Archive of Our Own

"Please?"

"I said no, Clarke." 

The conversation, if you could really call it that, had been going like this for the past twenty minutes, Clarke having ambushed Lexa before she even had a chance to set down her heavy trial briefcase.

Clarke narrowly refrains from stomping her foot on the ground like a petulant child. She is a doctor, damnit. She doubted her attending, if she saw her now, would be impressed. Doctors were mature . They didn’t throw tantrums and they didn’t stomp their feet when things didn’t go their way. She’s pretty sure she even remembers repeating a line in the hippocratic oath about all of that. Maybe. If not, there there probably should be.

She sidles up to the stern figure that is her best friend, and wraps both hands around the arm that is not currently spreading jam onto a slice of bread with military precision. She goes for a different, sweeter tactic, eyeing the dirtied utensil in Lexa’s right hand. “I’ll make you pb&j’s every day for the rest of the month.”

Lexa pauses her sandwich ministrations, unimpressed gaze falling upon Clarke’s puppy-dog pout. Clarke is 100% sure the oath didn’t say anything about those. However, the perfect eyebrow quirked in her direction does say that this ploy will not work. She and Lexa had been friends for too long. The other girl obviously had grown immune to her ploys. 

So she abandons that plan and tries another, tugging at the bicep she is clutching and wrinkling the otherwise impeccably starched shirt Lexa is wearing. If Lexa and her lawyerly ways required something more concrete, she could rise to the occasion. Logical, Clarke could do. 

“Why is it even that big of a deal? You’re already going to the party anyway. Why does it matter if you just so happen to be going as my date as well?”

Lexa’s eyebrow does not back down. “It matters, Clarke, because it would be lying.”

Clarke groans. “And here I thought that was you DAs’ modus operandi.”

“Guess that’s why I’m only an Assistant District Attorney, then. I still have my morals.”

“What you have is a stick up your ass.”

“Clarke, you do know I can hear you when you mutter to yourself like that, don’t you? You’re practically breathing down my neck.” 

Clarke breaks down, resorting to whining once more. "Lexa. Pleeeeease. You're my best option."

Lexa snorts at this. "I'm your 'only option,' you mean," she says as she tosses her spoon into the sink before grabbing the knife she had already laid out. Pb&j preparations were ecclesiastical in her book. She performed every step like prayer on a rosary. If Clarke’s vice-like grip on her appendage hindered this process, it didn’t show. Lexa administers the peanut butter as usual, completely unperturbed by the blonde 26 year old hanging from her arm.

"That...isn't entirely untrue. BUT my mom has been convinced you and I are more than just friends since you came to Thanksgiving with me last year." Clarke smiles triumphantly as if Abby’s opinion were the damning, incontrovertible piece of evidence for her case. She totally just won.

"That is because your mother is a lunatic." 

Or not.

"Hey!” She whacks Lexa on the shoulder. Unfortunately her proximity is so that she is not able to put much force into the blow - it’s more of a farce than an actual rebuke. “That is no way to talk about your fake girlfriend's mother, Lexa."

"Well it's true, Clarke, ” Lexa mimics Clarke’s indignant and chastising tone. She screws the lids back on the jam and peanut butter and shoots a look at the girl beside her, her own triumphant smirk in place. “She even accused Bellamy and Lincoln of being an item last time she came to visit." 

"....fair point."

Lexa’s smirk blooms into a full blown grin as she turns back to her snack, knife already completing the final and most important step: cutting the sandwich into two perfectly symmetrical triangles.

Clarke watches the precise movement, hands still curled around Lexa’s upper arm. She exhales a sigh of resignation and slumps further into the girl’s form, resting her forehead on Lexa’s shoulder. When she speaks next, her tone is completely different from the playful whine it was earlier.

“Please, Lex? Finn’s going to be there. You know how he can get. I just.. I just really don’t want to deal with him this year,” she confides, voice soft and vulnerable, muffled almost entirely by the fabric of Lexa’s oxford.

Lexa pauses at this admission, one half of expertly made sandwich hovering inches from her lips. This was her real weakness. Pouts and flawed logic, she could handle in her sleep; this was all par for the course in her line of work, and her ability to remain unswayed by inconsequentials (even from beautiful women) were part of what made her so incredibly good at her job. But Finn… Finn was another matter entirely.

She had never liked the boy, not even before he and Clarke started dating. There was something about him and his cavalier manner that irked her to no end. But Lexa had never voiced this; she had played the supportive best friend, and kept her beliefs about Clarke deserving so much better to herself. She knew how her concerns would sound anyway: disturbingly similar to jealousy.

And that just wasn’t a can of worms she wanted to be the one to open.

So she kept her mouth shut, and pretended like it didn’t make her skin crawl to see them together. When it eventually came to light that Finn and Clarke really weren’t a suitable match and that they’re priorities didn’t align after all (Clarke’s priority being monogamy, and Finn’s being sleeping with as many girls as he could get his grubby paws on) Lexa had breathed a sigh of relief. Not at the fact that Clarke had been hurt, of course, but at the fact that she wouldn’t have to worry about Clarke slumming it with that oaf anymore.

That was over a year and a half ago. Lexa never mentioned her feelings about Finn and Clarke -- or her feelings on either person separately, for that matter. Clarke had since moved on. Evidently Finn had not, though, if Lincoln’s reports were anything to go by. Lincoln worked with Finn at the local newspaper, and apparently Finn had all but launched a personal campaign to win Clarke back. Lincoln reported that Finn believed he had done ‘some growing up,’ and ‘realized the error of his ways.’

When Clarke first mentioned this to Lexa one evening as the two were winding down from a particularly hectic day at work binging on Netflix and snacks, Lexa almost broke the popcorn bowl, she gripped it so hard. Clarke had been unaware of the shift in Lexa’s mood and merely laughed off the whole thing as if Finn thinking she would take him back was the the most absurd thing she had ever heard of, second only perhaps to the news that Octavia was enrolling in the police academy.

Lexa didn’t comment on the fact that as much of a shock as it had been when Octavia decided to join up, the fact remained that she had done as much only to pass with flying colors and eventually come to work for their local police department.

But Lexa didn’t want to press the subject any further, the whole train of thought making her stomach twist painfully. And when Clarke ended the conversation by flinging her legs across Lexa’s lap and snuggling further into the couch, Lexa decided to drop it too.

Finn and his misguided conceptions were not mentioned between them again until this afternoon, when Lexa returned from court only to be blindsided by a frantic Clarke. Apparently, earlier in the day Octavia had called Clarke with bad news: Finn was coming to the holiday party she and Lincoln threw every year. Finn’s attendance was normal, he and Lincoln were still civil what with working together, so that alone was not cause for Octavia ‘to get her panties in a twist’ as Clarke had so eloquently reminded her. What was a good reason however, Octavia stated, was his stated mission.

“He says he’s going to get you back if it’s the last thing he does, Clarke,” Octavia had repeated, annoyance at the whole thing obvious. It had been a long day for Officer Octavia Blake; being low man on the totem pole at the station meant tackling paperwork more often than perps. She did not have time for stupid boys who had stupidly hurt her best friend.

“And look, I know you’re a big girl, and Finn is totally harmless, and I’m sure you can kick his ass to the curb all on your own, but the last thing we need is some dramatic scene involving you, homeboy, and some cheap engagement ring you’d no doubt accept just to shove up his you-know-what.”

Clarke let out a snort at this mental image.

Octavia continued in the same dry tone, “Because while that would be hilarious. It would do little in the way of holiday cheer.”

Clarke could do nothing but agree with both of these statements. Still. “Why exactly do I have to fix this? He’s Lincoln’s guest,” she whined out.

“Yes, but he is your ex. It’s your fault for dating the loser to begin with.” The younger Blake had never been shy about showing her distaste for the boy. She certainly wouldn’t mince words now.

