"Not to sound like a Disney original movie," Raven says, grunting as she hefts a box, "but this year is our year."
Octavia pokes her head out of the door, where she's wrestling with the strap of her duffle bag. "I thought last year was our year?"
"Bitch, every year is our year."
Clarke snorts, taking the box from Raven. "Okay, Reyes. But I actually agree," she says to Octavia. "We're seniors, it's totally our year."
"Every single one of us is applying to post-doc programs," Octavia points out, dragging an armchair through the door by force of pure will. "It's not like we're about to be free from academia."
"Fine. But we're finally living all together, in a real house, and classes haven't started yet, so my will to live remains unbroken. For right now, it's our year." Clarke walks inside, dropping the box of assorted cutlery onto the dining table Bellamy and Octavia had assembled the night before, drunk on cheap beer and cursing shoddy instructions. "Raven, when are the other girls coming?"
Raven checks her phone. "Three hours? I hope they don't suck."
Clarke wipes a sheen of sweat away from her forehead. "What do you know about them?"
"Two girls, also seniors, and they get the room with the attached bathroom."
Clarke stares at her. "That's all you know?"
"They're hot?" Raven offers, turning her phone around. "I've got their ID photos. They have their own transportation and they put down their portion of the security deposit in cash. Everyone else who replied to the ad was kinda skeevy, or balked at the deposit. And they already signed the lease, so if they turn out to be serial killers we'll just have to hope we're not their type."
/
Clarke's at the grocery store when her new housemates arrive, so by the time she gets back all she knows about them is the play by play of her phone blowing up from texts and irritating everyone else in the supermarket line. She kicks the door until someone opens it, bags piled in her arms up past her head. "What's this about the robot mafia?" she asks, pushing past through the kitchen and dumping the bags.
"What?" It's an unfamiliar voice, and she freezes before turning around. "Robot mafia?" The girl arches an eyebrow at her, questioning, and Clarke splutters for a second before recovering.
"Sorry, I thought you were Raven." She sticks out her hand. "Clarke."
"Lexa." Lexa, Clarke's traitorous brain notes, is unfairly attractive, even in ratty jeans and a worn t-shirt, black ink curved over her arms and disappearing up the sleeves. Another girl enters, blonde and tan and grim faced. "This is Anya. Anya, Clarke."
Clarke holds out her hand again and Anya looks her up and down before turning away. "Teik osir gonot kom hir," she says to Lexa. Clarke busies herself with putting away the groceries, half-listening to Lexa and Anya converse in the foreign language, Anya's voice rising until she stomps away.
"Anya is not a people person," Lexa says. "Until we see each other again, Clarke." She leaves, a bag slung over one shoulder.
/
After a week, it's clear Lexa is not a people person either. Clarke only sees her coming in and out of her room, usually with Anya, and while Anya glares straight through her like she's hoping she can cause Clarke to fall apart in a shatter of atoms just by the force of her hatred, Lexa usually nods, polite but not interested in sharing niceties or small talk.
"I stand by my robot mafia theory," Raven says one night at dinner, after Lexa and Anya have left without a word. "Have any of you actually seen either of them eat something?"
"No, I can buy the robot thing," Octavia says, "but why are they in the mafia?"
"You've met Anya, right? If that isn't the face of a killer." Raven aims the fan at herself. "I wish they would use their mafia connections to fix the air conditioning. I'm melting." As soon as Lexa and Anya had left, Clarke had stripped off her shorts and shirt, and is currently lying on the tiled kitchen floor in underwear and a sports bra, so she doesn't really have a leg to stand on, but she tries, weakly.
"I'm sure they're not in the mafia."
"They have green cards, I saw them when I signed the lease. I think their last name is Russian," Raven argues. "Ergo, mafia."
"They're not Russian," Clarke says, her voice muffled as she rolls her flushed cheeks over the floor. "I heard them speaking that-what's that class you're taking, Octavia?"
Octavia squeaks. "They're Trikru? Clarke what the fuck? You know trigedasleng is my personal hell, and you haven't told me our housemate is fluent?"
Clarke shrugs. "She doesn't really seem the type to offer you study help, O. Sorry."
"I'm sure Trigeda has a mafia," Raven continues. "Or-I mean, aren't they ruled by a dictator? So a secret police. Our housemates are gestapo!"
/
Clarke is thumping her head into the door when she hears the roar of a motorcycle. She gets in three more thumps before: "I'm not sure how effective that will be," Lexa says from behind her, and she turns.
"I forgot my keys," she moans.
Lexa holds hers up, expressionless, and Clarke lets them in. "Thank god you came home," she says. "Octavia and Raven won't be back for another hour."
Anya's sitting in the living room, watching television. "Kom hir," she says to Lexa.
Clarke glares at her, annoyed. "Didn't you hear me knocking?"
"Why would you knock," Anya says with fake nonchalance, "didn't you have your keys?" Clarke actually has to lean over Anya to get her keys from where they're sitting on the arm of the couch, four inches from Anya's body, and she lets her dirty look speak for itself. She's about to try for a cutting remark when Lexa growls, and she looks at her, surprised.
