small panes

Image Description: Background multiple small panes of worn warehouse type windows. Text Reads: “In contexts like teaching children or working with autistic people, the term “social skills” is used to mean “the skill of complying with dominant norms of social interaction.” But getting away with noncompliance is also a social skill. Improving your lot in the social realm by fighting for your right to be who you are is also a social skill.” - Nick Walker

Down in the Valley (With Whiskey Rivers), Part I

Or, In Which I’m Supposed To Be On Fic Hiatus But I Had This Idea Before The Hiatus So I Started Writing It Anyway. Tumblr-only and minimal editing for now because of Real Life Stuff, which is also why I broke the big fic idea into little vignettes. Hmm. Maybe I’ll turn it into a big one shot when I’m done, but I’m gonna play fast and loose it with for now because Fic Is Fun, Not Work!
Post Season 2, Clarke finds an abandoned cabin in the woods. Eventual Bellarke.

She finds the cabin at twilight.

Fatigue and the nearly-gone daylight send Clarke tripping wildly on the stairs. The porch bites sharply into her knee and she feels a splinter rip into her palm when she slams her hand onto the rough wood. “Shit,” she mutters, and stumbles back up onto her feet.

The small pane of glass in the door glints at her even in the dimness. Clarke wraps her good hand around the cold knob. Please be open. The knob doesn’t even need to be twisted, though; it’s stuck, turned all the way to the left, and the door swings inward about a foot when she jostles it with her shoulder. Something rustles on the floor when the door stops–leaves or branches or fabric, Clarke isn’t sure, not with night nearly here–and she has to give the door a firmer push to be able to slip inside.


A skitter to her left. Something small, with delicate nails that scrape at the wood. Clarke gives a grateful sigh because it’s nothing but a possum or a racoon, and one that wiggles through an opening in the wall and then is gone into the darkness outside.

Heya?” she calls out again.


Just the quiet forest noises, muffled by the cabin walls, and the wind blowing through the drafty areas of the cabin.

Clarke’s been sleeping under fallen trees and on dirt and in the crooks of tree roots for weeks now. The hard floor, and the idea of the creepy-crawlies that might be moving around on it, don’t faze her in the slightest. She puts her back to the wall, tucks her knees into her chest, and closes her eyes.

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