“Sorry. We can’t all date rocket scientists.”

Octavia’s pride at her girlfriend’s profession as an aerospace engineer was apparent even through the phone-line. “Well you could, I suppose. But I don’t know why you would even bother since I already snagged the hottest, smartest one. No sense in you playing second fiddle to Raven and I for the rest of your life.”

Clarke’s eyes rolled so hard Octavia could hear it through the phone. “Pass." 

Octavia ignored her. She steered back to the original point of this phone call. “Speaking of which. It’s the last year Casa de los Lincoln y O will be hosting this shindig. Rey and I move into our lovenest the second of February. Who knows if we’ll ever have a party again, we might just be too busy having cohabitant sex to ever see any of you weirdos again.” Octavia spoke over the gag that came from Clarke’s end of the line, “So we really need to do this soiree right. For the kids.”

Clarke did -- even if the kids in question were their motley friend group, of which Octavia was the youngest.

She had ended the call with an over-the-phone-pinky-promise that she would handle the situation. Her brilliant solution: have Lexa pretend to be her fake girlfriend so as to dissuade Finn from making any moves. He had always been intimidated by Lexa (on a variety of levels), and Clarke was sure that if anyone would scare Finn off it would be Lexa and her ‘take no bullshit’ attitude. Her bitch face had only gotten more impressive since joining on at the District Attorney’s office. Finn would be running for the hills in no time, Clarke believed. Besides, he had always had some cockamamey theory the other girl had a thing for Clarke, so that was an added bonus.

Which is how Lexa and Clarke found themselves in the situation at hand: Clarke clinging to Lexa and Lexa decidedly not clinging to her resolve.

“Fine,” she sighs long and low, as if all her self-respect were escaping with the breath, “I’ll do it.”

Clarke’s head pops up immediately, kilowatt smile plastered back on. “Really?”

“Yes. Now. May I please eat my sandwich?”

Clarke squeals, honest to god squeals, right in Lexa’s ear. Lexa considers rescinding her offer on that fact alone. She doesn’t get a chance to though, because Clarke is already off, amidst a whirlwind of ‘thank you, thank you, thank you’s and a hard kiss pressed to Lexa’s cheek.

“You are the absolute best, Lex. Wherever you want to eat Friday night -- it’s on me. I gotta run tell O that Christmas isn’t ruined after all.”

Lexa is left to grumble about over-excited girls, stuff her sandwich into her mouth, and try to unclog her now ringing ear. 

---

“Is it too late to back out?”

“Well. Considering as how we’ve already rung the doorbell… ”

Clarke groans, bangs her head against Lexa’s shoulder, the same one she leaned against two weeks ago in Lexa’s kitchen. “You damn lawyers and your damn logic.” She is holding the same arm too, but this time her vice of a grip is situated lower on the crook of her elbow. It is meant to be a casual, coupley gesture. In reality it is just serving to cut off Lexa’s circulation.

Before Lexa has a chance to respond, the door swings open forcefully to reveal an already drunk Octavia.

“Lesbians,” Octavia answers by way of greeting, “SCORE!”

Clarke dislodges from Lexa’s side to fling herself at Octavia. “Actually just ‘lesbian,’ singular, and bisexual, also singular,” Clarke amends, clutching to the younger girl. The door smashes off the wall beside it with a bang. 

As the two girls are embracing like they haven’t seen each other in months (it has been a week, maybe) Lexa discreetly shakes out her arm attempting to restore its blood flow without drawing too much attention. Just as the door, rebounding from its collision with the wall, is about to hit the two reuniting friends, a tanned hand snags it and then Raven is stepping into view, eyes rolling and cane already whacking at her girlfriend’s ass. 

“Jesus, O. Why don’t you at least let the guests inside before mauling them?” She looks over the top of the two heads in the threshold to smirk at the girl still in the hall. “What’s up, Woods.”

At the sound of Lexa’s name, Octavia rears back to fix her eyes on the other girl standing in the hall. She keeps her arm looped around the blonde’s shoulder, cup in her hand sloshing dangerously. Without preamble Octavia launches herself at Lexa, Clarke still caught up in her hold, successfully manhandling both girls simultaneously. Lexa marvels at the fact that Octavia has not spilled her drink yet.

“Reyes.” Lexa nods to Raven while trying not to choke on Octavia’s hair.

Raven takes this opportunity to tug Octavia away from the two newcomers giving them a chance to collect themselves. Octavia places a sloppy kiss on Raven’s cheek. When Clarke settles back against Lexa, hand in the crook of her elbow, she does not grip for dear life, like she had been 60 seconds ago.

“That is quite a handful you have there,” Lexa smirks, tipping her chin to indicate where Octavia’s arm has already snaked around Raven’s shoulder to play with the girl’s ponytail. Loud music and conversation can be heard from further inside the apartment.

Raven rolls her eyes good naturedly, steering her girlfriend back in the direction of the rest of the group. “I could say the same thing to you,” she tosses back over her shoulder.

Even though Raven and Octavia are in on Operation Big Fat Liar, Clarke still blushes at this. They round the corner into the living/dining room area to find the party in full swing. Christmas lights adorn every book shelf, sprigs of mistletoe thrown in for good measure. A menorah and Christmas tree contend for center stage on an end table by the window. 

Gina, Miller, and Wells occupy the only couch in the room, caught up in some debate about the most recent polls. Everyone is wearing a tacky christmas sweater and everyone seems to be working on a good buzz. On top of all of this, there is some ridiculous remix of Jingle Bells layered over dubstep playing through the sound system that Monty and Raven no doubt provided.

An exultant hoot rings out from the other side of the room where the dining table used to sit. Someone has set up the obligatory beer pong table in its place, because even though the median age in the group is twenty-seven, and college years are well behind all of them, they still like to bask in denial and revelry when they get the chance. 

If the celebratory dance moves are anything to go by, Monty and Bellamy have just creamed Jasper and Maya. Bellamy for whatever reason is wearing the peaked cap from Octavia’s dress uniform. It clashes horribly with his jingle-bell-clad sweater. When he chest bumps Monty the rows of tiny brass bells are set off in a wave of dings and the hat teeters on its perch. Octavia's level of intoxication is beginning to make sense.

Raven leans over to Lexa and Clarke and stage whispers, “He won’t stop calling himself Officer Fun,” loud enough for the gentleman in question to hear over the din of the party and his sweater.

Bellamy’s head snaps up at his chosen moniker, and smiles goofily in their direction. He immediately abandons the table and its celebrations to swoop in for welcome hugs. Lexa thinks, not for the first time, that the Blake Family must have been a family of huggers. She is grateful Bellamy reserves this greeting for social affairs, and does not bearhug her every weekday morning as well. She isn’t sure their boss, the DA would approve of such displays of affection.

“Actually,” he corrects, arms thrown around the two newest arrivals. Lexa has to lean away minutely, his alcohol breath is so powerful. “After the supreme ass-kicking we just bestowed on those two I think a promotion is in store. You peasants may call me Sergeant Fun, now!”

A collective groan goes up from the four girls he has surrounded himself with, but only Octavia says anything, muttering into her cup “Pretty sure you can’t even spell ‘sergeant.’”

“What was that, little sis?” 

Octavia speaks up, enunciating clearly, “I said, that if that was all it took to climb the ranks, I would have been the Commissioner of Fun before I even graduated college.”

Bellamy merely grumbles under his breath, before moving the conversation to more important matters. “You two fine women need drinks. Allow me.” He centers his hat once more before marching off in the direction of the kitchen. “Lincoln! The lovebirds are here!” he shouts into the open doorway.

The addressed man appears and squeezes past Bellamy in the doorway (a remarkable feat considering they are the two tallest, most hulking people here), wincing at Bellamy’s lack of inside voice.