Lexa's fists are clenched by her sides and her eyes are fixed on the television-it's some news thing, preshot establishing views and people talking behind wooden podiums, and Clarke turns half an ear to it while she putters around the kitchen, making dinner for when Octavia and Raven get home. Something about a little country somewhere and all the political corruption that comes with a dictatorship. Anya turns it off during a commercial break, speaking quick and low, and Lexa responds, her tone angry and frustrated. Their voices build up and then break with a last snap of Lexa's. She storms the kitchen a moment later, grabbing for her water bottle in the fridge. It's sweltering by the stove, and Lexa strips off her long sleeved shirt, leaving her in a tank top.
"Holy shit," Clarke says, gaping, because Lexa's arms are mottled, fresh bruises of blue black overlapping healing ones of yellow and green.
"Anya and I are going to the gym," Lexa snaps. "If you leave the house, turn off the oven and take your keys with you."
Clarke tells Raven and Octavia about the encounter at dinner, a little because they should probably be distracted from a failed attempt at oven roasted chicken and potatoes and a lot because she's annoyed with Anya and Lexa both, and of course neither thing is what they latch on to.
"Underground fighting ring," Raven says.
"Crime fighting vigilante," Octavia counters.
/
Clarke is drunk in a frat house, and if she wasn't so disgusted with herself she'd be amused, falling back into old habits so fast and so hard, Finn's lips on her neck and her back against a wall. She pushes him away, her palms flat against his chest. "No," she says, and then "I said no, Finn."
"I love you," he tries, and he smells like shitty beer and cigarettes and Clarke's self-destructive tendencies and it would so easy, to let him fuck her in his bed and leave before he wakes up and not tell Raven, not ever.
She fumbles for the doorknob and staggers out of the back of the house, sucking in fresh air and fighting against the urge to vomit. She loses and throws up, wet and tasting bile on her tongue, leaning against a tree. She sits on the ground next to the puddle of her own sick and crams her phone against her ear. "It's me," she says when she hears the line click. "I need help."
"Clarke?" Clarke freezes.
"Octavia?"
"No," Lexa says, and Clarke pulls back to look at her phone, groaning.
"Sorry, I meant to-it doesn't matter. Sorry." She hangs up, and is only halfway through navigating with shaky drunk fingers to the right number when the menu disappears, Lexa calling back.
"Where are you," she says, before Clarke can apologize again. Clarke hesitates, and Lexa's voice goes sharper. "Clarke."
"The frat house, the one on Larkson, with the red windows."
"Stay put." Lexa hangs up. Clarke sighs at her phone and then levers herself to her feet, staggering around the house to sit on the curb outside. A few people nod at her and she flaps a hand at them in a wave, putting her head between her knees. She's not sure how long she sits there before she hears Lexa again. "Clarke." Clarke looks up. Lexa's standing there in dark pants and a hoodie, mussed hair.
"Did I wake you? When I called?"
"Yes. Are you ready?"
"Sorry I woke you." Clarke puts a hand out to steady herself on the pavement and miscalculates. She watches the ground rush at her head with an odd detachment, but the impact never comes. Lexa catches her, an arm around her neck and a hand on her back. There's Clarke's vomit on her sleeve now, which means it must also be in her own hair. Lexa heaves her to her feet.
"We are leaving." Clarke stares at the ground, focused on keeping her feet under her, and lets Lexa steer them until she bumps into the backdoor of a tan sedan. Lexa props her against the car, opening the back seat, and pours Clarke in.
"Sorry," Clarke mumbles again, lying on her back, "fuck." She puts her hands on her face. "Can you-can you drop me at a motel or something? My card's in my pocket. I can't go home like this." Lexa doesn't say anything, and Clarke means to ask again, but the motion of the car rolls her stomach and she flails instead, trying to get out a warning. She fails, and just manages to get on her side to throw up into the footwell instead of on her own chest. Lexa makes a disgusted noise, and after another few minutes of breathing wetly and coughing, the car slows to a stop. Clarke squints out the window-a lit sign, a Motel Six.
"Stay here," Lexa says, and Clarke closes her eyes, listening the door squeak and thump shut.
When she opens them she's lying on a shitty bedspread, and there's a wet cloth over her face. She sputters, sitting up, and then groans. "Fuck me."
"Are you going to throw up again?" Lexa is sitting in a chair by the window.
"I don't think so," Clarke croaks.
"There's water there." Lexa points at the nightstand, and Clarke takes the plastic cup, drinking eagerly. "I suggest you shower."
Clarke stands, woozy. The sky outside the window is still dark. "What time is it?"
"Four."
"Okay." Clarke stumbles into the bathroom, flicking on the light and leaning against the shut door for a moment before facing herself in the mirror. She was right, there is vomit in her hair. Her jacket is a lost cause but the shirt underneath is okay, at least puke-wise. She wets a hand towel and scrubs at her pants, then hangs them on the towel rack. She strips naked and takes possibly the longest shower of her life, using up every drop of the cheap shampoo, conditioner, body wash in the tiny plastic bottles. When she steps out she still might be drunk, but she's at least clean, and she dresses in her clothes with a faint grimace before squinting at the outline of herself in the mirror, obscured by steam, and padding out into the room, her bare toes on the carpet.
Lexa's still in the chair, her head dipping towards her chest before she jerks it back up at the sounds of the door. "You look better."
"I feel better."
"I was surprised, to find you at a party without your friends."
