Chapter Text
There are dents five months old on the capture button of Lexa’s expensive new camera when she meets Clarke Griffin for the first time.
It’s not some chance meeting, not something fate wrote out in the stars but rather something a group of managers wrote on a piece of paper. Lexa meets Clarke on a schedule, wearing a blazer Anya bought her for her seventeenth birthday, which still mostly fits aside from the uncomfortable tightening when she bends her arms a little bit too far. Her hair is tied up into a bun in order to make the frizzy curls look more professional and her shoes tap rhythms on the hard plastic floor.
Clarke Griffin walks into the room and everyone’s chatting becomes a little more buzzed, everyone’s movements a little bit faster. Lexa stays put, hand resting on her camera, tightening the black strap it’s attached to around the back of her neck. Watching as people flit around the room, offering to hold coats and begging to be of use, she smiles a little, partly out of amusement and partly out of bewilderment. It appears Clarke Griffin is magnetic.
The magazines were wrong, as they often are, but in this case they messed up big time. They described Clarke as put together, tidy, but even from across the space of a small photography studio Lexa can tell that’s a lie. It’s a lie in the knots she sees running through Clarke’s blonde hair, tangled and pushed back by red rimmed sunglasses. It’s a lie in the blue paint that’s plastered its way up her left hand like the spray of a storm driven wave. It’s a lie in the badly concealed eye bags, the coffee stains and the faded boots.
She’s incredibly beautiful, her hair the colour of sunlight shining through the roof of an old barn, her body curvy. She is the stars spread across the night sky, seemingly small and far away but Lexa knows if she gets closer she will see Clarke for the burning fire ball she really is. She is high school physics lessons, and if Lexa could measure the parallax to see the distance between her and Clarke then she thinks maybe she might be brave enough to cross it.
She stays, tense, hands clutching at her camera still, breathing in deeply as she realises that she, Lexa Woods, has been paid to photograph Clarke Griffin.
She has been paid to capture the night sky.
*
It turns out Clarke is even more cosmic through a lens. The flash pulses like a neutron star and her lips turn up softly. “Was that okay?” She speaks quietly and Lexa thinks it’s bizarre how Clarke is always described as a loud personality when she stands like a child in a school play, tensed shoulders and swallowed voice.
Looking up from her camera, Lexa allows a reassuring smile to settle on her lips. The background noises have faded out a little now, the white backdrop bringing on the atmosphere of a blanket fort, a sanctuary. “You’re okay.” Lexa speaks, her voice barely a whisper. It’s the first time Clarke has heard her talk and her voice echoes into the chasm of space. “Just,” She points with her left hand, keeping the other firmly on her camera. “Move this way a little.”
Clarke complies, shifting and tilting her body to the angle Lexa requires. The hour or so she was in hair and makeup covers her previous agitation. She has been moulded into something gentler, hair fluffy and brushed, curling neatly past her flawless skin, her precise eyeliner cutting her eyelids. She is softer, but it’s less her.
Lexa takes another photo, finger hovering a little too long on the capture button, breath stopping in between flashes. She moves hardly, heart beating in her throat as she stares through the lens.
Clarke tilts her body a little bit more, accentuating her curves and Lexa feels her heart stop. Clarke is everything, fluid like water as she poses for the camera, professionality winding around her movements. Her eyes gleam blue, and her skin looks so soft and touchable.
Lexa swallows, fingers shaking as she takes the final photo, her final glimpse of exquisiteness distorted by glass. Letting out a breath, she glances up, dropping the camera so it swings on its strap to hit her stomach. “Done.” She manages to keep her voice together.
“Great.” Clarke shoots Lexa a smile. Moving closer, she glances down, and it only takes Lexa a second to work out she’s staring at the name badge tightly fastened at the waistband of Lexa’s black jeans. “Alexandria.” The name rolls off Clarke’s tongue as she looks at Lexa, eye’s teasing. “A pretty name for a pretty girl.”
Lexa blushes. “Actually I prefer Lexa.” She holds out her hand for Clarke to shake, her movements overly formal, as she throws a quick thank you to a higher power that her palms aren’t sweaty.
Clarke quirks an eyebrow in interest. “Hmm.” She takes Lexa’s hand, a smile forming on her lips slowly. “Statement still stands.”
“You’re one to talk.” Lexa manages a small smile. “It was a pleasure photographing you, Miss Griffin.”
“Clarke.” Clarke’s voice hardens on the syllable, her eyes freezing over. Stiffly, she smiles again, and Lexa feels a twinge of guilt at the discomfort evident in the small gesture. “Please.”
“Clarke.” Lexa repeats the name dumbly, the sound rolling off her tongue as her hand hangs limp in Clarke’s. “It’s been nice.” She says genuinely. The room is muffled as Clarke nods agreeably, her blonde curls bouncing as she does. Slowly, Lexa retracts her hand, the entire world growing colder as she does. “Thank you.”
“I should be the one thanking you.” Clarke grins. “After all, you’ve made me look pretty enough for a magazine cover.”
Lexa doesn’t even think before she speaks. “You did that yourself.”
Shock passes over Clarke’s face like headlights driving by quickly, her eyelashes fluttering as her mouth falls open slightly. It’s not like she’s ever been called pretty before, she’s even been on celebrity lists where they rate people like objects, but it’s easy not to see sincerity in a system which treats women like sexy pieces of meat rather than the actual people they are. And God, the heaviness in Lexa’s eyes, the earnestness which gleams at the bottom of them, it’s enough to make Clarke’s heart double its usual rate. “I-”
“Clarke!” There’s a shout from across the room and Clarke moves her eyes from Lexa, turning to glare at a brunette woman across the room. Seeing she has Clarke’s attention, the woman grins, motioning with her arm. “Stop flirting with the photographer and get your ass over here, we need to prepare for your interview!”
“One minute Raven!” Clarke spins back around, facing Lexa. Sheepishly, she smiles, her shoulders rising a little as she holds in a breath, letting it out slowly. “I guess I have to go now.”
Lexa’s hand is back on her camera, fingers tapping uncertainly against the familiar buttons on the side. It’s a nervous tick. One of the ones Anya tried to expel, along with the way Lexa picks at threads of clothing, unravelling the stitching, and how she bites the skin on her chapped lips and bounces on the balls of her feet. “I guess…” Lexa says, unable to help the hint of sadness that creeps into her voice. Clarke is magnetic, irrefutably pretty and charming, and Lexa wants to know her, wants to be friends with her.
“Goodbye then?” Clarke laughs, and it comes out breathless as if her lungs were trying to hold it in. She’s not making any effort to move and Lexa wonders briefly if Clarke feels it too, the pull.
“Goodbye.” Lexa manages a smile, fake and forced onto uncertain lips. She turns to leave, figuring that if she has to look at Clarke for one more second she’ll stay glued to the spot forever. A warm hand on her arm stops her, pulling at the tight fabric of her blazer and jolting through her entire body.