“Thanks, Bell. I think the whole apartment complex is aware of that now.” His huge hands are filled with chips and dips, but he still manages to swing by on his way to the coffee table and give both Clarke and Lexa a kiss on the cheek in greeting.

At the emergence of Lincoln and food, Jasper can be heard bemoaning the lack of chocolate cake. Before he can finish asking "what kind of a commie party doesn't have chocolate cake?" he cuts off with a high-pitched "hey!" as Maya no doubt whacks him upside the head

Lincoln grunts dismissively at the boy. His tone changes though as he whispers a quiet, “he’s in the kitchen,” before pulling back from Clarke's cheek. He had picked up the anxiety hidden in the creases around Clarke's eyes and answered her unvoiced question. Lincoln had always been good at picking up on these subtleties.

“No mistletoe in there,” he winks. Clarke beams him a grateful smile and the last of her unease seeps from her visage.

Jasper and Maya join the clustering then, Jasper still rubbing the back of his head and pouting at an unimpressed Maya. They each take some of the goods from Lincoln’s hands and leave him with a more manageable haul: a bag of tortilla chips and a bowl salsa.

Noticeably freed up, Lincoln deposits his kiss on Lexa’s cheek. Her reaction to the sweet gesture is to reach for a chip from the bag in his hand and scoop up an egregious amount of salsa onto it.

Lincoln is nonplussed at Lexa’s stoic non-response or his new position as Lexa’s personal cocktail waiter. “By all means, commander. Help yourself.”

She grins up at him, eyes doing the brunt of the work with her mouth full of corn chip, and crunches extra noisily at his usage of the nickname FADA, Anya, recently bestowed on her.

As First Assistant District Attorney and DA Indra Trikru’s right hand woman, Anya was senior to Lexa and Bellamy both. Bellamy had worked for the District Attorney’s office a good three months longer than Lexa, but he had yet to earn any nicknames from the terrifying woman other than a gruff “hey you.” He and Lexa had been competitive through the years they had been at law school together (a task made difficult at times by the fact that Bellamy had started a quarter ahead of her). Having both clerked for the DA during their summers, it came as little surprise when Bellamy and Lexa were both offered positions.

Bellamy graduated the quarter before Lexa, and went straight to work, rubbing his increasing work experience in her face the whole three months until Lexa graduated and joined him. Once on equal ground, the competition had naturally resumed at full tilt. Their relationship seemed better suited to competitors rather than friends. And perhaps that is all they would be if it weren’t for Clarke and her web of friends that bound them together outside of the office.

Friends or not, Lexa can’t help but preen at the small reminder of her hard work being recognized and consequently besting the older boy.

She rewards the co-host for this and his appreciated service by feeding him the next salsa-sodden chip. Octavia takes this opportunity to ask Raven why she never feeds her like that.

Lincoln turns away from his roommate and her girlfriend in preparation for whatever R-rated reply Raven will no doubt supply. He addresses Clarke and Lexa, speaking loudly in the hope of drowning out the girls behind him, “So. You two certainly look good together.” He throws in a suggestive eyebrow wiggle to help matters. “Ya know, I actually need to thank the two of you. Bellamy owes me twenty bucks because of you. He bet you guys wouldn’t pull your heads out of your asses until after O and Raven moved in together.”

Lexa chokes on her chip at this point. Octavia had opted to not clue her roommate in on the fake part of the Lexa and Clarke dating plan, telling him instead that the L in Operation BFL stood for Lesbians, not Liars. Clarke had forgotten to share this small detail with Lexa.

By way of apology, she pats the other girl on the back and responds for the two of them. “Man. Had we known there was money to be won, we would have rigged the stakes.” Clarke makes the executive decision to have a little fun with the charade and throws in an unnecessary term of endearment. “Right, schnookums?”

At the ludicrous pet name, Lexa coughs loudly hoping to cover up almost choking once more.

Clarke lets out a snicker, giving away her obvious amusement at Lexa’s discomfort, and alerting the other girl to her not-so-innocent intentions.

Lexa straightens up, drawing herself to her full height, and lines up her shot. If that’s how Clarke wants to play this, Lexa can play too.

She ghosts her hand purposefully along Clarke’s side before slipping it into the far back pocket of Clarke’s jeans. If in the process she wipes a few chip crumbs from her hand onto the back of Clarke’s sweater in revenge for Clarke making her lose her cool, that is just a happy bonus. She pulls the other girl to her side forcefully enough that Clarke has to put her hand onto Lexa’s chest to steady herself.

Lexa goes in for the kill.

She speaks more to Clarke than Lincoln, voice dropping an octave. “Clarke, you and I both know how bad you are at keeping quiet--” Lexa pauses here to give Clarke a pointed once-over, full lower lip tucked between perfect white teeth. Clarke narrowly misses inhaling her own tongue. “--especially about something as big as this.”

Clarke knows Lexa is just playing around. She knows Lexa is just getting her back for a second ago, one-upping her own actions. She knows this. But goshdang it all if Clarke can’t help the blush that warms her cheeks at the gravelly edge Lexa’s voice has taken or the innuendo sparking in her electric eyes.

Clarke also knows that as a bar-certified attorney, Lexa should be aware that a look like that is highly illegal.

Lexa hears Clarke take in a shaky breath, sees her pupils expand, and knows she has won this round. She allows her lips to curve up in triumph.

“Okay, okay. Save it for the bedroom, you two,” Bellamy orders, slurring only slightly as he reemerges from the kitchen and hands the two girls their drinks.

Under any other circumstances Clarke would no doubt want to throttle the boy for interrupting such a heated moment. However, given tonight’s motives are more about Clarke and Finn than Clarke and Lexa, she welcomes the small reprieve from the intensity (contrived or not) that is Lexa. She breaks eye contact with the other girl to inhale a deep breath and focus on anything other than the delicious warmth of Lexa’s hands seeping through the denim of her jeans.

Clarke wonders if it had really been that long since she had been with someone, that even a little play flirting between friends could work her up this much. If Clarke was being honest with herself here though, Lexa had always had a strong effect on her -- even when she and Finn had been dating. Lexa was just that kind of person. She could command your complete attention with just the incline of her chin or kink of her brow (Clarke believes that in another lifetime the girl standing beside her, face devoid of all emotion except the remnants of a smirk, was no doubt a queen).

Clarke wonders if that is what her mother had noticed last Thanksgiving.

Beside her, Lexa pointedly does not remove her hand from its residence in Clarke’s pocket, instead taking the proffered cup with her free one.

Lexa had seen Finn exit the kitchen behind Bellamy and slink over to the snack table by the rest of the group. It is officially ‘go-time’ as Raven would no doubt say. She mentally shifts gears, her objective now to look like a convincing couple, not merely beat Clarke at her own little game. She is thankful that both have identical outward appearances. She shifts her weight, leans a bit more into Clarke. 

Now that Bellamy and Lincoln are standing next to each other, Lincoln holding the chips and salsa for the other man to eat, Clarke and Lexa notice the striking similarity of their sweaters: both knits are trimmed with the same garish brass jingle bells.

Clarke snorts. “Nice sweaters, guys. What is this, the Wonder Twin Holiday Special?”

Raven cackles from behind Bellamy, well thrown shade pulling her from the suggestive conversation she had been having with Octavia. “Good one, Griffin. All I could think of earlier was Dumb and Dumber jokes.”

“Wait a second. Octavia, are those both Bellamy’s Christmas sweaters?” Lexa asks, recalling a conversation last Holiday season about some tradition between the siblings involving giving each other tacky sweaters every Christmas. Octavia insisted on only giving Bellamy ones with those same jingle bells on them, ‘because not taking advantage of that wonderful pun would be downright criminal.’

“Yes,” the answer comes not from Octavia, but her brother.

Lincoln looks mildly uncomfortable at the spotlight being on him and Bellamy, and Bellamy proves just how drunk he is at this point by draping an arm around the other man’s shoulder and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Up until this point, Lexa wasn’t sure if Lincoln’s darker skin tone would accommodate a blush. Lexa finds out that it certainly can.