Clarke sits on the bed, toweling at her hair. "They give me space this time of year."
"You wanted to call Octavia, and then you said you could not go home." Lexa isn't judgmental, but she is curious.
"I panicked. But it's better they didn't see me like this. I told them I was going somewhere else." Clarke tosses the towel aside, careless, and it hits the wall with a wet flop, sliding to the floor.
"I see." Lexa tips her head back on the chair, and Clarke can see dark bruising under her eyes, exhaustion. "You should sleep. We can return in the morning."
"Will Anya worry if you don't go home?" Lexa cracks her eyes open and Clarke shrugs. "You two are joined at the hip, that's all."
"I have already contacted her and explained. You don't have to worry about her speaking to Raven or Octavia."
Clarke snorts. "The thought never crossed my mind. She'll be mad at me though, huh?"
"Well," Lexa says, and she's actually smiling now, "you did throw up in her car."
Clarke groans again. "Fuck. I'll clean it, and pay to have it steamed or whatever. Don't let her kill me, okay?"
"I'll protect you," Lexa says, dry, and she hasn't pressed at all, or judged, and she got her ass out of bed at one in the morning and then found Clarke a safe place to crash and she looks like she hasn't gotten enough sleep in a long while, and Clarke finds herself explaining:
"My dad died around this time. I always get kind of… messed up."
"Grief is an odd thing," Lexa says simply.
"Yeah." Clarke lies back on the bed, wiggling to get under the covers. "Fuck, I almost slept with my ex. Who is also Raven's ex." She groans again. "I seriously owe you." Lexa doesn't say anything, and when Clarke looks up she's dozing again, head bobbing. "Lexa."
Lexa's eyes don't open. "Go to sleep, Clarke."
"Come here." Lexa looks at her, incredulous. "I'll owe you even more if you sleep in that shitty chair. It's a queen, we'll be fine." Lexa rises, stripping out of her sweatshirt and cracking her neck, turning off the lights before sliding in on the other side.
"There weren't any double rooms available," she says, and she's mumbly. She must be even more tired that Clarke had figured. She sighs when her head hits the pillow. "I didn't even know you had my number," she says, sleepy.
"Raven gave it to us. In case someone got locked out, or whatever." Lexa hums. "We could be friends, you know. We're not terrible people. And Octavia could use some help with her trigdastuff." Clarke winces.
"Trigedasleng," Lexa corrects, and then, "I know. She told Anya to commit suicide. I think what she wanted was to be handed a book."
Clarke snorts, snuggling down into the blankets, her back to Lexa. "If we were friends we could be cuddling right now. I'm a prime fucking cuddler."
"Go to sleep," Lexa mutters, exasperated.
/
Clarke wakes up warm. Her back is pressed against Lexa's-she's always been a heat seeking missile when sleeping-and the blankets and mattress are holding her body warmth to her perfectly. She's so toasty her headache isn't even bothering her too much, a dull thump instead of a skull-cracking ache. She dozes until Lexa moves, sitting up. "What time is it," she asks, voice sleep rough, and sees the glow of Lexa's phone.
"Almost noon. We should get up."
"Go ahead," Clarke says, and Lexa goes into the bathroom first. Clarke props herself up against the headboard and turns the television on, clicking through the channels half-heartedly.
"I had them send up toiletries," Lexa says when she comes out, her face damp. "There's toothbrushes, more shampoo-on the desk there." Clarke stands, snagging the bundle from the desk, and they brush their teeth side by side, taking turns spitting. Lexa hands her a washcloth and she scrubs at her face, removing the last of the makeup and the sleep grit from her eyes.
"I told them I'd be back Sunday," Clarke says. "Can I hold the room until tomorrow?"
"Yes," Lexa says. "I'll tell them on my way out."
"Wait," Clarke says, "uh. You don't have to go. I mean, you shouldn't until I clean the car." She pulls a face. "It can't smell good right now. And, motels are like mini-vacations. We can watch shitty television, order room service, go to the pool. All on me."
"We don't have swimsuits," Lexa says, and Clarke wiggles her eyebrows. "No, Clarke."
"Okay, but seriously. I owe you, and… tell me I'm wrong, but you slept more hours last night than you have in a while."
Lexa sighs. "There's a reason I usually don't sleep very long, Clarke. I have a lot of responsibilities." That she neglected because Clarke is a sloppy drunk who makes poor decisions.
"You're right. Let me just go downstairs and get a plastic bag for my jacket, and we can go."
"Wait," Lexa says. She bites her lip. "My charger's in the car. I can do some work on my phone."
"And the room service is on me," Clarke assures her.
"This is a Motel Six. They don't have room service."
Clarke goes to the desk and digs around. She comes up triumphant, a fistful of menus in her hand. "They deliver," she says dramatically, and Lexa cracks a smile. "Preferences?"
"Chinese?" Lexa asks. "I like vegetables and chicken." She snags a room key from the table. "I'll be back." The door thumps shut behind her.
Clarke fishes out the right menu. "Cool. Chicken and vegetables it is."
/
"Eggrolls are not a vegetable, Clarke."
"Eat your cabbage, Lexa."
