( something something falling in love is like falling asleep; slowly, and then all at once. except the last time clarke griffin remembers falling either in love or asleep, it'd been more akin to running five miles while already exhausted and promptly crashing on the first viable surface. waking up is easier, gentler. for the first time in a long time she hadn't been dreaming of bleeding out on sandy grass, or melting into the floor with grief in the middle of the labyrinth, or burning alive, or (insert ship or canon based trauma here). in fact, she hadn't been dreaming about anything. it's honestly quite refreshing.

the scratch of the couch is familiar. the ceiling in every single one of these identical cabins is familiar. and as she shifts and stretches with a slight groan it doesn't even register that the far wall is missing the carefully curated murder-board plastered above the desk. and that there's not a dozen prepacked go-bags stacked in every inch of extra space. and that she maybe isn't alone, or at least isn't alone with ruby rose. but give her a few seconds to blink the sleep out of her eyes and really focus, and the mask of relaxation that almost makes her look her age will vanish in favor of those well-worn worry lines.

then comes the "all at once", because clarke's sitting up. then immediately trying to stand up, only to discover her legs are the consistency of jelly from disuse, and thus collapsing gracelessly between the couch and the coffee table. absolutely donks her elbow pretty good on the edge of the table and now has to deal with the violent sensory feedback of the funny bone nerves running haywire across her stale spinal cord while trying to get her bearings as well. in the end, with a swell of disorientation that sounds a lot like waves crashing against her ear drum, she makes a rather graceless exit. )

a. natsuno yuuki
( immediately outside the cabin she pauses to read the number plaque beside the door frame. 113? what an odd place to end up; she can't even remember who occupied that room, the active list of ship occupants somewhat abandoned months (and months) ago. but it's not that far from what she'd still (begrudgingly) consider home. it's just a few paces, and slipping through the side hall between laundry and elevators to be back on the side with even cabin numbers. there's an initial instinct that demands she not be seen in this harried state of confusion and mild distress that has clarke keeping her head low and footsteps swift. at the door of 108 she's fishing out her shiptalk phone and scanning it against the lock, not even waiting for the telltale sound of the lock unlatching. just immediately reaching for the handle and coming up short when it rattles but doesn't give way.

what the hell?

but it's okay. it will be okay. and she's got a near immediate secondary plan of action.

back past the laundry and elevators, and raising a fist to hammer impatiently on the door of cabin 109, clarke swallows any embarrassment that flares up at the idea of recounting hey i woke up in a strange room and can't get into my own, help as she waits for natsuno to answer the door. she fidgets, bouncing on the balls of her feet in preparation to take off down the hall and hunt him down if he doesn't answer at all. )

b. rita mordio
( and after being clued in the fact that she's been locked out of her room because she'd been gone for four months, a lot of things shift around inside her skull. a new perspective forms, patchwork and full of holes; so much could happen in four months. eventually she'll extricate herself from natsuno, promising (promising) to see him again later. and most of her attention is diverted to making a mental list of items to immediately shop & pilfer the infirmary for, as this new segment of life on board the serena eterna means starting over essentially from scratch. thus far the list goes: sundries, bric n brac, also breakfast i'm so damn hungry right now. and then, maybe belatedly, oh, my other friends.

oh, rita.

rita who is right here, just across the hall from 109.

when raising her fist to knock on the other girls door, clarke briefly remembers how early it must be. there are no windows in the hallway to clue her in on if the sun has risen or not yet, but any other time she'd died the wakeup call had been a rude 6:00am. it's maybe 7 by now? is vanishing akin to dying? who even knows, and yeah, kinda feels like it. but there's not even enough time to properly descend into the mental depths of why did i come back and not some of the others — before the door slides open and she's preemptively holding up both palms. )

Okay, don't freak out but apparently I'm ba—

( past tearful, high pitched reunions, clarke slots right back into well trodden pathways throughout the ship, head swimming. a good chunk of the people she's met in life both here and on earth would likely give a kidney to "start over", but in this reality she's found that building ones life from scratch is a major headache. there's a rolling list of places to visit, things to get, people to avoid or passively greet. there's the whole idea of reestablishing herself in a place that feels like it's worked into her bloodstream; such a familiar cage, now gone dusty in her absence. so much can change in four months, but! rusty survival skills prevail.

out of the corner of your eye, you may spot a familiar head of blonde hair darting among:

( a. ) the shops!! all of them get a pretty immediate visit from one clarke griffin as she seeks to remake her emergency stash go bags. she can be found on the floor. she can be seen in bric n brac, pulling a handful of novelty tote and drawstring bags off the hangers. or kneeling on the floor just past the checkout counter in sundries, shoving travel sized amenities and snacks into aforementioned bags. the infinite tommy bahama gets a visit too, where handfuls of socks and underwear meet the same fate as toiletries and she's haphazardly draped athletic gear over her shoulder for personal use.

(the infirmary gets robbed too, but she's in and out so fast — scalpels, a bone saw, gauze, needles, drugs — that it isn't a great spot to catch her. not even really worth the mention, unless you're fast.)