Bellamy is completely unaware of any resulting awkwardness, and returns to stuffing tortilla chips in his mouth, pausing his crunching only long enough to explain that Raven had been possessed by a domestic demon earlier this week and attempted to do some laundry for Lincoln and Octavia. It had resulted in Lincoln’s Chanukah sweater shrinking down to an unwearable size. “Obviously Lincoln wouldn’t fit into any of O’s sweaters so I just let him have one one of mine,” he finishes matter-of-factly.

“Hmm... “ Octavia regards the two men through near-drunk-squinting, before reaching a verdict: “Cute.”

Satisfied with that topic, she switches course, spinning around to the empty beer pong table and bellowing, “Now! If the amateurs are finished. Looks like it’s time for the real games to begin.”

She drags Raven off, the other girl issuing a warning of “easy there, robocop,” as she tries to work her cane fast enough to keep up with Octavia’s determined stride.

“Mrs. and Mrs. Perfect, mind joining us so we can wipe the table with your annoyingly good bone structure?” Octavia barks at them, there is a question mark in there somewhere but there is no actual question. Neither Clarke nor Lexa backed down from a challenge, especially when it involved one of the Blake siblings.

Clarke drains her drink before shoving the empty cup back into Bellamy’s chest. Now that both hands are free she makes a show of cracking her knuckles before reaching back and grabbing Lexa’s hand. “Come on, babe. Let’s show these losers who the real power couple is.”

Lexa follows Clarke’s lead, emptying her own beverage and tossing the cup in Bellamy’s direction. She makes eye contact with Lincoln, not Bellamy whose eyes are looking more and more out of focus by the minute, and tells him to “Give us something strong. Not like we’ll be needing to drink much of it." 

Lincoln tips his head back at the swell of bravado now surrounding the table. “And they say men are the competitive ones. Sheesh. Remind me never to get into a measuring contest with any of you ladies.” 

Across the table, Octavia and Raven pause resetting their triangle of cups to flex their muscles in Lincoln’s direction. The act of intimidation would probably be more impressive if Octavia didn’t have to lean on Raven to keep steady.

Bellamy tunes back in to pat Lincoln’s arm as sweetly as he can while holding two cups, and reassures him, “Don’t worry, Linc. I still think you’re big.”

For a second time in the past five minutes Lincoln proves that yes, he can indeed blush.

---

Two and a half games later, Lexa is beginning to regret her words to Lincoln. 

While she and Clarke summarily dismissed Octavia and Raven the first game, due primarily to Octavia’s attention (i.e. drunken affection) being focused on her girlfriend rather than the game, game two had been a different story. Octavia had seemingly gotten her head back in the game long enough to deliver some lucky shots, winning the second game. Clarke and Lexa had paid for it.

Now, Clarke is warm against her side, one arm crossed over her chest, the other resting on the makeshift shelf. She is holding her cup in her free hand languidly against her lips. Her brows are pulled down in serious(ly tipsy) concentration. She is strategizing, watching the other team’s shots and tactics.

Lexa is watching Clarke. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registers the fact that Finn is somewhere in the vicinity and she has a job she needs to be doing dealing with that, but where the lip of Clarke’s cup rests against her pout is way more intriguing.

This is how they are when they drink: Clarke all laser focus and intensity and Lexa freer, softening at the edges, both almost absolute foils to their sober, everyday selves. Even with their shift, they still work together splendidly, dynamics simply reversing rather than crashing. 

Neither girl had gone to the party with the intention of getting drunk, but the ramping up to the holidays had been particularly difficult. Lexa had been swamped at work with case preparations for the year-end, the judge had been overly optimistic in his docket scheduling and she had been to five hearings this past week alone. Clarke, likewise had been swamped at the hospital, insurance companies and the administration both demanding a wealth of patient info.

But none of that mattered because the courts were closed on Sunday and Clarke had managed to convince her attending to let her have the day off. So, when Saturday night rolled around and it was time to let their hair down they welcomed the opportunity with open arms and livers.

Which is why neither girl had turned down a rematch against Octavia and Raven, and perhaps even more so why both Lexa and Clarke had agreed on an even stronger mix than their initial one poured by Lincoln. In effect, the two girls were both two sheets to the wind and working on their third just like the rest of the party’s occupants. 

Clarke angled her body more into Lexa’s, hips resting in a “T” against her partners. Her focus remained on Raven judiciously lining up her shot, so she missed Lexa’s eyes tripping away from her lips and back to the game in front of them. Lexa curses the haze filling her mind for their sluggish movements. She mimics Clarke and stares hard at the table in front of them, tries not to think about the heat coming from Clarke’s body and soaking deliciously into her own. Raven airballs magnificently and Clarke laughs with unrestrained glee, bending further into Lexa for support, her laughing mouth dead even with the taller girl’s jaw and warm breath whooshing across her pulse point, causing it to shudder wildly.

At Lexa’s involuntary shiver Clarke shifts her focus from the girls, who are now trash talking each other, across the table to the one standing next to her, back a testament to good posture. 

“Hey,” she husks, voice even lower than usual due to the half empty drink in her hand. She nudges her “date’s” jaw right where it meets her ear for good measure -- as if her words being breathed not two inches from Lexa’s ear were not enough of an indication for who she was addressing. 

Cards on the table, Clarke had put Finn out of her mind somewhere around the end of their first round of BP. She had dropped the quotation marks from “date” somewhere around then too, focusing less on their roles for the evening and more on the feel of the other, usually so serious, girl relaxing beside her.

Lexa swallows, and Clarke is so caught up in the movement, tracing the regal lines of Lexa’s throat that she kind of forgets why exactly she wanted the other girl’s attention in the first place. Absently she thinks about her sketchbook and pencil, longs to commemorate the aforementioned lines.

“Clarke,” the soft click of her name from Lexa’s mouth brings her back to the present. She blinks her eyes a few times to readjust to the here and now. Lexa hasn’t turned her head, she’s still staring out at the table, and even though she is in profile, Clarke notices the electricity sparking in her green eyes.

“Hmm?” Clarke murmurs in assent to let her partner know she has her undivided attention. Clarke wonders why she hadn’t given it to Lexa much earlier.

“You’re tickling me.”

“You’ve always said you weren’t ticklish.”

“Well. You don’t usually breathe directly into my ear. So. I’m not,” Lexa is still speaking in her usual clipped tone, but the edge of her lips is quirking into a grin, softening the edges of her words.

Clarke grins at this. Her voice drops lower when she speaks next, this time because of the innuendo not the alcohol, “Well. Maybe I should fix that.”

From Clarke’s vantage point she has front row tickets to the blush now blooming across Lexa’s cheeks. Before the mesmerizing colour has a chance to dip any lower to her to her neck or chest, both places Clarke would have happily followed it to, Lexa is saved by a shout from across the table.

“Oi!” Raven expounds, slamming her palms down on the table in mock frustration. The remaining cups jiggle threateningly.  “Are you two gonna play or just make googley eyes at each other?”

“Like you two have any room to talk!” Clarke fires back, turning only her head to Raven. Her hips still rest lazily against the side of Lexa’s own.

“We aren’t talking about us,” Octavia explains, exaggerating her point by gesturing between her and Raven, before concluding with, “Because it’s your turn." 

Clarke lets out a deeply disapproving groan, as if it physically pains her to both admit Raven is right and return to the game. She reluctantly pulls away from a still mute Lexa, and moves to retrieve the ping pong balls from where they rest in one of her and Lexa’s cups. Apparently while she and Lexa had been otherwise engaged Octavia had managed to sink her shot, leaving the other team with only one cup remaining.

Clarke’s competitive streak flares up bright and hot in her chest. Wordlessly she slams back a gulp of her drink for Octavia’s bulls eye. It is then Bellamy’s turn to interject. 