/
At first, it's good. They watch shitty daytime television and Lexa picks apart the court shows, reciting laws and statutes until Clarke accuses her of being pre-law and Lexa huffs, confirming, but as the day goes by Clarke's commentary becomes half-hearted and her responses shorter, and Lexa retreats into her phone, scowling at whatever it is she's doing, and Clarke feels shitty because she'd promised a mini-vacation but instead Lexa's stuck with Clarke's weak-ass attempt at handling her own grief.
She clicks the television dark and looks at Lexa's face in the warped reflection. "I need a walk," she says, and Lexa grunts in response.
She finds a bar and does three shots in a row, lets a guy tell her she's too pretty to be in a dive like this, drinks the beer he buys her. He's got her hand in his, feeding her some line about her blue eyes, when Lexa sits at the table beside him. "Go away," she says, looking at Clarke. He sputters, and reaches out, and she does something to his fingers that makes him suck in a hard pained gasp, a little whimper. She releases his hand and he leaves, cursing them as bitches. Clarke takes his beer. "I have better things," Lexa says, "to do than chase you around and keep you from making decisions you'll regret."
"Then don't," Clarke says, because she really is a bitch sometimes. Lexa doesn't move, her eyes burning a hole into Clarke's forehead as she avoids her gaze. "Gonna break my fingers too?"
"I didn't break them."
"Raven thinks you're in the mafia. Or the secret police."
"Raven can think whatever she likes. We are leaving this place."
"And if I refuse?"
Lexa unfolds cash from her pocket, placing it on the scarred tabletop. "Then I call Raven and Octavia to collect you themselves."
Clarke swigs the last of the beer and thunks the glass down. "You drive a hard bargain," she says.
/
The walk back to the motel room is cold, and Lexa crowds her as they exit the elevator, going down the hall, reaching past Clarke's hip to swipe the keycard. She pushes Clarke towards the chair and Clarke flops in it, fuming. "What gives you-" she starts, and Lexa drops a plastic cup in front of her, along with a bottle of vodka. "What?"
"You want to drink, drink. I'd prefer it if you used the cup."
"Why?"
"Because it's tacky to drink straight from the bottle."
"No, why did you-" Clarke gestures at everything in general. Lexa rubs a hand across the bridge of her nose.
"I don't know," she says, tired. "I'm going to sleep."
"It's not even eight."
"I'm tired, Clarke."
"Have a drink with me," Clarke offers. She takes a slug from the bottle. "You can be classy, I'll be me."
"You're not tacky," Lexa says, but when Clarke splashes vodka into the cup she takes it, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"I could be tacky. You don't know." Clarke takes another drink, face screwed up against the cheap burn. "I don't know any drinking games for just two people. Except truth or dare."
"No." Lexa takes a longer drink than Clarke thought she would, like it's water instead of essentially rubbing alcohol.
"Okay, Questions it is."
"Questions?"
"Yeah, like you just drank, so it's my turn. What's your middle name?"
"I don't have one."
Clarke takes a drink. "Now it's your turn."
"I don't think this is a real game."
"You can always just go to bed," Clarke says, shrugging, and Lexa tucks her feet under her.
"What's your middle name?"
Clarke rolls her eyes. "Janet, for my grandmother. Now you drink."
Lexa takes another gulp.
They burn through half the bottle before Lexa starts to list to the side, and Clarke sits next to her on the bed to prop her up with her shoulder. "Is it my turn?" Lexa shrugs. "Okay, uhh… I'm bisexual."
Lexa blinks at her with unfocused eyes. "Okay?"
"That's my secret." Clarke takes a long drink and coughs. "Fuck."
"I think we're playing the game wrong," Lexa says, her words running together and bumping into each other.
"Your turn," Clarke reminds her, putting the bottle aside.
"I'm the rightful leader of Trigeda," Lexa says, swirling the cup and sloshing over the side. "I'm currently planning a cop-a cup-" she coughs, swigging, "a coup."
Clarke laughs, taking the cup out of her hands and finishing it. "Okay, we've had enough."
They fall asleep with their feet touching, upside down on the bed. "We have a rotation," Clarke slurs just before she passes out, "for cooking dinner. Thursday's free, and it's ten bucks a week for no cook no clean up every other day. Leftovers are first come first serve." She doesn't remember what Lexa had said when she wakes up, but on Tuesday when Octavia's headed to the store Lexa hands her a ten, and just like that Lexa's at the table with them every night, listening to the chatter and passing Clarke the salt.
/
Anya's coldness intensifies, and Clarke actually hides behind Lexa at one point during a tense kitchen encounter, which at least makes Lexa crack a smile. "You're joining us for Thanksgiving, right? Or is there a different tradition, in Trigeda."
Lexa's head whips around, surprised. "I thought you would not remember."
Clarke shrugs. "I hardly ever black out. Plus, you and Anya speak trigedasleng all the time."
"Obviously there is no Thanksgiving tradition, although there are many large meals at specific points in the calendar."
"So you will be joining us."
Lexa hesitates. "It is my understanding that it is a meal reserved for family, or community."
"You literally live with us, I don't think you can be more involved in our community."
/
Anya sits next to Octavia at Thanksgiving and smiles at Clarke over the potatoes. Clarke drops her beer in Raven's lap, unnerved, and when Bellamy tries to hit on Anya they all watch with appalled, fascinated horror. "Not a robot," Raven mumbles when Anya eats a second slice of pie, "standby for a second hypothesis."
