsed this countless times before in their head—lying awake at night with Raven's steady breathing beside them, practicing in the shower, mumbling to their reflection while brushing their teeth—and yet, now here in the moment, it seems like an impossible task. Why is it so painfully hard just to go ahead and pull the trigger?

O's eyes dart over towards Clarke, who's lounging in the empty chair to their right, scrolling through her phone, and shoots her a desperate plea. Their heartbeat thunders in their ears, drowning out the music and chatter of the shop.

Clarke glances up, reads O's expression immediately, and snaps to attention. "O wants something that screams 'I'm here, and I'm genderqueer' with extra emphasis on the queer part," she announces with characteristic confidence, slipping her phone into her pocket.

"I'm gonna kill you," O mutters under their breath, shaking their head in disbelief at Clarke's response, though there's no real heat behind the words.

"What? It's true." Clarke shrugs, unrepentant, a mischievous glint in her blue eyes.

"Girlfriends?" Tommi asks as her eyes ping-pong between the two of them, her hands pausing in their work of combing through O's long hair.

"Us?!" Clarke immediately jerks forward, producing an extremely unattractive hybrid of a snort and a laugh that has haunted her since their middle school days. A flush creeps up her neck, blooming across her cheeks. "Oh God no! No. No way. We so aren't... Not that there's anything wrong with... It's just..."

"Clarke." O's voice holds equal parts warning and amusement.

"O's my little sis—Shit!" Clarke buries her face into her hands as the classic telltale signs of embarrassment set in. Her ears turn bright red, a trait that has made her a terrible poker player since college. "Fuck. I didn't mean to—"

"I know." O reaches out from under the cape, briefly squeezing Clarke's knee in reassurance.

"Is she always like this?" Tommi laughs, unable to mask her growing level of amusement at the two of them, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Unfortunately." O's lips quirk up in a half-smile.

"Am not." Clarke reaches over and slaps O in the arm, the gesture so familiar it feels like home. "Let me try this again. O's my amazingly wonderful, kick-ass, little sibling. And, before you ask, yes, we're adopted. But that's beside the point. We both have girlfriends—"

"She's not my girlfriend," O cuts in with a huff of annoyance, the memory of Raven's empty side of the bed that morning sending a fresh pang through their chest.

"Fine. Whatever. I've got a girlfriend, and you've got a person. A person named Raven, who's currently being a major ass cu—"

"Clarke!" O's voice rises sharply, the single word cracking like a whip in the suddenly quiet shop.

A sudden and uncomfortable silence falls between the three of them as no one seems to know exactly what to say or do next, the only sounds the distant buzz of clippers from another station and the soft rock playing overhead. O stares at their reflection, almost not recognizing the person looking back—someone caught between worlds, between identities, between the safety of the known and the terrifying freedom of becoming.

Then—

"I just need to look like me," O quietly states with a long exhale of breath. "If that makes any sense." Their voice is barely above a whisper, but the words feel like a shout, an admission, a declaration.

"Total sense." Tommi gives O a light squeeze of understanding on their shoulders, the pressure firm and grounding. Then she grabs hold of O's ponytail holder and, with a simple flick of the wrist, tugs it free. O's long, chocolate locks cascade down, blanketing the better part of their shoulders and back like a curtain closing on a stage. The weight of it is suddenly suffocating; years of growth, history, and expectations press down on them.

They suddenly can't seem to remember the last time they had it cut. 

Maybe two years ago? Or three? 

Definitely way before the beginning of this journey. Before they'd whispered "I think I'm not a girl" to Raven in the darkness of their bedroom. Before they'd chosen a new name. Before they'd started binding. Before Bellamy had stopped calling for months.

Tommi starts to work her fingers through O's hair, taking her time to examine how it falls as she flips it from one side to another. Each touch is professional but somehow reassuring, as if she understands exactly what this moment means. "I've got an idea, but it'll be a pretty big-ass change. You 100% positive you're ready for something like that? 'Cause if not, I can always cut it in stages. Maybe bring it up here to your shoulders first and then in a few weeks—"

"No. I'm ready now," O interrupts with a hint of a tremble in their voice. They give themselves one last good look in the mirror, cataloging every feature of this in-between version of themselves. They swallow back down the lump of fear in their throat and then, mustering up all of the confidence they can find within themselves, give a slight nod of confirmation back at Tommi. "Let's do this."

Chapter Text

"Reyes!"