“Don’t listen to the old fuddy duds, princess,” he advises from his sideways perch on the couch. He had been sprawled out with his head in Lincoln’s lap, his feet in Harper’s, but rights himself now to better address the four girls across the room. “You and The Commander can make googly eyes at whoever you want.” He pats Lincoln’s new vacated thigh for back up. He hits a bit higher than is typically socially acceptable between friends though and Lincoln flinches, almost choking on his drink. “Isn’t that right, Linc?”

Lincoln barely has a chance to wheeze out a cough to clear his windpipe, before Bellamy is already answering for him. 

“Exactly. As Sergeant Fun, I hereby declare it open season for googly eyes and heated embraces.” 

Monty snorts next to him, “‘Heated embraces?’ Bell, I think you’ve been reading too many grocery store romance novels.”

Bellamy frowns at him.

“Actually,” Jasper pipes up from his seat on the floor. “You might be onto something there, Bellamy. Heated embraces, especially of the lady-loving variety, are always a good idea.” He pops the goggles he always wears atop his head, down over his eyes, and pretends to focus them on the beer pong table like a pair of binoculars. 

“As usual, Jasper, you are disgusting,” Raven intones from the table. “Maya? Please hit him for me. My cane can’t quite reach.” 

“Gladly,” Maya agrees and whacks the boy upside the head.

Jasper seems only mildly deterred. He flips his goggles back onto his head and fixes the group with a pious look. “Hey now. Is it really so deplorable for me to enjoy and appreciate our friends being in love and expressing said love in a semi-public and gratuitous manner?” 

Bellamy glares at him from the couch, either trying to track Jasper’s double-talk or plot a way across the coffee table separating them. Jasper is thankful for the table either way.

“That’s my sister you’re talking about,” Bellamy warns gruffly, reverting back to his natural position as protective bear of an older brother.

Lexa rolls her eyes at the whole exchange before stepping up to her side of the table. “Boys,” she mutters disapprovingly, and then promptly sails her ball directly into one of three remaining cups on Raven and Octavia’s side like it is the easiest thing beside breathing.

Octavia and Raven curse her good fortune. Lexa merely grins smugly before turning to her own partner and bowing out of the way. “I believe that makes it your turn, m’lady,” she says in an atrocious supposedly British accent. It comes out sounding more ‘Crocodile Dundee’ than ‘God Save the Queen’ though and Clarke can’t help but laugh.

She steps forward and lines up her shot. In the background she hears the debate continue.

“Yes, and as such, would you not be pleased to see her celebrate her and Raven’s love and victory with a kiss?” Jasper asks.

Clarke can hear Bellamy’s confused facial expression in his uncertain words, “Well. No. But…”

Lincoln thankfully shushes Bellamy before he can get his big brother hackles raised over nothing.

“Any time, Griffin,” Octavia bemoans from across the table. “I have seen societies built from scratch faster than it’s taken you to make this shot.”

For that, Clarke drops her arms, and goes through her whole warm-up again just to spite her friend.

Lexa gets into the act, too. Massaging out Clarke’s shoulders and pretending to whisper pointers to her. This probably does more harm than good though, because Clarke is helpless to focus on anything other than the whisper of Lexa’s low voice in her ear. She fends off a shiver and understands what the other girl meant earlier about being “ticklish.” 

She pulls back her arm and...sinks her shot perfectly. Lexa lets out an uncharacteristically loud ‘whoop’ from behind her. She throws her arms around the blonde, one arm wrapping around her teammate, the other shooting a hand in front of them to waggle a finger at their competitors. Both sides only have one cup between them in tie-breaking-victory now.

“And that, folks, is why my girl is the best,” Lexa boasts, inebriation apparent in her volume and word choice. Clarke’s grin about breaks her face, BAC level be damned.

“Balls back, bitches!” Clarke crows.

Octavia kicks the ground and returns the requested ping pong balls.

“I can’t believe they edged out our lead. She smacks Raven’s shoulder in anger at the situation.

“Um excuse me, Ferguson.” Raven exclaims, rubbing her shoulder, “Don’t hit me . Those two are the ones who are responsible for this. This shit right here is why the police have such a bad rap.”

Clarke opts to take the first shot. She is unfortunately distracted by the politically-motivated bickering going on behind the cup, though. She misses, the ball bouncing heartbreakingly off the rim of the sole survivor.

Clarke swore vehemently. The cheers from the other side are deafening. Who knew two girls weighing no more than 300lbs combined could produce so much noise. Lexa pats Clarke on the shoulder conciliatory. Their cries of delight suck the rest of the living room’s occupants into the hype. Excitement, especially drunken excitement, was a strong pull. Bellamy and Jasper even scrambled over to get a better view, taking a position on either unoccupied side of the table. Without reason they each picked a different team to root for and took to trash talking like it was their own pride on the line.

“Well,” Lexa begins, stoically. “No pressure.”

Clarke grabs her by the shoulders and spins Lexa to face her. Lexa is hardly even surprised to see that the seriousness of Clarke’s expression is rivaled only by that of the look she wore before she marched into her test site to take her boards. 

“Look at me, Lexa,” Clarke orders, as if Lexa could possibly look anywhere else, Clarke’s piercing blue eyes and grip on her shoulders making any other option inconceivable. 

Lexa blinks repeatedly to focus her somewhat bleary gaze on Clarke's words, not the pink lips shaping them. It was not an easy task.

“Listening,” she says in a tone that suggests otherwise.

“You can do this. I know you can.” Clarke’s tone is like something out of a football movie, coach delivering an inspirational speech to a team of underdogs.

“This is what you have been practicing for.” She hadn’t been practicing at all actually, but Lexa let it slide and watched, entranced, as Clarke’s even tongue swept out to wet her lips. “ This. This chance to beat those blowhards and wipe the freaking table with their sorry asses.”

Lexa can hear Bellamy whooping along to this somewhere back by the table. As protective as he was, beating his sister would always be a favorite hobby of his, no matter his age or station in life. Across the Lincoln mutters a barely audible, “good lord.”

Clarke pulls Lexa closer, their foreheads almost touching now. All Lexa can think about are the how the other girl’s breath is now skittering across her own lips. So this is what those sappy country songs Lincoln insisted on playing meant about someone being more intoxicating than alcohol. Clarke’s earnest voice snaps her out of her reverie.

“Now go out there and make me proud, Alexandra Debnam Woods. WIN THIS FOR US.” Clarke all but screams this last sentence into Lexa’s face. To Clarke’s credit, though, the abrupt volume change coupled with the slap to the ass Clarke bestows after spinning Lexa back around to face the table does do a superb job of sobering Lexa up. 

She can at least focus on the cup staring her down across the table without imagining Clarke’s lips against a similar cup just a few minutes before.So that’s something. Bellamy and Jasper are still running their mouths at each other, Raven and Octavia doing the same behind Lexa’s target.  Clarke, behind her, is as silent as a golf announcer waiting for the swing. Lexa spins the ball in her hand, once, twice, cranks back her arm, and with a follow-through fit for publication in the beer pong textbooks releases the ball.

The whole thing happens in slo-mo, following a perfect parabolic arc from Lexa’s fingers directly into the cup waiting on the other side of the table. The ball hits the water in the cup with a satisfying little plunk and suddenly time is ratcheted out of its crawl, the explosion of noise and movement making everything seem to happen at 1.5x speed.

Like opposing ends of a teeter totter, Bellamy springs into the air, jumping for joy, and Jasper falls to his knees in agony. Raven and Octavia are both demanding redemption, shouting to be heard over the cacophony of anguish, celebration, and terrible Christmas music.

In the middle of all of this, Clarke breaks character from her polite golf course composure and flings herself onto Lexa, arms and hair and shouts tangling together. Lexa spins in Clarke’s arms to share the moment with her face-to-face, ecstatic grin stretching from ear to ear and emphasizing her already impossibly high cheekbones. Clarke finds her eyes flitting across said cheeks down to that enthralling smile.