They even join them for the football game in the living room, sitting next to each other with their backs against the couch, helping Octavia stumble through their language. Anya teaches Raven a handful of curse words and almost cracks a human expression when Raven immediately begins to talk shit about Bellamy with, if Lexa's ducked smile is any indication, unerring accuracy. Anya murmurs something, too low and quick for anyone to catch, and Lexa laughs.
She helps Clarke do the dishes, the others dozing and Anya absconding back to her room with the rest of the pie, and Clarke's got dishsuds up to her elbows and her fingers touching something gross when Lexa says, "Thank you, Clarke."
"No problem," Clarke says easily, "I just followed the directions on the website."
"Not for the turkey. For you. For this." Lexa frowns, poking at the cranberry sauce no one touched before throwing it into the garbage. "Anya felt we should have moved into an apartment, and I admit I shared her reticence."
"But we're not so bad, huh?"
"No," Lexa agrees. "Not so bad."
/
Clarke barges into Lexa's room, pop music from Octavia and Raven's room thrumming through the hall behind her. "Where's Anya?" she demands, then squeaks, spinning around, a hand clapped over her eyes. "Sorry, sorry, oh my god."
"Knocking is customary," Lexa hisses, and if it wasn't for the faint high pitched quality to her voice Clarke wouldn't think she was affected at all by her housemate walking in on her lying naked in bed, her head thrown back and a hand between her legs. "You can turn around now," she mutters.
Clarke turns, and Lexa has wrapped a sheet around herself, the material draping over her body, her bare shoulders still on display. Objectively, she's aware she's seen more of Lexa's body, her exercise clothes are easily tighter and more revealing, but there's something different, more intimate, about Lexa in navy blue linen, a flush high in her cheeks and her hair mussed from-
Clarke snaps her eyes to the ceiling. "I, um. I came-" she chokes, coughing. "I mean, I wanted to ask."
"Yes?" Lexa asks, snappish.
"I honestly don't remember."
"Then maybe you can leave, and return when you have regained your senses."
"And knock," Clarke assures her, "I will definitely… I'm so sorry."
"I do not wish to speak of it," Lexa growls, and Clarke flees all the way to the bathroom in the hall, splashing water against her face.
She looks at herself in the mirror and groans, before shucking herself out of her clothes, leaving them crumpled on the tiled floor, and shoves the shower on, turning the dial to cold. She steps under the spray, goosebumps rising, and she honestly just meant to calm herself and maybe wash her hair so she doesn't have to do it later, but even with the frigid water on her back she can't help thinking of the lines of Lexa's body, her body arching up as her fingers pump and twist, the way her teeth were sunk into her bottom lip, how the flush went all the way down her chest and the gentle sloping curves-
Clarke grinds on her palm, keeping her eyes squeezed shut and cursing her stupid libido and her stupid habit of never knocking because she's so used to living with her best friends and how her orgasm is the best she's had in months, the image of Lexa spread out on her bed burned into the inside of her eyelids.
/
She bursts into Octavia and Raven's room and slaps at Raven's shoulder until she turns the radio down. "I did a bad thing," she says, gesturing wildly.
Raven reaches up and pulls Clarke's towel up. "Keep the girls contained, Griffin."
"I did a bad thing," Clarke repeats, and Octavia rolls over from where she'd been half-napping half-reading.
"We've talked about this; it's okay to shower daily. In fact, we encourage it."
Clarke sits on the edge of Raven's bed, her hands twisting in each other. "I did a bad thing."
"I think she's broken," Raven whispers. "You're dripping on my bed," she sighs, sitting behind Clarke and producing a comb. She works through Clarke's tangles, tugging as gently as she can. "Tell Momma Rae what's up."
"Anya's car was blocking me," Clarke starts, then stops. "Oh! Anya's car is blocking me!" She leaves without another word, rushing down the hall and rapping against Lexa's door.
"Come in," Lexa calls out.
Clarke pokes her head in, her eyes fixed upwards. "You sure?"
"Yes." Clarke steps inside, shutting the door behind her. Lexa's sitting at her desk, fully dressed, and when she looks up her eyes go wide, shocked. "There is no need," she stammers, "to-reciprocate, I assure you, I-"
"What?" Clarke looks down at herself still in a towel. "No! That is… not why I'm here."
"Oh."
Clarke gapes. "You thought I came here to flash you?"
"You're naked," Lexa points out.
"Am not." Lexa arches an eyebrow. "No-I just showered, and then I remembered: Anya's car is blocking me in, and I have to be somewhere later. I wanted to make sure her car would be moved before I have to leave."
"There's a comb stuck in your hair," Lexa says, and Clarke touches it. So that's what the tug was, when she was beating feet out of Raven's room.
"Yes. There is. It is on purpose." She lifts her chin. "Is Anya here?"
"Obviously not. She left her keys, I'll be happy to let you out."
"If I was here to flash you," Clarke says, running out of anything important to say but not yet ready to leave, "you'd be lucky."
Lexa stares. Her eyes dip down and then snap back to Clarke's eyes. She blushes. "I can see that," she murmurs, low. Clarke has another flash of memory, Lexa's hips rolling against her fingers, the tendons standing out in her throat, the cut off moan Clarke heard before she'd realized what she'd walked in on. She wonders what Lexa would do if she let the towel fall. Lexa licks her lips and Clarke thinks Lexa's wondering the same thing.