“Here.” Clarke hands her a slip of paper. “If you’re ever short of a subject for your photography.” Clarke smiles. “Give me a call.” With that, she turns, walking towards Raven and wringing her hands nervously behind her back.
*
“So how did it go?” Lexa’s barely in the door before the questioning begins. Sighing, she shuffles out of her coat and hangs it on the hook, turning to face the source of the inquiry. Aden is grinning cheekily, casually leaning against the wall of the narrow corridor, his blond hair ruffled against the swampy green paint.
“It went fine.” Lexa smiles, knowing how annoyed Aden gets when she withholds information. Walking into the kitchen casually, she grabs an apple and bites into it, smirking as she feels his impatience. “Where’s your sister?”
“She’s still at work.” Aden shrugs. “It’s only one thirty, your photoshoot or whatever obviously didn’t take too long.”
“It’s only one thirty?” Thinking back to it, Lexa can admit the photoshoot definitely took a shorter time than expected, probably because she hadn’t expected Clarke to be so easy to photograph, all soft edges and glowing like a foggy morning at a train station. She raises an eyebrow at the boy across from her. “So how come you’re not at school right now.”
Aden shrugs. “Sick day.”
Narrowing her eyes, Lexa inspects him. “You’re not ill.”
“I could be.” Aden argues, attitude rolling off him making the statement even more unconvincing.
Taking another bite of the apple, Lexa tilts her head slightly. “Did you lie to Anya?”
A small smile breaks onto Aden’s lips and he ducks his head sheepishly. “Maybe.”
“I could tell her…” Lexa proposes, knowing she has the upper hand.
“Please don’t.” Aden sighs. He rubs his eyes with his left hand, bunching it into a fist and dragging it across his face tiredly. His shoulders collapse inwards as if his body is a coke can in a vacuum and he stares at his feet, tapping his toes anxiously against the tiled floor.
Feeling a twinge of worry, Lexa frowns, moving closer to Aden and crouching down slightly so that she’s at eye level with him. “Aden?” She asks softly, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine I just,” Aden sighs, looking up. “I don’t want to go into school today because we have to do soccer and I’m not so good at it.”
“That’s a lie.” Lexa laughs. “You’re amazing at soccer.”
Aden’s refusing to meet her eyes, bottom lip jutting out. “Not as good as I can be.”
“We’ll practise more.” Lexa promises. “When I don’t have a shoot at the weekends, and I’m not at the gallery, we’ll practise.”
“Really?” Aden’s eyes are full of hope and when Lexa nods he wraps his arms around her. He’s grown, Lexa realises, not much but he definitely has and it won’t be long before he shoots upwards in the way all fourteen year old boys seem to do. She holds him tight, feeling where his hair has grown a bit too shaggy at the bottom of his neck. “Thank you Lexa.” He murmurs into her shoulder and Lexa can feel the anxiety draining from his system.
Leaning back, Lexa smiles. “What do you say you and I watch daytime TV until Anya gets home?”
Aden grins. “Sounds like a plan.”
*
“Miss Griffin.” The interviewer has a boring voice, numbly drilling into Clarke’s head and she does her best not to flinch at the name, her name. The media can’t see that part of her Raven had said, and Clarke knew that. No matter how insensitive it sounded, she was right.
“Yes.” Clarke smiles. It’s fake but so are the layers of expensive makeup she has caking her face, smudged heavily under her eyes to cover up sleepless nights of twisting and turning.
“I said.” The interview looks a little annoyed, huffing as he struggles to keep patience. “How do you balance acting and your private life?”
“Oh.” Clarke leans forwards, clasping her hands together. She hates interviews, hates that sickly feeling she gets when people prod at her life, eyes hard and attempting to make contact as if they’re friends. She doesn’t mind sharing stuff about herself, as long as it’s not too personal, but she hates the process of it, the uncomfortable shuffling and the awkwardness. “They don’t mix.” She responds.
“Okay.” It’s clear the interviewer expected more, but he doesn’t complain, instead moving swiftly onto the next question. “Can you tell us anything about the movie?”
“Sorry.” Clarke lets out a breath of air, shrugging helplessly. “I’m on spoiler watch. I can tell you it’s going to be epic though.”
The interviewer keeps going, endlessly plodding on through all of Clarkes unhelpful non-answers and vague wording. He’s determined, scrawling on a notepad as his dictaphone flashes softly on the small table in front of him. “And what’s been your favourite thing about working on the movie?”
“The costumes definitely.” Clarke doesn’t even hesitate. “I may get in trouble for this but, you know the coat I’m wearing in the trailer? Well let’s just say that’s mine now.” She grins. “The fabrics were so nice and everything fit – I’ve never been so coordinated in my life.” The interviewer chuckles at this, glad to finally get a proper answer. Clarke continues. “Yeah I mean I love my fellow cast members and we’ve become really close, and I loved getting to play the badass detective, but that doesn’t compare to the costumes.”
“I see.” The interviewer smiles. “I have one last question for you.” He takes a breath, hesitating as he anticipates Clarke’s reaction, unsure like a child on a tightrope.
“Go ahead.” Clarke waves her hand, glad the interview is almost over.
“Okay.” The interviewer pushes his glasses up his nose. “There have been rumours circulating about your mental wellbeing, so to speak, recently you have been touchier, some even say alcohol is a big part of your new attitude. So can you tell me, is this all due to the recent loss of your father?”
Clarke freezes up, her muscles turning to ice. Surely Raven had talked to this man, told him what he could and couldn’t ask. Her heart beats into her throat, locking her airways and asphyxiating her bloodstream. “I-”
The man leans forwards, vulture eyes gleaming behind glasses, hungrily awaiting her response.
Clarke stands, suddenly, hands shaking as she feels that all too familiar prick behind her eyes. Her skin is tingling, writhing and uncomfortable as she knocks her chair out of the way. “I have to go.” She chokes.
Across the room, Raven looks up, noticing the distress Clarke seems to be in. She pauses for a second, taking in a breath and waiting to see if Clare is handling it, concern written across her face. When it becomes clear that she needs to intervene, Raven politely smiles at the intern beside her, handing him her clipboard before storming over. She wraps her arm around Clarke’s waist supportively and glares at the interviewer. “What did you say to her?” She practically growls, teeth bared and eyes hard.
Clarke turns, so that her body is angled into Ravens and she tucks her head into the crook of her neck, trying to steady her breathing. Raven’s saying something, her voice muffled but defensive, anger pouring out through tensed muscles and sharp words, but Clarke can’t hear through the blood pounding in her ears.
Eventually, she’s pulled out of her haze by Raven’s voice, a lot gentler than before, worry latching onto every syllable. “Clarke.” She says quietly, unwrapping her arm and distancing herself from Clarke so that she can look at her. “You’re okay.” Staying sullen, Clarke counts the patterns on the floor as if she’s working out some grand mystery. “You’re going to be okay.” Raven repeats, taking Clarkes hand. “Let’s get you home.”