And whether it is due to the excitement, the alcohol, their “roles” for the evening, or some yet unnamed variable Clarke’s lips find Lexa’s in the commotion. And then Lexa is experiencing that funny time thing again, everything slowing back down to a prolonged creep so that she is capable of taking in every single sensation at once. Subconsciously she wonders if this is what it’s like having your life flash before your eyes, but rather than a car crash being the cause it is the feel of Clarke’s soft lips against her own. Perhaps this is because on some base level Lexa instinctively knows this is just as much of a game changer as any such auto wreck.

Well, Lexa registers absently, now she knows what it feels like to be kissed by Clarke Griffin. Which up until this very moment with Clarke’s nose bumping against her own, lips sliding together to better fit, Lexa hadn’t exactly been aware was something she had been curious about.

She pushes all of these ancillary thoughts aside though as Clarke presses her lips more firmly against her own. And wow. Lexa is pretty sure that Finn is the dumbest human alive for ever giving this up. Lexa's dictionary of a vocabulary narrows down to that single, resounding word: wow.

She feels Clarke’s warm hands slide up to her neck, thumb brushing carefully across her jaw and holding her in place. She tastes the same whiskey on Clarke’s lips that Clarke no doubt tastes on her own. The combination of all of these sensations coupled with the very concrete fact that it is Clarke that is responsible for them -- because she, Lexa Woods, is kissing Clarke Griffin --  is a head rush stronger than a shot of Jameson.

The million tiny fireworks in her head and chest and stomach feel like coming home after a long journey. 

If Lexa could, she would stretch this moment for eternity.

But unfortunately, Lexa cannot control time or her rowdy friends, and a rather penetratingly loud hoot from Jasper shatters the small world she and Clarke have created between themselves.

“Now that is a lady-lovin’ embrace.” Jasper punctuates this with a wolf whistle

Lexa jerks away from Clarke with a speed that makes even her wince. Clarke for her part still seems to be coming to, lips still parted and beckoning for another kiss. She blinks slowly as if waking from a daydream.

Without even thinking about it, Lexa’s hands have already slid from Clarke’s shoulders to push against Clarke’s chest. The movement causing Clarke’s own hands to slip from their hold along Lexa’s jaw. As Clarke’s fingers finally disconnect, the full weight of what just transpired between them hits Lexa square in the chest like the airbag from that aforementioned car wreck.

And so, before she can see that same look of comprehension cross Clarke’s face, no doubt to be followed by one of intense regret, Lexa turns her back on Clarke. She quietly excuses herself to the balcony to get some air and “to escape the den of hyenas and losers,” she explains to the crowd around them. She even accepts a high-five from Jasper as she departs.

Clarke however, when she tunes back into this earth, can tell from the set of the other girl’s quickly disappearing back that this reasoning is just an excuse, a front. The tension is obvious to her well-trained eyes. Lexa no doubt is just as wracked with emotions as she is. You’d have to be dead and six feet under not to after a kiss like that. Unfortunately for Clarke though, from this angle it is impossible for her to tell whether Lexa’s emotions are negative or positive like her own.

The door to the balcony slides shut with a click of finality and Clarke is officially left inside to deal with The Kiss on her own. She inhales a deep, somewhat shaky breath and pulls her eyes away from the empty doorway. Lexa may be inaccessible for the moment, but alcohol is not. Lexa may have her fresh air and Clarke may have a fresh drink. She beelines it to the kitchen.

Finn, who up until this point had been mercifully nonexistent (as far as Clarke was concerned, that is) since The Grand Beer Pong Campaign began, makes his appearance just as Clarke is reaching into the freezer for more ice.

"Hey, princess."

Clarke has to bite back the bile that rises in her throat at the nickname coming from his mouth. "Finn." She continues to pour her drink and ignore the manchild standing next to her. She had honestly forgotten about him. He had been so quiet, keeping to the periphery of the party; the blonde’s attention had been mainly focused on Lexa and beating Raven and Octavia and...okay, mainly just Lexa.

Finn either doesn’t notice the cold shoulder Clarke is giving him or simply decides to ignore it, because he plows on.

"Ya know. I've got to admit. When I heard you were coming to this party, I kind of thought this was fate's way of telling me that you and I deserved another shot."

Clarke rolls her eyes at the made-for-tv reasoning. Octavia had called it.

"And even when Lincoln mentioned that you were bringing your girlfriend to this, I still thought-- I dunno. That maybe I still had a chance. That I might have a chance of winning you back over." He laughs, self-deprecatingly. Clarke remembers a time when she used to think that was the most charming sound in the world. "But then I saw you two together."

Clarke looks up, but Finn isn't looking at her, is instead looking at the beer bottle in his hands like it holds all of the answers to life's biggest questions inside of it. She wonders if maybe it does. 

"It didn't really hit me how completely wrong I was until I saw the way you looked at her, though."

"Finn,” she repeats, voice lacking the harsh bite it brandished earlier. 

He looks up, but continues like she hasn't said a word, "That's the way I always hoped you would look at me."

Her heart breaks a little at the obvious pain lacing his words. She does not love him anymore, but that doesn't change the difficulty of seeing someone she once cared for hurting. 

He waves off her sad look. 

"Does she make you happy?"

Clarke thinks for a second.

She thinks back past this harebrained scheme, past ulterior motives, back to genuineness.

She thinks about Netflix nights, coffee silently passed to her across the table as she works on patient’s charts, the chinese restaurant down the street that knows her and Lexa’s takeout order, Lexa’s inability to not complain about the inaccuracy of any and all crime dramas, the relieved sigh Lexa breathes when she finally finishes a brief, Lexa’s hand calmly massaging the back of Clarke’s neck when she is tensed and ready to explode at rush hour traffic. She thinks about her and Lexa. 

She thinks for a second about the last few years of her life, her time spent with Lexa, and answers with such firm, fierce sincerity that it should probably scare her. "Yes."

"Good. That's all that matters." He drains the rest of his beer, shoots her one last crooked (but mainly broken) smile and heads out. From the other room she can hear him bidding a few of their friends goodbye, followed by the closing of the door. It sounds final. It sounds freeing.

Clarke has just slumped against the counter, exhausted, yet oddly weightless from the conversation and its consequent realizations, when Octavia materializes at her elbow. Her concern is hidden beneath an air of practiced casualness, only given away by her direct route to Clarke’s side not the beer-filled fridge. The overt inebriation from earlier has been tamped down remarkably.

As intense as the Blakes are 98 percent of the time, aggressive and arguably obnoxious when necessary, Clarke is immensely thankful for that softer side that they reserve for the other two percent of the time.

The younger Blake sibling mimics Clarke’s relaxed position, rests her hands on the edge of the counter at her sides, feet kicked out in front, dirty high top chucks crossed at the ankle. She lays her head onto Clarke’s shoulder and stifles a dramatic yawn. “When did we get to be so old and boring? It’s not even 11 and we’re already dropping like flies.”

“O. You’re twenty-four. You’re the youngest one here.”

“Hush, Clarke. We all know I’m an old soul.” Clarke can’t help but chuckle at the pout Octavia fixes her with, attaching it to the tail end of her statement like some footnote for clarification. It does not help prove her point, only makes her look younger, closer to the stubborn sixteen she had been when Clarke had first met her. Bellamy had been Clarke’s freshman RA, Octavia his kid sister helping her older brother move into his dorm at the time.

Thinking about the first time she had met them, always brought a smile to her face. If it wasn’t for Octavia, Clarke wasn’t sure she would have ever even gotten to know the Dynamic Blake Duo, two people she now basically regarded as her own flesh and blood. Octavia had taken it upon herself to remedy the move-in-blues by spilling a full box of condoms (she had even gone to the trouble to scrawl 'EXTRA SMALL' on the box beforehand in big bright marker) right smack in the middle of the dorm lobby.