"Fuck," Raven grumbles into her pillow, the sound muffled by the down filling. She blindly gropes for the comforter, the fabric cool and smooth against her fingers, and pulls it fully over her head with a deep, resentful groan. The darkened cocoon smells of O's coconut shampoo and last night's sleep. "Go away, An. I'm sick."

There's a moment of silence—just long enough for Raven to hope she might be left alone—and then—

"Bullshit!"

The shout is punctuated by a violent whoosh of cold air as Anya rips the comforter off of Raven in one fell swoop, leaving her utterly exposed to the mid-morning light streaming through the bedroom blinds. Raven recoils, throwing her arm across her face, shielding her eyes from the harsh sunlight that feels like needles against her retinas. "What the fuck, man!"

But Anya doesn't respond. She instead grabs hold of the pillow from beneath Raven's head with military precision and smacks her in the body with it. The soft thump is followed by a sharp sting that makes Raven wince.

"Ouch. Hey... C'mon, An." Raven pushes herself up in the bed, smoothing back the stray flyaways from her ponytail, the elastic digging uncomfortably into her scalp after a night of restless sleep. Her tank top is twisted around her torso, one strap slipping off her shoulder. "What are you doing here?"

Anya takes a seat on the edge of the queen-sized bed next to Raven, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her weight, and lets out a frustrated sigh that seems to come from the depths of her soul. Her dirty blonde hair is pulled back in its customary tight braid, not a strand out of place despite the early hour. "Why do you think?"

"Clarke told Lexa..." Raven doesn't frame it as a question. The Griffin-Woods communication network operates with more efficiency than most government intelligence agencies.

"And Lexa texted me," Anya finishes Raven's sentence with a familiarity that says that this isn't the first time they have found themselves in this situation. Her amber eyes, so like her half-sister Lexa's, fix Raven with a stare that could strip paint.

Raven's fingers dance along the edge of the heather-grey jersey sheets, tracing the small embroidered stars along the hem—O's choice, not hers. She avoids Anya's penetrating stare at all costs, knowing that those eyes see too much, understand too much. She knows exactly why Anya has shown up unannounced in her bedroom at 10:30 am on a Saturday morning. It's the same, exact reason why she hasn't been able to manage to pull herself from the confines of her bed over the course of the last two hours. Ever since Raven had heard the sounds of keys being snatched up off of the kitchen counter, followed by the front door slamming shut with a finality that had made her flinch.

"Talk to me, Reyes."

"There's nothing to talk about," Raven mumbles in response, still unable to pull her eyes away from the bedding in front of her. A loose thread catches her attention, and she picks at it mindlessly.

A deafening silence seeps into the room, surrounding the two of them like fog rolling in from the harbor. They simply sit there in it, as Raven continues to fidget with the edge of the sheets and Anya waits for a response with the patience of a predator. The distant sounds of the city filter through the half-open window—a car horn, voices from the sidewalk below, the rhythmic thump of bass from someone's car stereo. Raven more than knows that the waiting game isn't one that she's going to win. Not with Anya. Anya may lack patience with many things—slow walkers, incompetent baristas, people who don't use turn signals—but when it comes to waiting people out, she is nothing short of a hands-down expert.

And that's the exact reason why the two have remained such close friends for all these years, even after their relationship fell apart in a spectacular fashion during their sophomore year of college. Anya seems to know how to cut right through Raven's overly confident facade and get straight to the heart. Regardless of how hard she tries to mask it.

There's only one other person—her person—who can manage to do the same thing, but at the moment, they're nowhere to be found. And it's all Raven's fault. The thought sits heavy in her chest, a stone of regret pressing against her lungs.

Anya lets the silence hang for another moment or two, her gaze never wavering from Raven's face, and then—

"Get up." The words are not a suggestion.

"What?"

"I said, get up. We're going out," Anya flatly states and then gets up off the bed, goes over to the dresser—cherry wood, a housewarming gift from Bellamy before everything went to hell—and starts rummaging through a drawer. The familiar sound of fabric being pushed aside is oddly comforting.

"Where?" Raven asks, though she already knows the answer. Their ritual is as old as their friendship.

Anya grabs a t-shirt—worn soft from a hundred washes, the Arkadia University logo faded almost to illegibility—and jeans, and harshly tosses them at Raven. "You know where."

Raven catches the clothes midair, her reflexes still sharp despite her emotional exhaustion, and then lets out a long sigh that seems to deflate her entire body. "Fine. But you're paying."