"I'm going to an exhibit," Clarke says. "You should come." It's an impulse and an apology, all at once.
"It's your turn to cook dinner," Lexa says, and turns back to her books.
/
Clarke shoves a frozen pizza in the oven and sets the timer before going back to Raven and Octavia. She flops on the bed next to Octavia and puts her head on Octavia's belly. "Mmarrgh," she says, conflicted, and Octavia pats her head absently. Raven's facedown on her desk, snoring.
"Do you want to talk about the Bad Thing?"
"No," Clarke mumbles. "I shouldn't."
"Want me to go with you to your boring art shit?"
Clarke pinches her. "No, you asshole. I uh, I think I'm going to see if Lexa will go with me."
Octavia puts her book aside. "Are you serious?"
"She's not so bad."
"I don't think she's bad, it's just… I don't know. She seems cold."
"She helped you with your class, didn't she?"
"Yeah," Octavia sighs, "but-"
"And she's not a bad housemate. She's respectful, she's clean, I'm pretty sure she'd stop Anya from killing us in our sleep if it came to it-"
"Clarke!" Octavia flicks her forehead. "Okay, god, stop. You're right, she's not so bad, go be her new best friend, eat her out under the moonlight, marry her and adopt a million Chinese babies, whatever."
"You're a jerk," Clarke mutters, and levers herself off the bed with a last sigh, throwing the blanket over Octavia's face as she leaves.
/
Lexa doesn't look at anyone during dinner, and when Clarke's doing the dishes she comes in, ostensibly to dry, but instead she stands very close to Clarke at the sink, a dishrag in one hand, and says, whispered. "I would appreciate it very much if you did not discuss what happened earlier. It is a private matter."
Clarke hesitates, then nods. "Of course. It's embarrassing, I get it. And it was my fault, anyway."
"I usually lock the door. You caught me on an odd occasion."
"So you-often?"
Lexa flushes. "And you do not?"
Clarke, in fact, masturbated while the pizza was in the oven, running the sink in the bathroom on full blast and muffling her noises in her fist, thinking about dropping that towel and straddling Lexa on her desk chair, or kneeling under it while Lexa murmurs about tort law, her glasses falling down her nose and her hand in Clarke's hair. "You're right, it's a private matter." Lexa nods, pleased, and drops the towel on the counter. "Hey! You're not going to help me with this?"
"It's your turn," Lexa says, starting to leave. Clarke catches her by the sleeve, dampening it with soap bubbles and tap water.
"Then go to the exhibit with me? Octavia and Raven would be bored, and I need a buddy."
Lexa hesitates. "Anya will not return until tomorrow."
"And you can't go anywhere without her?" Lexa frowns. "C'mon, I owe you one."
"How will me doing you a favor balance our accounts?"
"I'll owe you two?"
"Fine. Find me when you are ready to leave."
/
Lexa is dressed in an honest to god suit when Clarke finishes her makeup and wraps a scarf around her neck, looping it multiple times and tucking her nose into its folds. Clarke stares, because in her deepest wildest, most secret fantasies she'd imagined a cocktail dress and heels, but a black vest and a crisp white collar and a red striped tie transcends her brain's ability to function, and she stands at the door and makes swallowing fishlike noises until Lexa's right in front of her, peering. "Clarke? Is this too formal?"
"A little," Clarke says, getting ahold of herself. "Uh… lose the vest?" Lexa strips out of her jacket, draping it over a hook by the door, and unbuttons her vest, discarding it to the side. "Hold on," Clarke says, when she reaches for her jacket again. She steps close, and Lexa smells like the apricot scrub she uses for body wash and mint mouthwash, and Clarke tugs her tie until it's hanging low and casual. "Can you wear your big boots? I mean, can you walk around in motorcycle boots?"
"In mine, yes. Are you sure?"
"It's an art scene, Lexa, trust me."
/
Lexa braids her hair while Clarke drives, complicated patterns until it's all pulled away and kept neat against her scalp. Clarke likes her hair back, likes to be able to see the line of her jaw and have an unobstructed view of her eyes, made brighter by the darkness of her eyeliner. "You're good at that," she remarks, "I could never, with the car moving like this."
"Maybe you're an exceptionally smooth driver." Clarke makes a turn, bumping against the curb. "Maybe I have very talented fingers."
"Maybe you should read the directions I gave you so we don't get lost."
"We will not get lost. I know where we are. Turn left at the next street."
Clarke complies, and manages not to hit the dividing strip. "You're familiar with the art district?"
"I used to live here."
"Really? Where?"
"On the East side. We moved before I started at the University." Lexa rolls down the window, breathing the air in deep and wiggling her fingers against the outside of the car door.
"What made you move?" Clarke makes another turn when Lexa points, the wheel sliding through her fingers. Lexa is silent, and when she tells Clarke to find parking her voice is too tight.
"Hey," Clarke says, when they're walking towards the address, the lit sign coming closer. "You don't have to tell me. I'm sorry if I brought something up."
"You didn't know," Lexa says, and on impulse Clarke grabs her hand, swinging it between them as they walk. Lexa allows it until they reach the front door and the crowd of people milling about, and then disengages.
