The Noble Stag

    The Noble Stag became a part of Clarke Griffin’s routine.

    It started small—one visit after a grueling shift, a drink to unwind, she told herself. Just to shake off the weight of the ER, the endless stream of patients, the exhaustion that settled into her bones.

    And maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with the bartender who made her drinks just the way she liked them.

    Not that she’d admit it.

    But she would admit—to herself, at least—that Lexa was interesting.

    She was composed, confident, and something about the way she carried herself made Clarke want to know her. It wasn’t just the attractiveness (though, yeah, that played a huge part). It was the way Lexa listened when Clarke spoke, the way she always seemed to pick up on Clarke’s moods without asking, how she handled the rowdy bar crowd with an easy control.

    So, yeah. Clarke started showing up more often.

    "Unwinding from work with my besties," she told Raven and Octavia every time they raised an eyebrow at her increasingly frequent trips to The Noble Stag along with them—sometimes alone—, despite the dark circle under her eyes after her shift.

    Which was bullshit.

    And they knew it.

    "Unwinding, huh?" Raven smirked one evening as Clarke adjusted her shirt in the mirror before heading out. "That why you actually tried with your hair this time?"

    Clarke rolled her eyes. "I just felt like putting in some effort."

    Octavia leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "For your bartender girlfriend?"

    "She’s not—" Clarke huffed. "You know what? Forget it. I don’t have to explain myself to you two."

    Octavia exchanged a look with Raven before snorting. "Yeah, right. "

---

    Clarke wasn’t avoiding the fact that she had been coming to The Noble Stag more often.

    She just wasn’t acknowledging it, either.

    After all, she worked long shifts. Stressful shifts. It only made sense that she’d want to unwind somewhere afterward, and The Noble Stag had the perfect atmosphere—warm lighting, good music, and drinks that took the edge off without making her feel like she was drowning.

    And if the bartender was easy on the eyes? Well. That was just a bonus.

    At least, that was what Clarke kept telling herself.

    Raven and Octavia, however, were not buying it.

    "You might as well just admit it," Raven said one evening, stirring her drink lazily. "You come here because of Lexa."

    Clarke, cradling a warm cup of chamomile tea with honey, barely spared her a glance. "I come here to unwind."

    "Uh-huh." Octavia smirked. "You come here, sit in the same spot, wait for Lexa to be the one to serve you, and then stare at her like she personally hung the moon."

    Clarke scoffed. "I do not—"

    "You do," Raven interrupted, grinning. "And the best part? You still haven’t realized that she flirts with you every damn time."

    "She’s just friendly," Clarke argued, rolling her eyes.

    Octavia nearly choked on her drink. "Friendly?"

    Raven sighed dramatically, patting Clarke on the shoulder. "You’re helpless."

    Clarke huffed, staring down into her tea instead of the way Lexa was currently chatting with a group of patrons at the end of the bar, effortlessly smooth, sharp green eyes catching the light just right.

    Yeah. Just friendly.

---
    A few days later,

    It was late when Lexa stopped in front of Clarke, setting down a new cocktails before her.

    "Rough shift?" she asked.

    Clarke exhaled, slumping slightly against the bar. "That obvious?"

    Lexa leaned on the counter. "I’ve been around enough doctors to recognize the look."

    That caught Clarke’s attention. She glanced up. "Oh? Got a secret MD I don’t know about?"

    Lexa smirked faintly. "No, but my mom is a surgeon. I know the exhaustion when I see it."

    Clarke hummed, wrapping her hands around the glass. "Explains why you’re so good at reading people."

    Lexa tilted her head slightly. "It’s useful in my line of work."

    Clarke hesitated before asking, "And what exactly is your last name, Lexa the Mysterious Bartender?"

    Lexa chuckled, a rare softness in her expression. "Woods."

    Clarke rolled the name over in her head. Lexa Woods. It suited her. Strong. Steady. Reliable.