*
“And then!” Aden exclaims happily. “Lexa turned on the television and it was playing a trailer for the new detective movie - the one that Clarke Griffin is in! And Lexa met her Anya can you believe that!? A real life celebrity!”
Anya chuckles fondly at her little brother as she twirls spaghetti around her fork. “Calm down Aden, if you think about it, nothing really separates this girl from us.” She takes a mouthful, sighing as she tastes the food. “Lexa how come you make the best tomato sauce?”
Lexa grins. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“No.” Aden brings the attention back to him, an excitable smile lighting up his face, blue eyes shining as he talks. “Clarke Griffin is a celebrity, that’s what makes her different. She’s famous. And Lexa didn’t even ask for her autograph.” He scolds, shaking his head and eating some of his pasta. “Man this pasta is really good though. Thanks Lexa.”
“No problem.” Lexa smiles, sitting with her back straight and her food remaining untouched. “And actually I didn’t really want an autograph.” She shrugs, feeling the small slip of paper burn in the right pocket of her blazer. Her fingers itch to take it out and dial the number, but her breath gets stuck in her throat every time she thinks of doing so. Her brain is at war and her heart is the battlefield.
“Liar.” Anya teases, her lips turned up slightly. “You would have loved something to remember this day by.”
Narrowing her eyes, Lexa scoffs. “I doubt it.”
“Anya’s right.” Aden nods, and Lexa spins to look at him, betrayal painted onto her face. Aden puts up his hands in false surrender, widening his eyes at the glare directed his way. “Hey I’m just saying, you like to remember important things. Today was your ‘big break’ right? Why wouldn’t you want to remember that?”
“I suppose.” Reason laces into Lexa’s voice as she sits back in her seat. Her foot taps on the floor, jittery and impatient as her heart races in time with it, palpating out of her chest.
“What’s wrong?” Anya sighs, placing her hand gently on Lexa’s leg to stop it moving. “You’ve barely touched your food.”
There’s a small part of Lexa’s brain that wants to tell no one about the number, wants to keep it to herself like some gollum-esque creature that sits in a dark cupboard all day rocking back and forth with it clenched tightly in her hands, but in reality she feels as if she’s wading a ten feet deep pool and the small slip of paper is dragging her underwater. “Clarke Griffin.” Lexa states slowly, worrying at her bottom lip. “She gave me her number.”
Widening her eyes, Anya sounds shocked. “What?! Why?”
Opening her mouth to speak, Lexa is interrupted by Aden, who’s grinning triumphantly. “That’s better than an autograph.”
“Aden.” Anya huffs. “Go do your homework.”
“I was sick today remember.” Aden sticks out his tongue, his eyes dancing. Lexa looks down, hiding the small smile on her lips at the exchange.
“Sorry it slipped my mind because you obviously lied to me this morning.” Anya glares at Aden, who visibly gulps. “Go play a video game you little twerp.”
“Fine.” Aden huffs, getting up and collecting his plate from the table. Carefully, he pushes in his chair, turning around and departing with a final teasing “This is why I love Lexa more.”
“Idiot.” Anya rolls her eyes and Lexa chuckles. The decision to move in with Anya and Aden hadn’t been a hard one, and there’s not a day where Lexa regrets it – they’re an amusing pair, even their arguments are fought with a certain degree of playfulness because Aden rarely misbehaves, and Anya rarely disagrees with him.
“Anyway.” Anya leans forwards, eyes alight as she holds Lexa’s arm. “Why did Clarke Griffin give you her number?”
“I thought celebrities were just normal people.” Lexa mocks Anya’s excitement with a teasing smirk propped on her lips, internally rolling her eyes at the transparency of her friend.
Impatiently, Anya hits Lexa’s arm. “Shut up and tell me.”
Lexa’s fidgeting again, worried hands scratching at irritated skin, nails dragging up her forearms anxiously. “I’m not sure. She said if I ever needed a subject for a photography project.”
“What?” Anya’s confused, lips slightly pursed and eyebrows knitted together. “But she’s an actress. And a pretty successful one at that.”
“I know.” Running her hand through her hair, Lexa slumps back in her seat. “I don’t know what she meant.”
“Maybe she liked you.” Anya teases, and Lexa’s mind flashes back to blonde hair and blue eyes. Clarke was a dream island on a Caribbean sea, a sanctuary and a refuge, her eyes shining like the scorching midday sun hitting an ocean wave and her smile was the shade.
Slowly Lexa shakes her head. There’s no way that someone like Clarke could be interested in her. “No.”
“Well.” Anya sighs, standing up. Her long hair falls in her face as she leans forwards to pick up her plate off the table. Her fingernails are painted red, but slightly chipped around the edges from where she’s been too busy to look after them. Looking at Lexa, her eyes soften and a small smile grows on her face. “You should call her anyway.” There’s a slight melancholy to her tone, her shoulders a little more deflated than usual. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
Lexa nods, but doesn’t pry.
*
“This isn’t my home.” Clarke’s voice is monotonous, unaffected and unsurprised by the familiar door Raven has dragged her too, well acquainted with the paint that peels to reveal tan wood in the bottom right hand corner and the door handle desperately in need of polish.
“This will always be your home.” Raven says softly, squeezing Clarke’s hand once reassuringly before letting go to dig in her bag for her keys. “Plus, Lincoln’s making dinner tonight and really why would you want to miss that?” She unlocks the door.
“Good point.” Clarke smiles slightly, stepping into the apartment.
“Wait.” Raven grabs her arm, spinning her around. Her tongue is burning with concern, she aches to say everything that’s been drenching her heart for the past month, drowning a little bit more every time she’s had to pick Clarke up at midnight or yell at some reporter for her, but she knows Clarke doesn’t want to hear it, so she settles with. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Smiling tightly, Clarke nods. “I’m fine.”
She isn’t.
She hasn’t been fine for exactly twenty seven days and ten hours. She hasn’t been fine since her mobile slipped from her ear, the resounding thud on the ground and cracked screen catalysed by her paralysed shocked hand. She doesn’t remember when food didn’t taste like ash, she doesn’t remember good night’s sleep, and she isn’t fine.
Turning and shrugging her arm out of Raven’s loosened grip, Clarke takes a deep breath, walking into the homely apartment. It feels different, or maybe Clarke’s different now, but the same pale blue walls which once resounded with laughter seem to be filled with damp and mould in her mind’s eye. The furniture once soft is stale and her entire world is spilt with grey. Or maybe she’s just overdramatic - she is, after all, an actress.
“Is that a Clarke I see in my living room?” The voice is light and full of laughter, and some of the choking rope around Clarke’s heart loosens. “By golly!” Octavia continues in a bad accent, walking towards her and grinning. “I believe it is.” She hits Clarke’s arm affectionately, earning a smile. “How’ve you been Clarke?”