"Pay up," Anya says as she walks over to the dartboard and pulls her dart out of the bullseye with a flourish, the red feathers bright against the worn board. The bar around them is dim despite the afternoon hour, the windows tinted to keep out the harsh light. The air is thick with the smell of beer, the faint tang of cigarette smoke that never quite leaves dive bar walls, and decades of spilled whiskey.

"How can you still do that? You're on your third whiskey." Raven reaches into her back jean pocket, the denim scraping against her fingertips, produces her wallet, and pulls out a twenty. The bill is slightly crumpled, bearing the evidence of being hastily shoved there after her coffee run yesterday morning. She shoves it into Anya's outstretched hand, attempting to ignore the smug look of satisfaction plastered across Anya's face.

"I'll never reveal that secret. Not even to you, Reyes." Anya picks up her tumbler of whiskey—Maker's Mark, neat, her drink since college—and takes a long swig. The amber liquid catches the dim bar light as it disappears between her lips. "Another game?"

"Gimme five. I need a refill first." Raven makes her way back to their corner booth, slightly favoring her left leg as she does. The pain is sharper today, a dull throb with each step that matches the ache in her chest.

Anya takes note of this and slides herself into the opposite side of the booth, her movements catlike in their economy. Her eyes flick down to Raven's leg and then back up to her face. "When's your next appointment?"

"Next Thursday." Raven traces a pattern in the condensation on her empty beer glass, creating abstract shapes that disappear almost as soon as they're formed.

"You've got someone to go with you?" The question is casual, but the undertone is anything but.

Raven gives a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders, downs the end of her beer—the last swallow warm and bitter—and then motions to the nearby bartender for another. "I did. But who knows after today…"

"What time is it?"

"What?"

"The appointment, idiot. What time is it on Thursday?" Anya's voice is gruff, but her eyes hold a softness that few people ever get to see.

"An..." Raven sighs with a hint of gratefulness in her voice. Although asking for help has never been her style—even as a child, she'd rather build her own bicycle from spare parts than admit she needed one—there has always been an unspoken understanding between the two of them, especially when it comes to Raven's leg.

The accident had happened right in the midst of the rockiest part of their breakup. Anya had been driving at the time with Raven in the passenger seat. It had been one of those car rides. The silent and deadly types. The ones where neither one refused to talk out of pure and utter stubbornness, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

Three years later, and Raven still doesn't have many clear memories of the accident itself. She remembers sitting at the red light and staring Anya down, in an attempt to make the older girl as uncomfortable as humanly possible. All because they had had a stupid fight earlier that morning over who used the end of the milk. Such a trivial thing to be the catalyst for so much pain. And then, nothing. Not even fragments of what happened. Just a massive, gaping hole where memories should be, like a corrupted file on a hard drive.

Part of Raven wishes she remembers... but there's a more significant part of her that's eternally grateful she doesn't.

Raven only knows what Anya and the others have chosen to tell her throughout the last couple of years. Mainly, just the Cliff Notes and nothing else. The redacted version that spares her the worst of it.

A man fell asleep at the wheel, ran a red light, and proceeded to t-bone their car, hitting Raven's side dead on, leaving her right leg a mangled mess of broken bones and severed nerves. The dashboard had crumpled inward, pinning her until the jaws of life could cut through the metal. Anya had managed to walk away from the crash, virtually unscathed with only a few gashes and two broken ribs, but emotionally, she was left an absolute wreck.

Although Anya will never fully admit it, Raven knows that she remembers every last detail... including having to helplessly watch as the paramedics shocked Raven's heart back to life twice on the way to the hospital. Sometimes Raven catches Anya watching her with a particular expression—part wonder, part lingering fear—as if making sure she's still breathing.

And truthfully, it was the accident that allowed them to seemingly transition from girlfriends on the verge of imploding to lifelong best friends. With no bitterness or animosity towards each other. Just an unspoken and unbreakable bond to always be there for one another. Regardless of the reason or circumstance. A life-debt neither acknowledges but both honor.

"What time, Reyes?" Anya's voice cuts through Raven's memories, anchoring her back in the present.

"4:30 at Mercy," Raven says with a heavy exhale of breath, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. Anya nods in response and then takes another long sip of her whiskey, her expression giving nothing away save for the slight softening around her eyes.