    "You’ve been coming here for weeks," Lexa mused. "And I’m just now giving you my last name?"

    Clarke smirked, taking a slow sip of her drink. "Guess I’m just that charming."

    Lexa let out a soft laugh. "Maybe,"

    Clarke didn’t miss the way Lexa’s gaze lingered, as if there was something else she wanted to say.

    And if Clarke let herself enjoy that moment just a little too much, well… she’d blame the exhaustion.

    Clarke found herself opening up about her job in a way she rarely did.

    "I love it," she admitted, tracing the rim of her glass. "But some days, it’s… a lot. You see people on their worst days. You see people die—and then you have to move on to the next patient like nothing happened."

    Lexa, ever composed, just nodded, listening intently.

    No empty reassurances. No that must be hard or I can’t imagine. Just quiet understanding.

    "That’s why you come here," Lexa said finally. Not a question—an observation.

    Clarke hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. I guess it helps. The noise. The distraction."

    Lexa tilted her head, a subtle smirk on her lips, "And me?"

    Clarke blinked.

    There was something in the way Lexa asked it. Casual, but with an edge.

    Clarke, oblivious as ever, simply smiled. "Yeah. You too."

    She didn’t see the way Lexa’s smirk softened at that.
---
  
  It was bound to happen eventually.

   The next time she came into the bar,  Clarke worked a brutal 72-hour shift rotation, barely got any sleep, and still ended up at The Noble Stag out of sheer force of habit.

    "Rough night?" Lexa asked, sliding her usual drink across the counter.

    Clarke grunted in response, slumping forward. "Don’t even get me started."

    Lexa chuckled.

    She kept talking to Clarke, keeping her engaged, but somewhere between Lexa’s smooth voice and the warmth of the bar, Clarke’s exhaustion won.

    Her head dipped forward, resting on her crossed arms on the counter.

    She had meant to just close her eyes for a second. It had been a grueling week—her usual pediatric shifts interrupted by urgent ER calls. Too many kids hurt. Too many cases weighing her down.

    One in particular wouldn’t leave her mind.

    A little boy, no older than six, found in an abandoned house. Bruises in different stages of healing. Malnourished. Wide, fearful eyes.

    Clarke had seen a lot of things in her career, but cases like his always stuck.

    She didn’t want to go home to an empty apartment. Didn’t want to lie awake thinking about all the what-ifs.

    So, she had come here. Let the warmth of the drinks, the low hum of conversation, and the steady presence of the bar lull her into something close to rest.

    She barely noticed when something warm and soft draped over her shoulders.

    But she did notice the whispered chuckles from a few feet away.

    "Oh my God," Raven whispered. "Did you see that?"

    Octavia, barely containing her laughter, nodded. "She just—she just put her jacket over Clarke like she’s some kind of romantic lead in a slow-burn novel."

    "She’s so gone for Clarke," Raven muttered.

    "And Clarke is so oblivious."

    Lexa, who had returned to wiping down the counter, glanced at them. "You two do realize I can hear you, right?"

    Octavia grinned. "Oh, we’re counting on it."

    Lexa shook her head, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. But her gaze drifted back to Clarke, watching as the doctor subconsciously pulled the jacket tighter around herself, still fast asleep.

    And if Lexa’s smirk turned just a little fonder, neither Raven nor Octavia said a word.

    For now.

    Instead, they exchanged a look.

    It was time to help Clarke get a clue.

   After a while, Raven exhaled dramatically. "Okay, new plan. We have to help Clarke before she dies of obliviousness."

    Octavia smirked. "Agreed."

    Meanwhile, Clarke—wrapped in Lexa’s jacket, completely unaware—continued to sleep soundly at the bar.

---

    The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, a dull, almost inaudible buzz that blended into the distant symphony of the ER—monitors beeping, gurney wheels rattling, hurried footsteps echoing against polished floors.