“You know.” Clarke shrugs. “Working.”
“I do know.” Octavia glares pointedly behind Clarke at Raven, who’s hanging her tan coat on the back of the door. “Someone has been late home all week.”
“Ah it’s a hard life.” Raven grins, throwing her arm around Clarke’s shoulders. “This one’s impossible to manage.”
Cocking an eyebrow, Octavia teases. “Oh really.” She smiles. “Are you sure you’re not an impossible manager?”
“Pfft.” Raven laughs loudly and obnoxiously, in a way that only Raven can. “As if.” She stands up straight, proudly grinning. “I’m a fucking delight.”
Octavia snorts, turning around. “Lincoln!” She yells. “Did you hear that?”
Lincolns head pops around the corner. “Hear what?” He takes in Clarke, smiling at the sight of her. “Hey Clarke.” He waves a spatula. “Long time no see.”
“Hi Lincoln.” Clarke smiles sheepishly. “Sorry I haven’t come round in a while.”
“Hey it’s no big deal.” Lincoln throws up his hands, ever the good guy. “You’re here now. We missed you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Octavia interrupts. “We all love Clarke, but also Raven just proclaimed herself a ‘fucking delight’.” Emphasising her disbelief of the declaration, Octavia makes air quotes with her hands, her right hand slightly out of sync with her left.
“Well she can be.” Lincoln chuckles, smiling at Raven. “But usually not.”
“Oh piss off Lincoln.” There is mirth in Raven’s insult, her dark eyes twinkling as she’s unable to hide her smile. “Just because you always side with O.”
“Takes one to know one.” Childishly sticking out his tongue, Lincoln disappears back into the kitchen to finish cooking supper.
“I’m gonna go see if he needs any help.” Raven declares, beginning to move towards the kitchen.
“Wait.” Octavia grabs Ravens hand, and Clarke watches with interest as Raven tenses, her free hand beginning to tap against her thigh, just above the worn out brace on her leg.
It’s always like this, Octavia touches Raven and she freezes, stuck like the morning before the sun rises. Clarke has seen it time and time again, and she looks now as Raven’s shoulders begin to collapse inwards, relaxing like she always does after a few seconds, giving in to the harbour Octavia provides her.
“How was work?” Octavia asks, caring and soft as she plays with Raven’s fingers.
Raven’s response is muttered, and the bit of Clarke that wants to hear it is muffled by the bit of her that stands back. This isn’t something she is a part of, and she’s okay with that. Octavia laughs at the reply, throwing her head back, dark ponytail bouncing with the movement.
Clarke’s seen the movies, she’s been in some of them, and she hears the directors frame the scene in her head. Her two best friends, their love plot unravelling in saturated slow motion before her eyes.
She can’t imagine what music would be playing, but she knows it would be beautiful.
Leaning in, Octavia plants a kiss on Ravens cheek, before letting go of her hand and stepping back. Raven turns to smile back at Clarke, cheeks still tinged with pink as she walks into the kitchen.
“So… Raven?” Clarke begins, stepping closer to Octavia.
“Don’t start.” Octavia sighs, moving backwards and slumping onto the couch. “I really missed having you here Clarke. I’m glad you came tonight.” Her voice is slightly accusing, and she doesn’t bother making eye contact, but Clarke doesn’t take offence by it.
“It must be hard living with Raven and Lincoln.” Clarke agrees jokingly, sitting down next to Octavia’s sprawled out body.
Groaning, Octavia throws a hand over her eyes. “I know you’re joking, but you have no idea.”
There’s a pause, silence only interrupted by the muffled laughter coming from the kitchen. Clarke looks up, words on the tip of her tongue and hands pressed tightly together as she thinks of the best way to phrase them. “You know they’re both in love with you, right?” She shuts her eyes, internally scolding herself at her bluntness.
“I know.” Octavia whispers, and it’s the first time in a while that she’s sounded so young.
“Are you going to do anything about it?” Clarke asks, but she already knows the answer.
“No.”
Clarke nods, accepting it. “That’s okay.”
“It’s not.” Octavia argues, stubbornness rising through her tone angrily.
“Put yourself first O.” Clarke sighs, and it sounds patronising, even though she didn’t mean it that way.
“Is that what you did when you disappeared for two weeks?” Octavia snaps, opening her eyes angrily, only to have them instantly filled with regret as she takes in Clarke’s expression. “I’m sorry.” Her voice is soft again, and she rubs at the bridge of her nose with her right hand. “I know you’re going through some stuff…”
“It’s okay.” Clarke hates the way her voice wavers, but she places a hand on Octavia’s leg to try and reassure her that she’s done nothing wrong.
“I just,” Sitting up, Octavia sighs. “I was so worried. You’re one of my best friends Clarke, for god’s sake you’re my only best friend who’s not in love with me.” She laughs bitterly. “And you didn’t call. I would’ve thought you were dead if it weren’t for those stupid news reports.”
Grimacing, Clarke feels bile rise in her throat at the thought of the said reports. “I’m sorry O.”
“I didn’t sleep for two weeks Clarke.” Octavia whispers. “And it wasn’t your fault, not really, and I’m not going to blame you, but god,” She sighs. “You could’ve called.”
“I know.” Clarke’s voice breaks a little. “I should have.” Shuffling closer to Octavia, Clarke wraps her arms tightly around her, tucking her head into her shoulder as she feels arms wind around her back. “It won’t ever happen again.” Her voice is muffled by Octavia’s shirt.
“I should hope not.” And Clarke can hear the ghost of a smile in Octavia’s voice.
They fall quiet, Clarke listening to the familiar sound of Octavia’s breathing, the steady rhythm of her lungs. It’s comfortable and for a second Clarke forgets that her heart is Atlas and the sky is crushing, she’s just there, in her best friends arms, and a little piece of her mends slightly.
A loud noise startles them apart, and Octavia flies to her feet, heart racing at the startling sound. Raven smiles sheepishly from across the room, holding an air horn. “Dinner.”
Glaring at Raven, Octavia growls. “I will end you Raven Reyes.”
“You’ll change your mind when you try my delicious food.” Raven gloats, cocksure and grinning.
“Raven only did the washing up!” Lincoln’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “As if I would let her near an oven.”
“Good call.” Clarke stands up. “Raven and hot things don’t mix.”
“How come I am a hot thing then Clarke?” Raven argues, her tone childish. “Yeah, check and mate, you can show yourself out.”
“Shut up.” Clarke chuckles. “You’re such an idiot.”
“A hot idiot.” Raven confirms.
“Can’t argue with that.” Octavia grins, and Ravens cheeks flush slightly again at the compliment causing Clarke to roll her eyes at just how far her friend has fallen down the rabbit hole.