A comforting silence settles between the two of them as they sit there for a few moments, merely watching the rest of the daytime regulars pound back their drinks of choice. An old Arkadia song—the same band Clarke had played in the car with O—drifts from the jukebox in the corner, the familiar melody a ghost from their shared past. The bartender, Murphy, gives them a knowing nod as he wipes down the counter with practiced efficiency, the rag making swift arcs across the polished wood.

Then finally—

"You ready to tell me what's going on?" Anya's voice is gentle but firm, an echo of the tone she uses with her elementary school students when they've done something particularly foolish.

Raven runs her hands over her ponytail, the familiar motion calming, and shifts a bit in her seat as the bartender swings by, dropping off a fresh round for both of them. The condensation on the beer bottle immediately pools against her fingertips. "Not really, but I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Well, we could always just continue to get shitfaced, but then you'd probably have to suffer the wrath of Clarke." The ghost of a smile plays at the corners of Anya's lips as she traces the rim of her whiskey glass with one slender finger.

Raven shudders as the thought crosses her mind, genuine fear flickering across her features. "I love that girl, but no thanks. I'm still recovering from the last time she went full Griffin on me."

"Yeah. No one deserves that," Anya lightly chuckles in response, the sound warm and unexpected in the dim bar. "'Cept maybe my baby sister."

"Commander Heart Eyes? Please." Raven scoffs, reaching for her beer. "Clarke can't even pretend to be mad at her for more than five minutes tops. One look from those stupid green eyes and Clarke's toast."

Anya takes another swig of whiskey, ever so slightly grimacing as it burns the back of her throat. A telltale sign that the alcohol is starting to take effect. "So..."

"So?" Raven deflects, suddenly fascinated by a water ring on the scarred wooden table.

"Reyes..." There's a warning in Anya's tone, patient but unyielding.

"I dunno where to start," Raven confesses in barely more than a whisper as her fingers mindlessly trace the lip of her beer bottle, the glass cool and slick beneath her touch.

"Let's start with the basics. Why aren't you there?" The question hangs in the air between them, inescapable.

"I dunno." Each word feels like it's being pulled from her against her will.

"Did something happen?" Anya leans forward slightly, her elbows on the table, eyes never leaving Raven's face.

"No. I just... I dunno. I woke up this morning and just... I just couldn't do it." Raven's voice cracks on the last word, betraying the depth of her emotion despite her best efforts.

"You freaked." It's not a question but a statement of fact, delivered without judgment.

Raven gives a slight nod and downs a long, hard swig of her beer, the bitter liquid sliding down her throat, giving her something to focus on besides the churning in her stomach.

"And then what happened?"

"I made up a lame-ass excuse saying I was sick and then O stormed out." Raven's eyes clouded with the memory, the sound of the front door slamming echoing in her ears. "You should have seen their face, An. I've never seen them look at me like that before."

"Why now?"

Raven shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders, the motion sharp and frustrated. "God, if I know. It's not like it was a surprise or anything. They've been talking about this for weeks now."

Another moment of silence falls between the two of them as Anya mulls her thoughts over, the ice in her whiskey clinking gently as she rotates the glass, then—

"You wanna know what I think?"

"Not really, but you're gonna tell me anyway." Raven gives a half-hearted eye roll, the gesture an echo of their old dynamic.

A chuckle slips from Anya's lips at Raven's response. She tucks her dirty blond locks behind her ears and gives a rare, comforting smile that transforms her usually stoic features. "The unknown is fuckin' terrifying."

"Thanks, Captain Obvious."

Anya balls up a nearby cocktail napkin and throws it directly at Raven's forehead with pinpoint accuracy, a skill honed through years of teaching elementary school art. "I wasn't done, dipshit. The unknown is terrifying... especially when it comes to the person you love. And all you and O have done over the past three years is face the unknown. Head fuckin' on. Time and time again. Without any hesitation whatsoever."

"That's not true." Raven's protest sounds hollow even to her own ears.

Anya raises an eyebrow in Raven's direction, the arch perfectly expressing her skepticism, and continues to sip on her whiskey. The skeptical eyebrow—a trait she shares with Lexa—has ended more arguments than Raven can count.

"It isn't."

"What'd you do when O told everyone that they wanted to change their name?" Anya's tone is conversational, but her eyes are intense.

"An..."

"What'd you do, Reyes?" The question is gentle but insistent.

"I threw them an 'it's an O' party." Raven's lips quirk upward at the memory despite herself—streamers in O's favorite colors, a cake with their new name spelled out in chocolate frosting, the look of shocked joy on O's face when they walked in.