    Clarke sat at her desk in the small, cluttered office she barely used, drowning in paperwork. Her eyes flicked between charts, her pen tapping rhythmically against the desk. Pediatric cases always meant extra documentation, and with the sheer number of accident-prone children she’d seen this week, her workload had tripled.

    Then, the emergency call came in.

    "Multiple critical injuries. Car accident. Family of four. ETA two minutes. Trauma team to Bay 3."

    Clarke’s heart clenched. She was already moving before the dispatcher finished speaking, her exhaustion vanishing beneath the adrenaline surge.

    She barely heard the next call through the intercom.

    "Pediatrics and Cardiology to Trauma OR. Dr. Griffin, Dr. Griffin, and Dr. Kim to respond."

    Her mother. Abby was being pulled in too. And Neuro. That meant head trauma. That meant bad.

    She ran.

    When Clarke reached Bay 3, the ER was already a whirlwind of movement. The paramedics were rushing in with stretchers—four of them.

    Her eyes locked onto the smallest body, barely more than a bundle of blankets strapped down with medical tape.

    A three-year-old girl.

    "BP’s dropping! She’s bradycardic!" one of the EMTs shouted.

    Clarke stepped in, hands already gloving up as she took stock of the child’s condition.

    The little girl was barely clinging on.

    Bruises bloomed dark and angry against her pale skin, her tiny chest rising and falling in short, labored gasps beneath the oxygen mask. The monitor attached to her fingers screamed unstable vitals, her heart rate sluggish.

    "Massive thoracic trauma," Clarke muttered, already pressing a stethoscope to the girl’s chest. The heartbeat was weak. Irregular. Damn it.

    "Blunt force to the sternum, possible myocardial contusion or rupture," a voice cut in—Abby, already assessing. She met Clarke’s gaze for the briefest second. No words needed.

    They had to move.

    Clarke gently pressed her fingers against the child’s abdomen. It was firm, distended. "Internal bleeding. We need imaging, but she won't make it without intervention."

    "Head CT showed significant brain swelling," Dr. Kim, the neurologist, added, joining them. "But if we don’t stabilize her cardiac function first, she won’t survive long enough for us to even consider surgery."

    No easy choices. No time.

    "Prep for the OR," Abby ordered. "Now."

    The operation room was cold.

    Clarke’s hands worked on autopilot, precision and training taking over as they opened the child’s tiny chest. The damage was severe—rib fractures, a massive cardiac contusion, and internal hemorrhaging in the abdomen.

    She was so small.

    "Heart is fibrillating!" a nurse called.

    "Start internal compressions," Abby instructed, her voice calm but urgent.

    Clarke reached in, her gloved hands cupping the child’s tiny heart, massaging it in rhythmic motions, trying to coax it back into a steady beat.

    Come on, sweetheart. Come on.

    But the numbers on the monitor kept falling.

    Her oxygen saturation plummeted. The pressure in her brain kept rising.

    "She's in cardiac arrest," someone said.
    
    "More epi," Abby said, voice sharper now.

    Clarke didn't stop compressions, didn't let her hands shake.

    They tried. They fought for her.

    But after what felt like an eternity, the reality settled.

    Asystole. Flatline.

    Time of death: 3:42 AM.

    Silence fell in the once frantic operation room.

    Only the beeping monitors remained, droning out a single, unbroken note.

    Clarke’s hands stilled, hovering above the tiny, lifeless form on the table. The room felt unbearably quiet despite the sounds of instruments clinking, gloves snapping off, deep sighs of defeat.

    She’d known it was coming.

    It was always worse with kids.

    They bounced back fast from colds, from fevers, from infections. But blunt force trauma like this? On a body so small, so fragile? The odds had been impossibly stacked against them.

    Still, Clarke had hoped.

    Hope was a dangerous thing in medicine.

    Her chest felt tight.

    Abby touched her shoulder. "Go take a minute."

    Clarke barely registered the words, her body moving on autopilot.

    She stripped off her surgical gown. Peeled off her gloves. Washed her hands.

    Then she walked.