( b. ) or else playback, which is admittedly an entirely self serving, nostalgic stop. apparently there's a new addition to the teen area, and she spends more than a few seconds surveying the build-a-bear stuffing machine before systematically stepping on the pedal and wrapping rolls upon rolls of high grade polyester fiber around her knuckles. these could probably be useful.

another few careful, lengthy moments are spent at various arson sites from back on launch day, surveying the scorch marks like they're great works of art. and in whatever hallway maximilien had open fired on ari, clarke can briefly be found slotting fingers into the pitted bullet holes in the wall.

and then —

( c. ) she's been absolutely starving since she woke up, but had shoved that gnarled hunger to the back burner until later in the day, when it absolutely demands to be acknowledged. clarke takes a late 1pm lunch in stellar. it's a calculated choice, she can't remember ever seeing people flood to the fine dining area during its specified meal times. and she picks a table far off in the corner, shadows allowing the illusion of privacy whilst absolutely stuffing her face.

( d. ) it takes a bit of time to work herself up to visiting the memorial, but gritted teeth and the mental reminder she's done harder things in life means clarke doesn't allow herself to avoid the spot just because of the difficult emotions it might bring to the surface. she tries hard not to look at too many of the tokens placed in remembrance of the fallen. plenty of those who disappeared never came back, but the jury is out on if coming back is a gift or a dragged out curse.

but regardless of deeper meaning, clarke still feels resolutely naked without a weapon at her side. and as she hadn't asked where her gun and knife had ended up. maybe??? it'd be among the offerings here? (and if not, it's not as if she's above grave robbing but hopefully it doesn't come to that.) a great deal of effort is put into not focusing on the various artifacts spread around; a self imposed set of blinders settling over her eyes which only really alights upon a friendship bracelet stapled to a sketch page. when recognition hits, she rips that from the paper without much ceremony and spends an odd amount of time just running the pad of her thumb over the gently fraying fibers.

somewhat belatedly, and as a last act before vacating the scene like she'd just committed a crime, a remnant of hippo breath is also snatched up and plunged deep in the confines of a pocket. don't ask why, clarke genuinely has no explanation other than it called to her. )

( even before her little impromptu, nonconsensual vacation it'd been a long time since clarke had hiked the stairwell all the way to the very top and parked herself outside that immovable door. what feels like ages ago, it'd been one of the first places on board the serena eterna she'd ever visited, and had kept a semi-constant vigil in those early days until it became obvious the captain was never going to open up and let them talk. maybe for others he'd materialize out front, and for even fewer select passengers (skulduggery pleasant and gal friday) they could step inside. but for clarke griffin the wheel had never turned, and it'd eventually been more a place to find silence and solitude than any real answers.

would things have played out differently if the captain had ever entertained her hostile negotiation intentions?

given everything, probably not.

whatever.

today it's a picnic venue. still so, so hungry after reawakening, clarke settles criss cross applesauce against the far wall and pulls out the freshly hoarded supply of sundries snacks from an inner pocket of her coat. pops pre-packaged trail mix while running through learned blood sigils just to make sure they were still fresh in the memory, or else humming to herself between chews of beef jerky. artificial evening eventually begins to color the sky... )

a. open
( the last stop on this days venture is the one she'd purposefully avoided for as long as possible. the stacks still smell like thick pressed paper, leather bindings and leather armchairs, and the musk of mildly stale air. any signs of previous ship-wide vandalism are minimal, pretty much everything seems in good working condition, and...

and the chairs she and palamedes sextus spent so many hours occupying in quiet, mutual thought are unoccupied. they almost beckon, as much as any inanimate object can. and clarke's previous avoidance is well validated, as nothing seems as inviting in the moment as picking up a new book and curling into one of those chairs. she's heckin' tired after this full day of reacquainting herself with the world, and deposits various bags of acquired goods on the floor with a solid thump before taking up residence in a far corner chair. turns out being assigned a new cabin to sleep in was the worst shipwide betrayal of all, and — exhausted, but — with currently no plans to return to cabin 113 tonight she slinks down low and settles in. )

b. steve harrington
( clarke is halfway to dozing, huddled over a table and using her forearms as pillows when the sound of human life (footfalls, breathing, the rummaging through shelves) grates against the animal instinct dwelling in the back of her brain, and jerks her into an upright sitting position. one hand drops to her beltline but grasps at nothing — i still need to find a gun. never mind, there's still steak knives stolen from the dining areas stashed down by her ankles. but in the time it takes to reach for those implements of self defense, the cloud of sleep clears; the low lights of the library in its evening shroud still illuminate enough features, and her thoughts right themselves enough that recognition can works its way through surprise.

the shock comes in at last place, and has her half-rising — the scrape of chair legs against the floor high pitched and grating. )

I — Harrington?

( why is it so much more astounding to see this previously lost passenger back on board than to grasp the fact she'd been gone for a number of months herself? well, introspection on that bit requires a deep dive into how little one clarke griffin values her own importance. but also snakes back around to the fact it feels like a literal minute since she'd last been on board, and the several months he'd been gone take precedence.

also, maybe it's a little nice not to focus on her own vanishing for a second. maybe it's a little nice to see a familiar, non-hostile face. maybe, belatedly, a mild swell of hope will bloom in her chest that he won't be the only one. )

( there's nothing quite like being laid up under witness protection, healing from grievous wounds and suddenly being texted by a ghost, is there? )

I'd like to speak with you.

( hit me, bitches. the girl is back, i'm hype for endgame, hmu for any specific plottings you'd like and let's dive back in! )