"You're probably going to be bored," Clarke says. "Sometimes there's free food, but the bar's overpriced. I have to go upstairs to log my name so I get class credit, so feel free to wander around and be bored until I get back."
Clarke almost jogs up the stairs, nodding at a few people she recognizes from classes, and scribbles her name in the logbook while she listens to her professor tell her the criteria for the extra credit assignment. It's pretty basic, a work based on what she sees in the exhibit, and she's pleased it's so loosely structured. She makes short conversation and goes to find Lexa, wandering the gallery and idly thinking about what she could do for her own piece.
Lexa is standing in front of a painting that takes up almost an entire wall, a white canvas with a bright green streak, curved and arching. She's looking up at it, thoughtful, and Clarke feels a glow of pride, because she can see the looks Lexa's getting and she's the one that gets to bump her shoulder against Lexa's and feel the warmth of Lexa's smile aimed at her. "You like it?" Clarke looks at the placard. spring day, it says.
"It doesn't look like spring," Lexa says, and Clarke steels herself for the familiar refrains: a small child could have done that, people pay how much?, modern art takes no talent and is stupid, blah blah blah. "It looks like fall. Can't you taste green apples when you see it?"
"You like it." Clarke doesn't hide her surprise, and Lexa turns her gaze back to the painting.
"I am impressed when artists create emotion through images, especially in the abstract. It reminds me that we are all the same. A hundred people in a hundred countries could look at this and feel the same emotion, think the same thoughts."
"Not if either of them were Raven or Octavia," Clarke teases, and Lexa smiles again. "I'm glad you found something you liked."
"Of course. And the entrance to the kitchen is just there." Lexa jerks her chin towards a door, very close by. "Nothing has come out yet, but I'm hopeful."
Clarke laughs, and then tugs at Lexa's sleeve. "Come on, tell me more about all this modern art."
"You're the art major," Lexa says, trailing after her obediently. "You should be telling me."
"I'll tell you if you're wrong."
"You can't be wrong about art, Clarke, it's subjective." They wander through, and Lexa murmurs in Clarke's ear, her arm around Clarke's waist to keep her close. Lexa doesn't seem to notice, but she parts the crowd like Moses, walking like a soldier and carrying herself like a general. People fall away from her naturally, giving ground, and her lips twitch when Clarke pretends to correct her, making up ridiculously false facts about what they see.
"Okay," she says. "C'mon. There's something I want to show you." She leads Lexa out of the main gallery and towards the back stairs. "Sshh," she says, finger to her lips as the security guard passes by them, ambling on his pass. "We're sneaking."
"We literally have invitations," Lexa says, but her voice is mild and she follows Clarke up the stairs.
Clarke winds them through the closed galleries, pushing the ropes aside, and somewhere in the dark Lexa takes her hand, her palm warm and dry and rough, the inside of her thumb and index finger thick with calluses. She hasn't been back here in months, but her feet still know the way. She finds what she's looking for easily. "This one is my favorite. It's also my least favorite." Lexa steps closer to the wall, peering, and Clarke aims the beam of her phone's flashlight at the glass frame. It's a map, of sorts, crossed with twine and layered with mementos: bus tickets, movie stubs, receipts from gas stations, gum wrappers, a crushed cigarette, a dirty napkin.
Lexa hovers her fingers above the glass. "It feels sad."
"There's a real story," Clarke says, "about the artist, and why she wrote it, where she got everything. I've read about it, if you want to know."
"I'd rather hear what you think of it."
"It reminds me of my dad." Clarke swallows, and when Lexa's hand squeezes hers it's too much. She steps back, breaking contact, and clears her throat. "What do you think of it?" She tucks her phone back into her pocket and can barely see Lexa by the emergency lights, just the shape of her body.
"I think it hurts. I think art is supposed to hurt."
"Thank you for coming with me."
Lexa's head turns towards her, but Clarke can't make out her expression. "Thank you for asking me to come."
Clarke sighs, suddenly tired. "Let's go. I'm beat." She links her arm through Lexa's and leans her head on Lexa's shoulder. "Carry me," she moans, something she's said to Octavia a hundred times, and then she squeaks, because Lexa steps back and swings her up into a fireman's carry. "What the hell!"
"Oh," Lexa says, feigned surprise, "was this not what you wanted?"
"Put me down you asshole," Clarke yelps, grabbing at the backs of Lexa's thighs. "You know this isn't what I meant."
Lexa eases her down when they get to the stairwell, grinning under the harsh fluorescent bulbs, her hair mussed from Clarke kicking her legs, and Clarke yanks at her clothes, smoothing and then glaring. "Sorry Clarke. You know English isn't my first language."
"It's fine," Clarke says with as much dignity as she can, pulling her pants up from where they got dragged down. "You can make it up to me with a piggyback ride."
"What?"
Clarke twirls a finger. "Well you were willing to carry me, you just got confused how. Because of your English difficulties, I'm spelling it out. Piggyback to the car. Turn around, chop chop." She arches an eyebrow, challenging, and Lexa's face sets and she turns, squatting slightly. At that point, it's too late to take it back, and Clarke hops on, linking her feet around Lexa's hips and draping herself along Lexa's back, leaning her chin on Lexa's shoulder.