    Clarke didn’t know where she was going until she found herself in the emergency stairwell.

    It was deserted at this hour, the metal steps cold beneath her as she sank down against the wall, knees pulled up, forehead pressed against them.

    She wasn’t even sure when the tears started.

    She had seen children die before. It never got easier, but this—this one hurt. Maybe it was the way she had held that tiny heart in her hands, willing it to keep beating. Maybe it was how young she was—three years old, barely had a chance to live.

    Or maybe Clarke was just tired.

    She didn’t hear the door open, but she felt the presence before she saw it.

    Abby.

    Her mother didn’t say anything at first.

    She simply sat down next to her, close enough that their shoulders touched, close enough that Clarke didn’t feel alone.

    For a long time, neither of them spoke.

    Then, finally, Abby murmured, "Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how hard we fight."

    Clarke’s throat felt thick. "I know."

    Abby reached out, brushing a hand over Clarke’s hair in a rare moment of tenderness. "That doesn’t make it any easier."

    Clarke let out a shaky breath, blinking rapidly. "She was just three, Mom."

    Abby sighed, resting her head lightly against Clarke’s. "I know."

    There was nothing more to say.

    No words could fix this. No words could make it hurt any less.

    So Clarke just sat there, next to her mother, tears slipping silently down her face as the weight of loss settled into her bones.

    And for now, that was enough.
---

    It was nearing midnight when Clarke finally gave up on sleep.

    Her body was exhausted, but her mind wouldn’t shut off.

    She had made it through the rest of her shift after the failed surgery, running on autopilot, forcing herself through patient charts and check-ups until she finally clocked out at 10 p.m. She had showered, changed into her softest pajamas, and crawled into bed, hoping that sheer exhaustion would knock her out.

    But it didn’t.

    She kept hearing the monitor flatline. Kept seeing the devastated faces of the child’s parents. Kept replaying every moment of the surgery in her head, wondering if there was anything she could have done differently.

    By 11:50 p.m., she gave up.

    She grabbed her phone and fired off a quick message.

  Clarke: Firefly nest empty. Feathers unsettled.

    A code. Their code.

    One that meant I can’t sleep. And I need you.

    Fifteen minutes later, her front door swung open.

    "Rescue mission, successful!"

    Raven’s voice rang out, dramatic as ever, as she strolled inside with a grocery bag in one hand and a half-empty water bottle in the other.

    "I brought the essentials," she declared, plopping onto the couch and pulling out a carton of chocolate milk and a tub of ice cream.

    Behind her, Octavia entered laden with supplies—pizza, chips, sour candy, cookies, and some suspiciously bright-green energy drinks.

    Clarke blinked. "Are we feeding an army?"

    Raven smirked. "I told her this wasn’t a ‘Clarke got dumped’ emergency, but she wouldn’t listen."
    
    Octavia scowled. "How was I supposed to know? Clarke never calls in the middle of the night unless it’s serious."

    "It is serious," Raven admitted, then glanced at Clarke. "But you’re still single, so…"

    Clarke rolled her eyes as she settled onto the couch.

    They didn’t press for details.

    They just existed around her, grounding her with the quiet rustle of snack bags and the occasional sarcastic remark.

    Raven handed Clarke the chocolate milk without a word, and Clarke took a long sip, letting the warmth settle her.

    "We lost a patient," she finally admitted.

    Raven hummed in understanding. "Young?"

    Clarke nodded.

    "A three year old girl."

    Octavia winced but didn’t pry more.

    "You did your best, Clarke. That's what matters. You can't save everyone," Octavia said softly as she hugged Clarke.

    They let the silence stretch, let Clarke settle. Eventually, the tension in her shoulders eased, and she looked a little lighter.

    That was when Octavia struck.

    "So, why are you still single?" she asked, far too casually. "Bang Lexa The Hot Bartender already!"

    Clarke choked on her drink.

    Raven grinned.

