your hand in mine (clexa)

Chapter 3

"We will need to make a decision soon." Abigail Griffin is not looking at anyone when she says that, not even at her husband lying before her. The words are uttered to the impassive white wall. Clarke gets it. White walls don't care. White walls won't scowl and cry and throw accusations.

She gets it. But she's still mad. "Could you at least look at me when you talk about killing my father?"

"And my husband," her mother states immediately, coldly, her eyes finally finding Clarke's.There used to be something in them, when it all happened. Now, it's all gone. Replaced by sheer exhaustion and logic. She's right, Clarke knows that. She's being practical. She's thinking about the living, not about the dying.

But the dying is the only person Clarke gives a damn about right now, so she's not going to back down, either. She just needs a little more time. Just a little more time to get Lexa to cover their bills, and then they can think treatment and for how long they want to prolong the process; and if they do choose to limit the life support, they'll do so on their own terms. They'll do it because it's the right thing to do. Not because they are forced to pull the plug or they'll be left with an insane amount of debt that Clarke's kids will have to continue to pay. Maybe grandkids, too. Who knows.

This is messed up. "Clarke," her mother tries. "I know how... He is the love of my life, and I am about to lose him. Just like you are about to lose your father. But that's the thing, honey. We may have already lost him. Until the results are back-"

"But they are not back yet." Clarke really tries to keep the bite out of her tone, but it proves to be really fucking difficult. Her mom is talking about ending her dad's life before they fully know what's going on. "They are not back, and you're ready to let him die. He's still being evaluated. What if the results come back, and there is a chance?"

Her mother sighs, dragging a hand down her weary face. "You and I both know it's not much of a possibility. We're doctors. The facts are there. His organs are slowly shutting down, Clarke, and you need to face it. Whatever the cause is... I am almost sure it's not treatable. And even if it is, reviving him back is a process that's not possible."

Logical. Precise. Her mother, the doctor, cutting through condolences and feelings and getting right to it. Your dad is as good as dead. Deal with it.

Well, Clarke doesn't want to. "We're doctors," she throws her mother's words back at her. "We wait until the evaluations are done to make a conclusion, because we know how important it is to base it on facts and not assumptions. What you're doing right now - this is not a doctor treating a patient." She swallows, blinks her tears away. "This is you giving up on him."

"Clarke-"

"I can't." she shakes her head, backing away to the door. "Not - I can't do this right now. I have to go."

"Clarke!" her mother calls out, but she's already out of the door.

She thinks the image is forever etched across her eyelids: her broken father covered with a white sheet, unmoving, and her broken mother sitting next to him, her scrubs neatly pressed and her face twisted with sorrow.

//

She ignores the calls. Her friends' names flash on the screen, one after another, ready to console and comfort and pity.

She doesn't want any of it. Just today, she doesn't want to be the daughter of a dying man. Doesn't want her mind reeling from trying to come up with ideas and options and simply reasons not to break down. She just wants to be Clarke.