On a more serious note, Clarke hopes the rabbit hole has an emergency exit because Octavia’s not helping Lincoln or Raven out of it anytime soon and she doesn’t want to lose either of them forever.
Just then Lincoln pops his head around the door again, a teasing smile on his face. “Are you guys just going to stand there bickering or do you want to eat before it gets cold?”
*
“How does Lincoln make weird vegan risotto taste good?” Raven wonders aloud, greedily spooning up a forkful of rice and shoving it into her mouth.
“I have magic hands.” Lincoln answers, throwing a wink at Octavia who pretends to swoon.
Clarke’s food remains untouched, and she really wants to eat it for Lincoln, but her stomach churns at the thought of eating, and food still turns to ash on her tongue.
Getting up, Octavia walks over to the small fridge, which has badly spelled swearwords stuck on the front in colourful fridge magnets, courtesy of Raven. She opens the door, bending down and examining the contents. “Anyone want a beer?”
“I’ll take one please.” Lincoln replies.
“Yeah me too.” Raven nods, side eyeing Clarke anxiously before adding. “Clarke’s fine though.”
Feeling annoyance twinge up through her bloodstream, Clarke pushes it back down again. She knows why Raven said it, but it still hurts that they don’t trust her to make her own choices. She guesses she deserves that though.
Smiling tightly, Clarke looks up. “Got any orange juice?” She jokes weakly, and feels the entire room let out a relieved breath of air that they didn’t set off the ticking time bomb that is Clarke Griffin.
It stings, but so does everything.
“We going to the gym tomorrow Lincoln?” Octavia grins, seemingly unaware to Clarke struggling. Or just trying to power on through it in the true Octavia Blake style.
“Yeah.” Lincoln rubs his stomach jokingly. “Gotta burn off these calories somehow.”
“Dude.” Raven stares. “You just ate a vegan risotto. Calm down.”
“Yeah Lincoln you’re super fit.” Octavia laughs. “You could probably live the rest of your life without going to the gym and still have the abs of a god.”
Raven chokes on a spoonful of risotto at the comment. Wiping her mouth, she narrows her eyes. “I’ll come to the gym tomorrow too.”
“Then we have to bring Clarke also.” Octavia smiles. “Make a party out of it, what do you say Clarke?”
“Sounds great.” Clarke murmurs, not really paying attention. There’s a thread on the right sleeve of her jacket that’s come loose and hangs precariously from her cuff like a dust covered spiders web dangling from the roof of an old barn, and Clarke wants to get rid of it.
“How was your shoot today by the way Clarke?” Lincoln asks, trying to move on the conversation to be more inclusive for her.
Clarke thinks back to the room with the crowd and the vulture-like press scrutinizing her every move. The people were either boring or nosy or both, and the walls were harsh and dark. Except for the studio, which was white as if the walls had been bleached by camera flashes.
The studio which came with soft green eyes and mesmerised stares, long tan fingers dancing over camera buttons and a kind smile. Lexa - that was her name. Clarke remembers the name badge and the warm touch which carried a feeling of security that she hadn’t grasped in a while. Dark hair tied in an endearingly messy bun and a blazer that obviously restricted the movement in her arms. “It was,” Clarke begins. “Different…”
Her phone rings loudly in her pocket and Clarke fumbles with her jacket, hands tapping against the material in frantic search. When she finally pulls it out, the screen reads ‘unknown number’ and usually she would ignore it but she kind of wants to leave, so she excuses herself, moving into the living room and pressing answer. “Hello?”
“Hello.” The voice on the other end of the line is breathless and unsure and all too familiar. “It’s Lexa. Lexa the photographer?”
Clarke grins as she puts a face to the voice, leaning back against the wall comfortably. She briefly entertains the idea of fate, given that Lexa called just as Clarke’s mind became occupied with the exact shade of her eyes, but ultimately she shoves all notions aside because it’s ridiculous that, in the card game of life, fate would even bother to deal them a pack. “Hello Lexa the photographer, what can I do for you?”
“I-” Lexa sighs into the phone. “I’m not sure.”
“Well.” Clarke chuckles. “Why did you call then?”
“I don’t know.” Lexa fumbles. “I’m sorry. My flatmate told me I should but this was obviously a mistake. I’m wasting your time.”
“No.” Clarke says the word all too suddenly, and it makes Lexa jump on the other side of the line. “I mean.” Clarke’s voice softens. “I wouldn’t mind talking to you for a bit. In fact,” She thinks back to her space at the table, surrounded by wounded friends and pity parties. “It would be quite welcome.”
“Well I’m glad I can be of help to you, Clarke.” The kindness in Lexa’s voice isn’t lost as it crackles through Clarke’s phone. “I’m not sure what to talk about though.”
“I don’t know.” Clarke chews on her bottom lip. “Why don’t you tell me about your flatmate?”
Lexa chuckles softly. “I’m not sure if that’s my story to tell, but her name is Anya and she’s been my closest friend for as long as I remember. I live with her and her kid brother.” She doesn’t continue onwards, leaving no explanation as to why Anya’s little brother lives with them. She doesn’t seem to be someone who shares much. In the scheme of things, she’s a fielder rather than a pitcher, always ready to listen to someone else. This is proven when she turns the attention back to Clarke. “What about you?”
“Me.” Clarke breathes out slowly. “I live alone. Have since I was sixteen.”
“Oh.” Lexa pauses, and the silence is filled with curiosity and questions precariously balanced on the edge of her tongue. “You know,” She says slowly. “I do have a photography project coming up if you want to take part in it. You don’t have to of course, Clarke, I don’t want you to feel pressured.”
“Oh.” Clarke blinks at the unexpected preposition, heart unclenching at the lack of intrusive questions that she was so sure would come. “Yeah.” She breathes. “That would be cool.”
“Yeah?” Lexa’s voice is full of hope. “It’s just, I have a second job cleaning at a gallery and the manager, Indra, shows my work a lot of the time. There’s a showcase coming up and she wanted me to be a part of it.”
“I’d love to help you.” Lips slightly turned up at the insecure enthusiasm in Lexa’s voice, Clarke adds. “Plus it would be nice to get away from all this press craziness surrounding me lately.”
“Being an actress must be difficult.” Lexa agrees. “It’s why I like photography, you can still give beautiful things to the world, but the photographer themselves is hidden. People can admire your work their entire lives and never know it’s yours.”
“Sounds nice.” Wistfulness laces Clarke’s tone as she replays Lexa’s voice in her head. “You sound like you know a thing or two, Lexa the photographer.”
“I try.” Lexa’s voice is quiet, a smile seeping through it.
“What’s the theme?” Clarke asks. “Of the showcase.”
“Begin again.”
“That’s a thought.” Clarke sighs, closing her eyes. There’s quiet on the other end of the line, but if she listens closely she can hear Lexa breathing, in and out and in and out. It’s reassuring, the steady sound of life, lungs at work, labouring alongside the heart and the blood to keep the body across the phone alive.