Bellamy had been beyond indignant -- as only a twenty year-old boy in a newly acquired position of power could be -- and insisted vehemently the prophylactics were most certainly not his. Octavia had responded to this by stopping what she was doing, still on her hands and knees, shiny foil packages spread out before her, and exclaiming (loudly enough for every other student in the lobby, of which Clarke was thankfully one, to hear), “Oh. Good point, big bro. Guess you don’t need these when the only sex you’re having is with yourself. Can’t knock up your own hand, after all.”

Bellamy had blushed an unprecedented shade of magenta. Clarke had laughed so hard she’d slipped on one of the errant Trojans, crashing to the floor beside a jubilant Octavia. Clarke was okay, Bellamy’s pride was not, and the rest was best-friends-turned-quasi-siblings-history.

Clarke is brought back to the decidedly less titillating present, by Octavia’s quiet “Real talk. You doin’ okay, princess?”

The nickname is not accompanied by nausea as it was earlier, but rather a comforting familiarity. She smiles fondly down at the girl, even though Octavia cannot see it from her slouched rest against Clarke’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Yeah, actually I am.”

“Good.” Octavia breathes a genuine sigh of relief and then: “But if you weren’t, I’d be more than happy to go put a whoopin’ on Finn’s scrawny ass. They taught us this move in the academy that I have just been dying to try out in real life. The Israeli Special Forces guy call it the ‘Heart Breaker,’ and apparently if you do it right you can stop someone's heart. Or crack their sternum. I can’t remember exactly.”  

And just like that, the two percent of soft-heartedness has come to a screeching halt. And because of that, it is less of a chuckle, more of a full blown guffaw Clarke releases this time at Octavia’s undeniable glee over such violence.

“O,” Clarke begins, wiping tears from her eyes. “That doesn’t sound even remotely medically plausible.”

“Hey, man. You’re the doctor. I’m just the muscle; that’s just what the dude told us.”

“Maybe you should save your ‘special’ moves for the bedroom." 

Octavia hummed in agreement, no doubt lost in some fantasy involving what all she could do with Raven in their new bedroom. Clarke cuts her off with a shoulder raise to get her mind out of the boudoir and back in the kitchen with Clarke. “Speaking of Raven, where is your better half?”

Octavia sits up, beams at the description. “Out in the living room playing Inspector Gadget with Monty, they’re setting up Bell’s surround sound. Lincoln mentioned wanting to watch Braveheart or something equally gory and manly.” 

Clarke rolls her eyes, "He does realize that watching Mel Gibson run around with a big sword for two hours doesn’t make him a warrior or whatever, right? We all saw him cry during Big Hero 6 last month.”

Octavia snorts at the memory and then turns the tables, jostling the blonde’s shoulder with her own.

“Speaking of tall, dark, and broody… Where’s Lexa?”

Clarke sucks in a breath through her teeth. “She is... “ 

“Totally head over bonkers for you? Yeah, we kinda noticed.”

Clarke’s head jerks around to accommodate the appropriate amount of shock at this straight-out-of-left-field statement. “What?”

“Dude. Come on.” At Clarke’s wide eyes, but total lack of response, Octavia groans. And here she had always thought Clarke was the smart one of the group. “Look. I know it’s not any of my business, and that you guys aren’t like an actual, actual thing, but you guys are totally perfect for each other. Besides, after your kiss earlier I heard Bellamy and Raven already squabbling over who gets to be your Maid of Hono--”

“WHAT?”

“I know. Ridiculous, right? Don’t worry, I set them straight. Obviously that would be my position. Hypothetical wedding parties aside though, get your head out of your fine ass and look at what’s in front of you.”

---

Octavia leaves Clarke to stew in her own juices shortly after that. The sound of males (and one Raven Reyes) hooting and hollering in a display of overt masculinity signaling Raven and Monty’s success in setting up the tech. Braveheart would no doubt be starting soon.

But Clarke has other brave hearted decisions on her mind. She chalks up the bad pun to the night’s drinking, takes a swig of her beer to bolster her courage, and strides purposefully out to the balcony.

Her resolve shudders though, when she reaches the door and sees Lexa’s lone figure leaning against the rail. Her back is to Clarke, but still the sight of her causes the blonde to take pause. 

Lexa Woods: Assistant District Attorney, expert bullshit detector, professional bitch-face-maker, and secret pile of mush when it came to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Discovery Channel documentaries, and Clarke Griffin. It had been Lexa, not Octavia, not Finn or any of their other group, that had been Clarke’s anchor through med school breakdowns and residency interview induced crises. Lexa, whose own family was austere and kept her at arm’s length, had never once questioned Clarke’s decision to stay local so as to be close to her mother. This girl gracefully bent against the metal railing of Octavia and Lincoln’s balcony had been her solace.  

This is her best friend, for chrissakes.

It is this fact that Clarke wavers for a moment, thinking about whether or not her feelings are worth risking their friendship, their connection.

When she and Finn broke up, she had been more outraged at being played the fool than heartbroken over him. Finn, she could stand to lose (had managed it gracefully with the help of Lexa’s steady calm actually), but Lexa… Lexa was another matter entirely.

An icy breeze drifts past the girl in question, whirling her hair behind her, soft, wild tendrils played along by the wind. Clarke notices the minute shiver that runs down Lexa’s body and imagines running her fingers through those same dark curls. She shivers herself, but not because of the drop in temperature waiting for her on the other side of the glass. These are the things that tip the scales for her. 

“Hell,” Clarke mutters to herself, making up her mind. She grabs a blanket off the back of a nearby chair and steps out onto balcony.

The cold hits Clarke like a frozen freight train and she has to stable her breathing with a quietly exhaled “frick” before addressing the balcony’s other occupant.

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Lex, but it’s fucking freezing out here.”

“I might have noticed that.”

So Lexa is at least speaking with her.

Definitely a good sign, Clarke determines, and closes the distance between them. She drapes the blanket around Lexa’s thin shoulders and goes to lean beside her, hands shoved deep in the pockets of her jeans. 

They’re not quite touching, Clarke is intentionally respecting Lexa’s space until she can get a better handle on where the other girl is mentally and emotionally, but she can still feel the faint trace of Lexa’s body heat radiating against her own shoulder. Clarke has to actively fight the urge to lean further into the comforting warmth. As nice as that sounds right now, the last thing Clarke wants to do is push Lexa.

Lexa clutches the blanket around herself like a cape, and Clarke turns her attention toward the sky, trying to pick out any stars through the thick clouds. It looks like it might snow again and the clouds are heavy, reflecting the city lights back to them rather than betraying any that hide behind it. Lexa continues to watch the quiet snow-piled street in front of them. A single brave car meanders up the way to the busier main road. Lexa waits for the car to pull away from the stop sign (with minimal fishtailing) before speaking.

Her voice is soft but clear and cuts through the frigid night air like the breeze Clarke had just watched. “So. What’s going on inside?”

“Nothing. The guys put on Braveheart. Harper and Wells and their carloads left. So it’s pretty much just the core group now. Minus us of course.” Clarke nudges Lexa’s blanket-clad shoulder companionably.

“I saw Finn leave a moment ago.”

Clarke can’t read her tone, pulls her gaze away from the sky and to the girl beside her who is looking resolutely at the far sidewalk. “Yes. He left,” she says simply, unsure where Lexa is taking them.

“How are you?”

“I’m good. We talked for a minute before he left. I think he got the picture.” Clarke’s relief at the situation being disabled and over is apparent and colors her words.

“Good.” Lexa pauses then adds with a soft smile, more ironic than genuine, “I guess your plan worked then.”