"And..."

"And got them custom plates for their Jeep." Raven's fingers automatically trace the outline of her keys in her pocket, the O+R keychain a familiar weight.

"And what did you do when O came out to Bellamy, and he flipped his shit?" Anya continues, relentless in her point.

"Okay. But if I hadn't punched him, Clarke would've." The memory of Bellamy's stunned face and bloodied nose rises unbidden, her knuckles tingling with the phantom pain.

"Fair point." Anya concedes with a nod, a flicker of pride crossing her features.

Raven pounds back her beer, chugging way more than needed for a regular sip, the alcohol burning a path down her throat, and then looks at Anya with a raw vulnerability that she rarely lets anyone see. "What if I'm not enough for them anymore?"

Raven waits for a response, but it never comes. Instead, Anya erupts in loud, jarring laughter, which is nothing short of unnerving in the quiet bar. A few patrons turn to stare, then quickly look away when Anya's eyes flicker in their direction.

"What?" Raven asks, clearly annoyed by Anya's response, heat rising to her cheeks.

Anya wipes the mock tears away from her eyes as she collects herself, taking a deep breath to steady her voice. "You're an idiot."

"An, I'm serious." Raven's voice drops, the insecurity laid bare.

"I am, too." Anya reaches across the table, gripping Raven's forearm with surprising gentleness. "You, Raven Reyes, are an absolute idiot. You and O are soulmates. And you know I don't believe in that shit. You two are just destined to be together. End of story. I saw it for myself that day in your hospital room. That person loves you in a way that no one else can. Not even me."

A bittersweet smile spreads across Raven's lips at these words, the memory of O sleeping in the uncomfortable hospital chair for weeks, refusing to leave even when nurses threatened to call security, vivid in her mind. She starts to respond, but somehow knows that it isn't needed. That's how their relationship works. Wordsare  often unnecessary, understanding flowing between them like an electric current.

The silence settles back in once again between Raven and Anya, as the two sit and sip on their drinks. The bar has filled up a bit more, the after-work crowd beginning to filter in, bringing with them the sounds of laughter and conversation.

BUZZ.

Anya's phone buzzes against the wood of the table, the vibration sending ripples across the surface of her whiskey. She scoops it up, swipes it open, and suddenly a devilish smirk crawls across her face, lighting her amber eyes with mischief.

"Who is it?" Raven asks, slightly intrigued, leaning forward.

"Clarke." The name carries weight, significance.

"What'd she say?" Raven's heart rate kicks up a notch.

"She didn't. Just sent through a photo of O." Anya's smirk grows more pronounced as she thumbs through her phone.

Raven pauses for a moment, letting that info sink in, a kaleidoscope of emotions flickering across her face—hope, fear, curiosity, longing. Then she goes to reach for Anya's phone, her movements too quick for her usual casual demeanor. But Anya is quicker. She yanks the phone just out of Raven's reach, making sure not to show her the screen, dangling it like bait just beyond her grasp.

"No way, Reyes. No cheating. You're just gonna have to go home and see it for yourself." Anya pockets her phone with a flourish, her eyes dancing with satisfaction.

"I hate you." Raven mock pouts as she slumps back in the booth and takes another long chug of her beer, the condensation cool against her palm.

"Right back atcha." Anya lovingly replies with a bit of a wink and a smirk, raising her glass in a silent toast.

A few hours and two more beers later and Raven finds herself standing in front of her apartment door, keys in hand but unable to will herself to move. The hallway is eerily silent, the only sound her own shallow breathing and the distant hum of the building's ancient heating system. Guilt-ridden fear courses through every inch of her veins. It's been growing ever since Clarke sent through a single text. A text to let Raven know not only how fantastic O looked but also not to fuck this up. That she had already done enough damage as is.

And that's just it... What if it's too late? What if this one singular stupid decision has cost her everything?

What if her person doesn't want to be her person anymore?

Raven takes a deep, sobering breath and pushes back down those thoughts. Then, mustering up every ounce of her trademark confidence—the swagger that got her through MIT as a scholarship kid, that earned her a spot at NASA before she was twenty-five, that caught O's eye across a crowded room three years ago—she puts her keys in the lock, turns the knob, and opens the door.