“Clarke?” Lexa breaks the silence.
“Yes.” Clarke murmurs, keeping her eyes closed.
“Are you alright?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.” Lexa ponders over her next words. “That’s okay.”
“Is it?” The words are weary.
“Of course.”
“We should meet up and discuss the showcase.” Deflecting, Clarke pinches the bridge of her nose tiredly. “Text me details.”
“I will.” Lexa promises. “And Clarke?”
“Yes?” Clarke answers, and she notices the hope that rises into her throat, quickly followed by confusion as her brain races to work out what the hopefulness is for.
“I’m here if you need me.”
A click indicates that Lexa’s hung up, and Clarke feels her heart sink a little. There are words on the edge of her tongue, an unsaid answer to a supportive send-off buzzes through her veins and Clarke finds herself mouthing the words to the silence of the phone line long after its gone dead. I need you.
*
Lexa: Clarke. I hope you’re okay. If you still want to help me with the showcase, meet me at Harper’s Café at 12:30 tomorrow. Unless you need more notice. Whatever works for you? Lexa.
Clarke: of course I still want to help u. and dw my schedules not so busy at the minute so I can work with that. did u know theres this miraculous invention called contact details so u don’t need to sign off messages with ur name. also why do u type like a mom on facebook.
Lexa: I won’t give you the satisfaction of a reaction Clarke. Personally, the way you text hurts my eyes.
Clarke: 2 bad
*
“Clarke Griffin.” Anya drawls, the name rolling off her tongue through smirking lips. “Clarke fucking Griffin.”
“Anya.” Lexa’s tone is warning, and she refuses to look up at her friend, keeping her eyes glued to the television. Night is falling and the room has darkened considerably since she sat down on the edge of the worn out leather couch. One of Aden’s movie’s is playing, some form of war film that doesn’t really catch Lexa’s attention, but Aden can’t tear his eyes away from the guns and the explosions as he sleepily cuddles into Lexa’s side, her arm thrown over his shoulders.
“I can’t believe it!” Anya laughs, looking up at the ceiling as if some easier explanation is scrawled onto the plaster.
“Shh.” Aden whispers, trying to hear the film.
“Sorry.” Anya ducks her head sheepishly, lowering her voice and crouching so that she’s on level with Lexa. “I don’t believe it.” She repeats. “You have a coffee date with Clarke Griffin.”
“It’s not a date.” The words are numb on Lexa’s tongue, and she suddenly finds the on screen battle a lot more interesting. “We’re just… going to discuss the photography. Like colleagues.”
“At a coffee shop.” Anya grins.
“Shut up Anya.” Lexa rolls her eyes. “Just because it’s a coffee shop does not mean it’s a date!”
“Shh!” Aden repeats, angrily.
“Sorry Aden.”
“It’s okay.” Aden sighs, readjusting his position on the couch so he’s facing more forwards.
“And she’s offered to help me with this project.” Lexa growls under her breath. “She’s my partner.”
“Okay middle school.” Anya cocks an eyebrow. “She’s your partner who you find extremely attractive. I get it.” Sighing, she places a hand on Lexa’s shoulders, her eyes sincere. “It’s just nice to see you happy Lexa.”
“I’m not happy.” Lexa defends, before mentally smacking herself. “I mean,” She backtracks. “I am happy. Happier. But it’s not because of anything or anyone. Just time.”
“Time.” Anya repeats, slowly as if she is tasting the word on her tongue before she speaks it. Tilting her head slightly, she smiles. “Makes sense.”
Lexa nods, a quick short movement to show Anya she appreciates her not pushing any further. “This is the best part.” Aden whispers, his blue eyes wide and flashing with different coloured lights as the unravelling scene paces onwards quickly.
“I’ll be sure to pay attention.” Affectionately, Lexa ruffles Aden’s hair, before they fall into a lulled quiet, interrupted only by the television. Blue light absorbs the room, coating the walls artificially and making the paintwork flicker and dance with the movie, and Lexa sinks further back into the sofa. She doesn’t think about Clarke Griffin again until much later that night.
*
Clarke goes home promptly after dinner, turning down Raven’s invitation to play strip twister and rocketing out the door as fast as she could. It’s not that she doesn’t love her friends, because she does, more than most things, it’s just that she can’t really function right now.
Her apartment is dark and empty like always, the walls cold and the high ceilings collect black clouds that crack down on her floor with thunderous temper. Shivering, Clarke drops her coat on the floor, not managing to find the willpower in her to hang it up, and begins to move to her bedroom.
In the apartment there is a big open kitchen, expensive counters for an upcoming actress. The canvas of fake marble laid out between cupboards and shelves is shrouded by stacks of dirty dishes, empty takeout boxes and bottles. Clarke sighs, heaviness making her feet sore, she knows that if she doesn’t clean it up it will only get worse, but every time she thinks about starting her heart expands in her throat and she wants to collapse to the ground and cry. So it stays, unhealthy mountains of soiled crockery fogging up her clean slate.
She knows if she asked her friends would sort it in a heartbeat, but it would be out of pity and that makes Clarke want to puke even more than the thought of doing it herself.
Sighing, she passes the disaster that was once her kitchen, and makes her way up to bed.
Her bed is soft, sheets expensive and fresh, but at some point Clarke was supposed to change into sleepwear. Instead she sits, fully dressed, on her nice sheets, legs crossed and hands aimlessly tapping at her phone screen. Beating loudly in her chest, Clarkes heart is the most audible sound in the room. Her breathing is shallow and her phone is on silent. Eventually, the want replaces the anxiety and she shakily types a number and hits call.
The deadened sound of ringing an empty phone overshadows Clarke’s heartbeat.
It clicks, drawn out and piercing as the phone isn’t picked up, and the familiar voice mail beings to play. “Hello.” There’s a long pause. “Ha ha, I got you! Sorry I’m not actually in right now, but I should be back soon. Leave a voicemail.” There’s a high pitched beep.
Closing her eyes, Clarke presses the phone closely to her face, her breath coming out in shakes. “Dad.” She starts. “I miss you.” Her voice trembles, wavering with the tears filling up her eyes. “I miss you so much. I’m really struggling and the only person who ever understood that was you.” Her voice cracks. “But you’re not here anymore. And it hurts.” Breathing out deeply, she wipes at the tears on her cheeks. “It hurts so much dad. I don’t know what I should do. I don’t…” Trailing off, she stares at the phone, her finger automatically moving to hang up.
As soon as the call is over, Clarke throws the phone onto the bed angrily. “Agh!” She yells, hitting her fists into the covers, creating ripples along the floaty material. Looking down, she realises she forgot to get changed. Slowly, she wipes her face standing up and retrieving her phone, before walking out the door.