    "Oh, now we’re talking," Raven teased, leaning forward. "Do we need to meddle? Spell it out for you?"

    Clarke groaned. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thanks."

    Raven smirked. "Oh, we know. You’ve been taking care of yourself ever since that ex of yours dumped you."

    Clarke threw a pillow at her.

    Raven just laughed. Octavia fist-bumped her.

    The loss from earlier still lingered, but surrounded by laughter, warmth, and the two people who knew her best, Clarke finally felt like she could breathe again.
---

    Clarke was dreaming—something soft, something warm, something peaceful—

    And then the air was stolen from her lungs.

    She groaned as a heavy weight landed squarely on her stomach, knocking the breath out of her.

    "Rise and shine, Princess!"

    "Raven," Clarke wheezed, cracking open one bleary eye to find her best friend grinning down at her, completely unrepentant. "Get. Off."

    "Nope," Raven chirped, stretching out and making herself comfortable. "It’s almost midday. You’re wasting the day away."

    From the doorway, Octavia snorted, arms crossed as she leaned against the frame. "She just worked a brutal shift, Reyes. Maybe let her sleep?"

    "She did sleep. It’s been eight hours."

    "Not enough," Clarke grumbled, trying and failing to shove Raven off her. "And I was exhausted."

    "You still are," Octavia said, but her tone was lighter now. "Which is why we’re going to help."

    "Help?" Clarke asked suspiciously.

    Raven finally rolled off of her, plopping onto the bed with an easy smirk. "We’re taking you out."

    Clarke groaned as she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Can’t we do something normal? Like—movie night? Or not leaving the house?"

    "Nope," Raven said cheerfully. "We’re going to The Noble Stag."

    Clarke blinked. "It’s midday."

    "And?"

    "And—it’s a bar."

    Octavia smirked. "Wrong. It’s also a vintage-style diner during the day."

    Clarke frowned. "What?"

    Raven stretched, leaning back on her elbows. "Yeah, apparently they serve comfort food and fancy-ass brunches ‘til late afternoon. Same staff, same ridiculous gentlemen’s club aesthetic—"

    "—which you like," Octavia added smugly.

    "—but more chill. Like a mix between an old-school café and a classy diner."

    Clarke narrowed her eyes. "Since when?"

    "Since always," Raven grinned. "You never noticed because you’re too busy making heart-eyes at Lexa during your nightly visits."

    Clarke scowled. "They are not nightly."

    "Practically," Octavia muttered under her breath, earning herself a pillow thrown in her direction.

    "Anyway," Raven continued, ignoring Clarke’s glare, "we’re going. Get dressed."

    Clarke groaned. "Why?"

    Octavia’s smirk widened. "Because I got intel on Lexa’s shifts."

    Clarke and Raven both turned to her, raising identical eyebrows.

    Octavia shrugged, way too smug. "Echo told me."

    Raven grinned. "Ooooh, so that’s why you’ve been texting all morning."

    Clarke smirked. "You got it bad."

    Octavia just flipped them both off and sauntered away.

    "Admit it!" Raven called after her. "You like her bossy ass!"

    Octavia didn’t answer—just threw a casual smirk over her shoulder.

    Clarke groaned, already regretting everything.

    The Noble Stag felt different during the day.

    Gone was the dimly lit, sultry atmosphere of the night shift—the soft glow of candlelight, the rich undertones of whiskey and aged wood. Instead, sunlight streamed through the large windows, illuminating the dark leather booths and vintage décor. The air smelled less of cocktails and more of fresh coffee, warm pastries, and something buttery that made Clarke’s stomach grumble.

    Even the music was different. Jazz still played through the speakers, but it was softer—more like something you'd hear in a classic diner rather than a sophisticated bar.

    But the biggest difference?

    Lexa.

    Clarke wasn’t prepared.

    The bartender strode into view, slipping behind the counter with her usual effortless grace. The crisp vest, the black tie—Clarke had seen it before. But this time, there was an addition.

    Glasses.