Clarke thinks about Finn’s words, his question about her happiness; she thinks about the source of so much of that happiness standing solemnly beside her. “Yeah,” she says, words light and soft like the snow on nearby branches. “Yeah, it did. A bit too well, maybe even.”

Lexa swallows at this, turns to the girl beside her. “Clarke--” she begins, but Clarke stops her with a shake of her head.

“No. Wait. Let me finish. I know that this night started being about Finn, but it didn’t end up that way. Honestly, Lexa? I totally forgot about him. I forgot about any anxiety or anger I had felt earlier. I stopped thinking about it… Because I was too busy thinking about you.”

Clarke breathes this last part out, expelling the revelation with the all of the remaining air in her lungs. She is breathless like she was when she and Octavia went skydiving. They jumped out of the plane and screamed for only a split second, the wind and the fall and the adrenaline seizing their lungs, freezing their excited cries.

Standing here on this frozen balcony with Lexa feels exactly like that moment.

“But.” And here Lexa’s lungs freeze in fear not adrenaline at what Clarke is about to say.

“But, that’s not exactly anything new. Since you’ve been in my life you’ve always been my first thought. My main thought. Hell. My only thought even. As inconvenient as that was sometimes during tests.” Clarke chuckles a bit at her own rambling. 

Lexa takes Clarke’s pause as an opportunity to ask the question that has been on her mind since Clarke’s lips first brushed against hers 26 minutes ago. Because Clarke’s words are nice, and she is pretty sure she is inferring what they mean correctly, but Lexa does not assume, ever. Not in her professional or personal life. She likes facts. Not wishy washy feelings or conjectures. And she will be damned if she chooses now, perhaps one of the most crucial moments of her adult life, to stray from that credo.

So she asks, “The kiss..?”

“Was a long fucking time coming.”

At the strength and conviction in Clarke’s tone Lexa blinks, twice, hard and in rapid succession, like she is making sure she is seeing things correctly. A very small ‘oh’ leaves her body in total surprise at tonight’s turn of events.

And if earlier was the moment Clarke jumped out of the airplane, now she is falling through the air waiting for her ripcord to be pulled and her parachute to save her.

Because it feels like forever the ground rushing up to meet her with Lexa’s wide emotion-filled eyes just staring back at her own.

“Well,” Lexa finally breathes after what is surely an eternity. Clarke sees the faintest traces of a smile playing around Lexa’s eyes now. “I guess that means we’re on the same page then.”

And just like that Clarke’s parachute rips out the back of her knapsack, jerking her body almost apart as it it brings her back into safety and slows her descent down to a much more relaxed pace. Clarke can’t help but laugh in sheer relief and amusement at Lexa’s simple words. She’s floating now. Here on this balcony with Lexa, she is floating.

“I guess so,” she says as Lexa pulls her into the blanket’s warmth, wrapping her arms around Clarke’s chilly back. Clarke welcomes both the embrace and the reprieve from the cold and snuggles into Lexa’s neck, stupid, giddy smile stretching her face nearly in two.

They stand like this for a few moments longer, just gathering themselves back up again from the shock of what just transpired. Lexa’s hands rub Clarke’s back on autopilot. She can’t see Clarke’s smile, but she can feel it steady against her kick-drumming pulse. There is a grin splitting across her face, too.

She wonders briefly if she should send Finn a Christmas present as a thank you for unwittingly causing this.

But that thought is immediately backlogged for another more important thought. “So,” she begins, and Clarke pulls back just enough to make eye contact. “About that second kiss?”

Clarke screws her face up in confusion. “What second kiss?”

“This one,” Lexa says and then leans down and for the second but certainly not last time tonight she presses her lips purposefully against Clarke’s (which had been frowning in confusion up until that point, but immediately morph into an unstoppable smile).

Even with Clarke’s smile pulling her lips tight, this is the best kiss either girl has ever experienced. Clarke fists the front of Lexa’s obnoxious sweater and pulls her in closer, lips making up for lost time that they could have spent doing this . Lexa’s hot tongue traces against Clarke’s cold lips, causing a moan to erupt from the shorter girl. Lexa’s fingers tighten instinctively where they rest on Clarke’s hips, pulling Clarke’s lower body forcefully against her own.

Clarke is just about to push Lexa’s back against the railing and really go to work when another sharp breeze comes whistling past, the frigid temperature making itself known even through the hormone fueled heat coursing through their veins. Both girls mutually decide to put a pin in these thoughts for a more indoor and centrally heated location. Their mouths slow from their frantic, insistent pace into something more relaxed, more intimately happy.

As the tempo shifts, Lexa takes the opportunity to mumble against Clarke’s lips, "I guess your mom was right."

Clarke rears back and immediately slaps a hand over the lips she had just been kissing. "We are never telling her that. Can you imagine how insufferable she would be then?" Her eyes widen in horror at the prospect of enduring Abby’s smug gloating. She was sure there would be accompanying dance moves.

Lexa snorts from beneath Clarke's hand on her mouth. "What do you propose we do then? Just not tell her that we're dating? What about when we get married and you start popping out kids?"

"First of all: Gal Pals have kids together all the time." She emphasizes each point with a kiss to Lexa's lips. "Second: we both know you would be the one 'popping out babies.' Third: one fake-date and you’re already hearing wedding bells?"

"Don’t get too full of yourself there, Griffin. What I was hearing was Raven and Bellamy arguing earlier about who gets to give which toast at our wedding. Although, I will admit. It is not the first time that particular thought has crossed my mind."

"Ditto."

They make their way back into the warmth of the apartment after this, both snuggled up under their shared blanket, stealing kisses and giggling like two girls half their age. The movie is playing in the living room, volume made all the louder by the newly set up surround sound. The whole apartment is filled with the sound of 13th century warfare. Neither girl takes stock of the figures sprawled across the floor and couches, instead steering towards the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee to warm and wake themselves up. They still have a cab ride home to make, because their will be hell to pay if they spend their first night “together” not in the privacy of their own apartment.

They are just giggling over this shared belief, Clarke leaning into Lexa to whisper her plans for them into the other girl’s ear, as they round the corner into the kitchen and are confronted with a sight neither girl would have imagined seeing in a million years.

Clarke is the first to let out a surprised screech, her dirty words immediately morphing into a high pitched “Oh my god .”

Lincoln and Bellamy immediately shoot away from each other as if they had been burned by a branding iron, not just making out like their lives depended on it. The movie had been turned up so loud that apparently neither man could hear the girls approach. They fumble to right their clothes. Both men turn beet red at having been caught.

“Jesus, guys! Next time knock why don’t you?” Bellamy exclaims indignantly, sounding more like a teenage girl, less like a thirty year old civil servant, and apparently having forgotten that he and Lincoln are in the kitchen not a private bedroom, or a room with a door at all actually.

Clarke notes there is an phenomenal hickey blossoming on Lincoln’s neck, just below his ear.

Lexa is stock still beside Clarke, eyes as big as dinner plates. Clarke is legitimately worried Lexa might have actually swallowed her tongue back there. The night had been surprising enough already. This discovery had just about broken the camel’s back. But then Lexa watches Bellamy throw a sprig of mistletoe onto the ground and try to discreetly sweep it under the counter with his toe and she is suddenly laughing hysterically, doubling over even, at the sheer ridiculousness of this whole evening.

And just like that the mood in the kitchen goes from shock and umbrage to mirth and hilarity, first Clarke, then Bellamy, and finally Lincoln joining in on hysterics. Lincoln and Bellamy both relax, the latter leaning back into the bald man as they giggle at their own luck of being caught like two high schoolers.

"Well I'll be damned,” Lexa concludes, once she has stopped laughing long enough to form words. “Is there anything your mother doesn’t  know?"

This sends Clarke into another round of laughter. "Geeze Louise. Is any one in our friend group straight?" she manages to ask.

"Forget that, can we call Abby and ask her what the winning powerball numbers are? The woman is obviously a psychic."