*
Lexa is woken up by the sharp beeping of her alarm cutting through the sleepy air. She has three coherent thoughts as she shakes herself awake, feeling almost unable to force her eyes open and tasting the dryness of her mouth. Her first thought is that this morning is a lot darker than other mornings. Her second thought is that she is exhausted, tiredness running through her bones and causing splinters for every minute of sleep she needs. Her third thought is that she needs to change her alarm tone so that it is different from her ringtone.
“Hello.” Lexa squints at the bright light of the phone screen as she answers, cringing at her horrible sleepy voice.
“Oh god.” A voice slurs through the phone. “You were asleep weren’t you? I’m sorry.”
Sitting up abruptly, Lexa pushes her hair out of her face. “Clarke?”
“Yeah.” Clarke giggles.
“Are you drunk?”
“Maybe a little bit.” Answers Clarke, and the ‘a’ sound in maybe is elongated.
“Clarke, it’s three am.” Lexa’s voice is warning, but she’s filled with worry as she fumbles out of bed, pulling on some sweatpants lying on her floor and grabbing a button up shirt from two days ago. Putting Clarke on speakerphone, she begins to button up the shirt, fingers working quickly and clumsily. “Where are you?” She demands.
“I don’t know.” Clarke murmurs. “Some park.”
“A park?” Lexa shoves her feet into an old pair of sneakers. “Might need a little more information.”
“I don’t know.” Clarke repeats, sighing. “There’s trees and benches.”
“Every park has trees and benches.” Unimpressed, Lexa rootles through her wardrobe for a backpack, trying to ignore the concerned pace of her heart beating through her ribs.
“We were supposed to meet at the coffee shop.” Clarke says deliberately. “We were supposed to meet. Why aren’t you here Lexa?”
“Harper’s coffee shop?” Lexa lights up. “Are you in the park behind Harper’s?”
“Lexa, Lexa, Lexa.” Happily, Clarke sounds out the word into the receiver. “Lexa. Your name is so pretty.”
“Stay there Clarke.” Lexa instructs, placing a bottle of water and a blanket in her backpack. “Stay on the phone with me. I’m coming.”
“Like I would go anywhere.” Clarke snorts. “You’re far more interesting than the trees.”
“Am I?” Quietly, Lexa sneaks down the corridor, gently pushing the apartment door open so as not to wake Anya or Aden.
“Yeah!” The shout comes loudly down the phone and Lexa winces as it pierces the silence, slicing through the darkness like a guillotine. “I mean,” Clarkes voice quietens. “I don’t really know you, Lexa the photographer, but I do know that you’re Lexa.”
“Uh huh.” Cold air lashes at Lexa’s face as she exits her apartment building, thankful for the fact the park is just around the corner. The night is made from tiny particles of glass that embed themselves cruelly in her reddening cheeks and she shivers, wishing she’d worn a jumper.
“Yeah.” Clarke continues. “And I know that you’re a photographer.” She says slowly, before suddenly exclaiming. “And I know you’re super pretty!”
Jogging past the coffee shop, Lexa blushes. “You’re drunk.”
“It doesn’t change facts.” Bluntness solidifies Clarke’s words.
Silence follows Clarke’s voice like a shadow and Lexa focuses on opening the park gate, scanning the expanse of monochrome grass lit only by the stars. Her breath is coming out faster than usual, anxiety and adrenalin pumping her heart to twice its normal speed as she worriedly looks about.
“Lexa.” Clarke talks again, her voice smaller than it has ever been.
“Yeah.” Lexa breathes, jogging forwards to get a bigger view of the park. There! She sees Clarke slumped back against a bench on the other side of the lawn. Her blonde hair covers her face as she desperately holds the phone to her ear. Quickly, Lexa begins to make her way towards her, feet pressing into the damp soil as if it’s playdoh.
“I’m sorry.” Clarke whispers. “For making you do this. You don’t know me and I don’t know you. And I’m sorry.”
“Clarke.” Lexa sighs. Reaching Clarke, she crouches down, placing her hand gently on top of hers as a gesture of comfort. “Clarke.” She repeats, but it’s a whisper this time as she hangs up her phone, hearing a sob erupt through Clarke. “Listen.” Lexa leans forwards, placing her phone in her pocket and using her free hand to wipe a tear away from Clarke’s face. “You are not a burden.”
Refusing to meet eye contact, Clarke sniffs. “You don’t know me.”
“I don’t have to.” Lexa’s voice is soft, and she stands up to sit down next to Clarke, wincing at the coldness of the bench through her sweatpants. They sit in the quiet for a little, their breaths coming out in clouds of smoke, and gently rising up to meet the stars that litter the night sky like spilled glitter across a kindergarten table. Clarke shivers violently, defences waning against the night-time’s battlements. “Are you cold?” Lexa breaks the silence.
“Don’t worry.” Clarke says through gritted teeth, her body trembling.
Reaching into her backpack, Lexa pulls out the blanket and wraps it around Clarke. “Here.”
As soon as the blanket is thrown on her shoulders, Clarke stills. She stops as if she has just looked medusa in the eyes, her shaking coming to a halt and her shoulders tensing, and then slowly, she relaxes, fingers pulling at the warm material and wrapping it around her body, bringing the edge of it up to her nose so the bottom of her face is covered too. Turning to Lexa, she meets her eyes, and even in the dark Lexa can still see the sun through the stained glass windows of Clarke’s eyes, which are wide and genuine. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” Smiling at Clarke, Lexa fiddles with her hands in her lap. “I also brought you some water to help with the alcohol.” She pulls the bottle out of her bag.
“You did.” Clarke grins, taking the water, and Lexa can tell that the blanket broke the invisible barrier that Clarke had initially set up between them. “Thank god, my mouth feels like the Sahara desert right now and probably tastes worse.” She jokes, before adding. “Blankets and water though, where have you been all my life?” A smile set on her face.
Returning the smile, Lexa watches as Clarke chugs the water, droplets occasionally missing her mouth and sliding off her chin, tracing down her neck and collecting in the hollow of her throat. Lexa interrupts. “So where are we going?”
“What?” Clarke is breathless from drinking so quickly, her mouth still glistening wet and she wipes it on the back of her hand.
“Well,” Lexa swallows, looking down at her hands rather than at Clarke. “I assume you want to go home.”
“Not really.” Clarke sighs.
“Why did you call me then?” Lexa ask, and it’s not rude, just inquisitive.
Fiddling with the ring on her thumb, Clarke sighs. “Because I couldn’t call Raven again. And you’re the only person in my contacts who wouldn’t tell her, or judge me. You’re not judging me right?”
“No.” There’s no hesitation as Lexa shakes her head to enforce her words. “Why would I judge you? Everyone has bad nights.”
“Wait.” Clarke looks up, her eyes wide and hopeful as her left hand slithers across the bench to rest on Lexa’s right one. “You mean, you haven’t read the articles.”
“What articles?” Lexa can barely hear herself speak over the rush of her heart at the touch of Clarke’s hand.