    Thin, dark-rimmed spectacles rested perfectly on the bridge of her nose. And Clarke?

    Clarke was staring, not—so—subtly biting her lip.

    "Oh my God," Raven whispered gleefully.

    Octavia, without breaking eye contact with Clarke, held up her palm.

    Raven smacked her hand in a victorious high five.

    Clarke barely registered it.

    Because damn.

    She thought Lexa had already reached peak attractiveness. But now, with her sleeves rolled up, a pen tucked behind her ear, and those glasses framing her sharp green eyes?

    It was like getting punched by aesthetics.

    And then Lexa started making her way toward their table.

    Shit.

    Clarke quickly averted her gaze, reaching for her menu as if she hadn’t just been ogling the bartender.

    Lexa stopped at their table, one hand slipping into her pocket, the other adjusting her glasses ever so slightly. "Morning, ladies," she greeted, her voice smooth but noticeably lighter than it was at night. "What can I get for you?"

    Raven kicked Clarke under the table. Clarke shot her a glare.

    "Well," Octavia drawled, "we were just admiring the daytime menu."

    Lexa arched an eyebrow. "Admiring the menu, huh?"

    "Among other things," Raven smirked.

    Clarke subtly stomped on her foot.

    Raven hissed, "What?"

    Lexa, completely unfazed, turned her gaze to Clarke.

    And Clarke, despite being a fully functional adult, nearly forgot how to speak.

    She cleared her throat, pretending to study the menu. "Uh—the special. Whatever that is."

    Lexa tilted her head slightly, amused. "Today’s special is honey-butter chicken with cornbread and a side of roasted potatoes."

    Clarke, who was barely paying attention to the words and more to the way Lexa’s mouth moved as she spoke, nodded quickly. "Sounds great."

    Lexa’s lips twitched.

    Raven and Octavia were losing their minds.

    "We’ll get three specials, then," Octavia said, still smirking at Clarke. "And some drinks."

    Lexa pulled a small notepad from her vest pocket. "Fruity or classic?"

    "Fruity," Raven grinned. "Something fun."

    Lexa hummed in thought, then jotted something down. "I’ll get you a Solar Spritz—white wine, passionfruit liqueur, and citrus soda. For Octavia, a Blushing Stag—strawberry gin, elderflower tonic, and a hint of vanilla."

    Octavia nodded approvingly. "I like the sound of that."

    Lexa’s eyes flickered to Clarke. "And for you?"

    Clarke scrambled for something, anything that didn’t make her sound like a complete mess. "Uh—"

    Lexa smirked. "I think you’d like the Golden Hour."

    Clarke swallowed. "Yeah?"

    Lexa leaned ever so slightly forward, just enough to send a shiver down Clarke’s spine. "Peach-infused vodka, apricot nectar, and a touch of honey. Sweet, but not overpowering."

    Clarke had no idea if they were still talking about the drink.

    She nodded, probably too quickly. "Sounds perfect."

    Lexa scribbled down the order, tucked the notepad back into her vest, and adjusted her glasses again. "I’ll be back with your drinks."

    She turned, walking away with effortless confidence.

    Raven and Octavia both whipped their heads toward Clarke.

    "You are hopeless," Octavia stated.

    "She handpicked a drink for you," Raven groaned, flopping dramatically against the booth. "Flirting, Clarke. That was flirting."
    
    Clarke took a steadying breath, staring at the table like it held the answers to life itself. "I’m aware."

    Raven side-eyed her. "Are you?"

    Before Clarke could respond, Lexa returned, setting their drinks down with practiced ease. Clarke noticed, as Lexa placed hers in front of her, that the bartender’s gaze lingered for a fraction of a second longer.

    Then, with one last subtle smirk, Lexa walked back toward the bar.

    Clarke exhaled slowly.

    Raven cackled.

    Octavia just grinned. "So," she mused, sipping her drink, "when exactly are you going to bang the hot bartender?"

    Clarke choked on her drink.