"O?" Raven calls out as she cautiously makes her way into the semi-darkened apartment. The sunset casts long shadows across the hardwood floors, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. At first glance, it would appear that no one's home, but she knows better. Raven spots little traces of O's presence all throughout the foyer. Their beat-up black Converse haphazardly slipped off, laces still tied. Their set of car keys with the corny O+R keychain that Raven had gotten them on their second anniversary on the key holder by the front door. And of course, the distinct smell of Thai wafting from the living room. Her and O's favorite comfort food, ordered from the little place two blocks over that knows their order by heart.

Raven drops her keys on the entry table, the metal clinking against the marble surface, slips her shoes off next to O's, and then, with another deep breath, rounds the corner to the living room.

And suddenly... time seems to stand still.

There, sitting on the couch, is O—her O—staring back at her, with a collection of untouched takeout Thai spread out before them on the coffee table. Their signature ponytail, the one that they only tend to take out when showering, has been replaced with an androgynous-looking undercut. Both the back and sides are shaved down to almost the skin, the stubble dark against their scalp, while the hair on top is somewhat on the longer side so that it can be flipped from side to side. The transformation is stunning, revealing the strong line of their jaw, the elegant curve of their neck, and the perfect architecture of their cheekbones.

The hairstyle hardens O's classic features in a way that is nothing short of breathtaking. It amplifies their masculine side, yet at the same time doesn't entirely push them too far in one direction or the other. Instead, it allows O to perfectly fall right into the place that they've been desperately desiring to be for the majority of their life. Right in the middle. Neither here nor there. Just O. Perfectly, completely O.

"I picked up Thai. Clarke told me you and Anya went to Joe's, so I figured you'd be hungry," O quietly states, devoid of any real emotion whatsoever, eyes locked on the food before them. But Raven can see the tension in their shoulders, the slight tremor in their hand as they arrange and rearrange the takeout containers.

But Raven can't seem to find her words. Her brain is too preoccupied with the rapid fire of emotions that are fighting for dominance. Love. Passion. Desire. Guilt. They cycle through like cards being dealt. Each one flashing for the briefest of seconds before being replaced by the next. The air between them feels electric, charged with words unsaid.

O slowly rises from the couch, still unable to bring themselves to look Raven in the eyes, and nervously rubs their hands against the freshly shorn stubble on the back of their head. The gesture is so unfamiliar yet somehow so quintessentially O that it makes Raven's heart clench painfully in her chest. "Look. I know it's a huge change, and we never really talked about how it would—"

"You look like you," Raven says in nothing more than a whisper, the words escaping before she can consciously form them.

Upon these words, O finally lifts their eyes to meet Raven's, revealing the telltale signs that they've been crying—slightly reddened rims, the sheen of unshed tears, a vulnerability that makes them look both younger and older at once.

"What?" A look of hopeful confusion sweeps across O's face as if they are unsure of what they've just heard, afraid to believe it.

"You look like you, O," Raven repeats herself, this time with a bit more confidence to her voice, a small smile beginning to form. Tears start to well up in her eyes as she watches a heart-swelling smile slowly emerge on O's lips, transforming their entire face. "God, I'm so sorr—"

But before Raven can even finish her sentence, O closes the gap between them in three swift strides and savagely attacks the taller girl with a deep, bruising kiss. Their new haircut somehow makes them seem taller, more present, as if they're finally occupying all the space they were meant to.

Raven returns the kiss as her hands immediately snake upwards towards O's head and is pleasantly met by the foreign sensation of the soft, prickly fuzz. It feels different but somehow absolutely right. As if this is the way it has always meant to be. The texture is intoxicating against her palms, and she can't help but run her fingers through the longer strands on top, reveling in the newness of it.

After a moment or two, Raven and O both pull out of the kiss, resting their foreheads together as they attempt to catch a breath of air. The world has narrowed to just the two of them, the sounds of the city outside fading to nothing.

"So you like it?" O asks with a hint of lingering doubt, their eyes searching Raven's face for any trace of hesitation.

Raven leans back, giving O a playfully dramatic once-over, flipping the longer strands of their hair one way and then another with a tenderness that belies her teasing tone. "Nope. I love it."

O can't help but smirk at these words, the expression lighting up their entire face. They entwine their fingers with Raven's and lock eyes once again with a fierce but loving determination as if they're once again ready to take on the world together, side by side. "Still my person?"

"Always, O. As long as you're mine." Raven squeezes their hand, making a silent promise that this time, she won't let fear win. Not when it comes to the person she loves most in the world.