“The ones about me.” Clarke sighs, joining their fingers almost subconsciously. “Especially the recent ones.”
“I don’t really read about celebrities.” Lexa smiles, nudging Clarke slightly with her elbow, which jolts their adjoined hands slightly. “I don’t know anything about you really.”
“Oh.” Clarke sounds relieved for a second, before breathing in a shaky breath of air. “Do you want to know?”
Shaking her head, Lexa chuckles. “Not really, I’d rather just get to know you in person.”
Bitterly, Clarke laughs, turning to look at Lexa and picking up the vodka bottle off the floor. “I’m doing such a great job at that aren’t I?”
“Not bad.” Lexa teases, her thumb stroking gently down the back of Clarkes hand, comforting as her breath forms clouds in the sky between them. “I mean, at least you picked a starry night to go on a bender.”
“Shut up.” Clarke laughs, looking up. “Whoa.” She breathes into the night, mouth dropping open at the estranged fairy lights taped to the edge of the atmosphere. Her hair flows further down her back as she tips her head back, silvery in the starlight and flowing in tangled curls.
Lexa takes in Clarke, silhouetted in the darkness, face tilted up in awe, and she feels a warmth spread through her body, contrasting the cold night. There’s something about the twinkle in Clarke’s eyes, the curve of her nose and the shape of her lips that just clicks, like a puzzle that Lexa has been slaving over has suddenly been solved. It feels comforting almost, relieving like climbing into a warm bed on a cold night and burying under the covers. For the first time in a long time, the darkness of the night makes Lexa feel safe. She takes a breath. “Do you want to come back to my house?” Lexa feels her heart break through the walls of her throat as she asks.
“What?” Tearing her eyes away from the sky Clarke’s face becomes perplexed, her lips turned up slightly in an unsure tease. “Are you propositioning me Lexa?”
Lexa blushes, feeling the tips of her ears go red. “No.” She explains. “I just mean since you don’t want to go back to yours, or Raven’s, and we can’t sleep on this bench. I live right around the corner anyway so it’s no big deal.”
“Well,” Clarke grins. “When you explain it so logically…” She stands up suddenly, swaying a little from the lasting effects of the alcohol and wrapping the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Come on,” She smiles, pulling Lexa up by their joined hands.
“One second.” Lexa bends down, picking up the empty water bottle and the vodka bottle and placing them in her backpack, zipping it up and throwing it over her shoulder. “Okay.” She swings their hands, making Clarke giggle and the warm feeling in her stomach grow. “Let’s go.”
*
“My apartment building’s just up ahead.” Lexa explains, pointing with the hand that isn’t glued to Clarkes, her tone light but tired. The concrete sidewalk aches against her feet, cold and hard, a grey expanse stretching onwards.
“I know who you are Lexa.” Clarke stops, just three doors down from their destination and pulling Lexa to a halt with her.
Taking the bait, Lexa smiles, turning to face Clarke with soft eyes. “Who am I?”
“You,” Clarke smiles lazily, her eyes fluttering closed with the weight of the early morning hours. “Are the kind of person who would stand outside in a thunderstorm.”
“I am?” Lexa chuckles, pulling Clarke along and gradually moving them to her door. She buzzes herself in and pulls Clarke inside. Warmth envelops them, wrapping itself around Lexa’s shoulders and hitting the cold night outside. Breathing softly, they stand still in the silence of the dark lobby.
“Yeah.” Clarke whispers, aware of how the atmosphere has changed, quietness numbing her senses. “You’d risk the chance of being hit by lightning just to watch the clouds light up.” There’s not lie in Clarke’s voice, and she sees Lexa before her in the darkness, face barely lit by dim hallway lights, but in her mind her green eyes flash with lightning strikes as she laughs at the rolling thunder, face wet with rain and hair sticking to her face as she applauds the storm. “You’re beautiful.”
“Alcohol does that.” Lexa sighs, pulling Clarke forwards yet again. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“Why don’t you believe me?” Clarke pouts, trailing Lexa up the stairs, her feet hitting the edges of each step too loudly.
“I believe you’re drunk.” Lexa says quietly, her eyes trained ahead of her.
“It’s mostly worn off now I think.” Clarke speaks quietly, her voice more steady than it has been all night. “And I still think you’re beautiful.”
Blood rushing to her face, Lexa finds her tongue caught on what to say, her brain balancing on a tightrope of trusting and doubt. So she says nothing, reaching her door and turning the key in the lock slowly, pushing it open and spinning to see Clarke, who’s grown uncharacteristically quiet. “You have to be quiet because my friends are asleep.”
Avoiding eye contact, Clarke mutters. “Sure.”
Sighing, Lexa walks into her apartment, pocketing her keys. “Sure.” She repeats, dragging her hand across her tired eyes. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Lexa.” Clarke looks up, her voice gentler than before. “I’ve kept you up, you deserve your own bed. It’s the least I can do.”
“I’ve slept on worse, Clarke.” Lexa points towards her bedroom door, painted white and shiny with gloss. “My bedroom is just there, you should make yourself comfortable.”
“No.” Clarke shakes her head, face hardening with stubbornness and arms snaking their way to cross over her chest. “I’m not taking your bed.”
“You’re not taking the couch!” Lexa argues, a bit too loudly in the muffled apartment walls. She pauses, hearing the imprint of her voice lasting on the darkened walls.
“Neither are you.” Clarke sticks out her bottom lip and they’ve come to a standstill, fingers hovering near holsters cross the stretch of desert in between the couch and the bedroom door.
Running her hand through her hair, Clarke breaks the silence, slowly offering a solution. “We could always share?”
Heart quickening, Lexa looks across at her, eyes wide and unsure. “Are you sure?”
“If it will get you some rest.” Clarke shrugs, pushing the door open with her shoulder. “And as long as you don’t snore.” She walks into Lexa’s room, letting the door swing shut behind her.
Contemplating the odds of Clarke coming back out if she doesn’t follow soon, Lexa decides they are very high and so she smiles, slowly pushing open the door to her bedroom and letting her eyes adjust to the slightly different lighting. “Clarke?”
“Mmm.” Clarke replies, her voice muffled and sleepy, already having climbed into the warm bed. “Your bed is so soft.”
Chuckling, Lexa fumbles forwards in the darkness, not bothering to change out her sweatpants as she kicks off her shoes and climbs into the other side of the bed. “Thank you.”
“S’no problem.” Clarke sighs into the pillow, body turned away from Lexa’s and blankets pulled up to her shoulders. Her legs kick backwards, cold feet pressing against Lexa, who shivers but doesn’t complain.
Lying rigidly, Lexa feels unsure of what to do with her arms, keeping them heavy by her side like bricks. Slowly, tiredness grasps her in its fingers, relaxing her muscles one by one until she falls into the void of feather pillows and soft sheets, breathing evening out into the warming morning.