Lexa carries her all the way down the stairs, past the people filing out of the gallery, and down the street, bouncing every so often to keep Clarke high on her back, and Clarke presses her cheek against Lexa's shoulder, humming. "Hey wait," she says as Lexa makes to cross the street towards her car. "Let's get food." She digs her right heel into Lexa's side. "Hyeh!"
"I am not a horse," Lexa says, but she turns right. "Where are we headed?"
"I saw a taco place while we were driving here? On third, so it's just another block up and one over." Lexa's step falters. "We don't have to."
"No, it's alright." The first block she's fine, but on the second she's tense, her muscles tense and twisted into rocky knots under Clarke's body. Her feet thump heavy on the ground as her pace slows, and Clarke only allows it for another ten seconds before tightening her legs.
"Stop." She wiggles until Lexa drops her arms to her sides and slides down Lexa's back. "What's wrong?" Lexa's jaw clenches. She stares at a spot on the ground and refuses to answer. "Okay," Clarke says, soothing. She hesitates, but takes Lexa's hand in hers, pausing to let Lexa pull away if she wants, but Lexa stands like a statue, the light from the streetlamp catching in her dark hair. Clarke takes a step back, applying the faintest bit of pressure: Lexa takes a dragging step, her toe scuffing on the concrete. Clarke takes another step; Lexa follows. Clarke walks backwards for ten feet, Lexa relaxing with every step, and then they walk together, fingers tangled.
When they reach the car Lexa lets out a big breath, noisy and relieved. "Sorry," she says, quiet. "Bad memories."
"It's fine," Clarke says, and she wants to hug Lexa but she's still drawn up, tucked into herself even as she stands tall and composed, leaning a hip on the hood of the car. She swallows her reassurances and her questions and starts the car, pulling away and watching Lexa breathe out of the corner of her eye, Lexa's hands flexing into fists and then flattening out again, over and over.
/
Clarke pulls into a Burger King, parking the car and turning the engine off. "I hate drive throughs," she explains, fishing money out of her purse. "You want something?"
"I'll come with you," Lexa says, surprising her.
Clarke gets a fries and a soda, and on an impulse, a vanilla milkshake. Lexa wanders through the deserted seating area, empty so late at night except for a few tired stragglers, and she looks aimless, drifting past the condiments and plastic straws in paper wrappers, the napkin dispensers. Clarke grabs their food, filling her cup with Sprite, and Lexa falls into step behind her as they leave. "C'mon," Clarke says, hopping up on the trunk and slurping loudly. She thumps the trunk beside her and Lexa sits beside her. "For you." Clarke hands her the milkshake.
Lexa sips. "I feel like you're accusing me of something," she says.
Clarke snickers. "What? Could I be implying that you're very vanilla?"
"I'll have you know I snuck into several art galleries tonight."
"Oh hold up then." Clarke reaches for the cup, "I'll have to exchange this for mint chocolate chip, you bad bitch."
Lexa pulls the cup away, protective. "They don't have mint chocolate chip," she protests, and drinks.
"Pop the lid, I want to dip my fries in."
Lexa leans farther away. "Fuck off, that's disgusting."
Clarke stabs a fry at her. "What? Have you even tried it? It's delicious."
"I don't want to try it. Leave my milkshake alone." Lexa pushes her away and they scuffle a little.
Clarke crawls over her lap, insistent. "Whose milkshake? I paid for it."
"Clarke!" They tumble from the trunk, sliding off and fumbling to get their feet under them, and Lexa drops the cup, splashing milkshake on the asphalt. "Look what you did," she grumbles.
Clarke bends over and swoops her fry through the biggest puddle, careful not to drag it on the ground. She pops it in her mouth and grabs the bag off the ground where it had fallen, digging in for another handful of fries. Lexa is looking at her, expression slack in disbelief and disgust. "This is a no judgement zone," Clarke tells her, and sticks a fry into Lexa's open mouth.
They split the remaining fries, the bag propped on the center console, and Clarke turns the radio on to some generic pop station, cranking it down to background music. Lexa crunches away next to her, seat leaned back and her feet propped on the dashboard. "Sweet potato fries are better," she muses, and Clarke hums in agreement.
"Why didn't you just say you didn't want to walk that way?" Clarke asks, the questioning burning its way through her gut since Lexa went tense and unhappy under her.
"You wanted tacos."
"Not more than I want you to be comfortable."
Lexa grunts. She turns the radio off and shifts, building to something. Clarke gives her the last two fries. "This was a good night," Lexa says, between bites. She licks the salt and grease off her fingers and sighs. "Thank you, Clarke." It doesn't feel quite like what she'd meant to say, like she chickened out at the last second, but it warms Clarke's chest all the same.
/
"I bought chips," Raven announces, dumping her bag on table and tossing a can of pringles at Octavia's face. "What are we watching?"
"Whatever's on," Clarke says, tossing pizza slices on paper plates and balancing soda under her arm as she settles onto the couch. Octavia helps her spread the food out on the coffee table.
"Is Lexa joining us?"
"Studying," Clarke reports, popping the tab on her soda and gulping until the bubbles make her wince and pull a face. "Already tried to invite her, but she's got some exam tomorrow."
"Shocking," Octavia says, stabbing at the remote with two fingers until the television clicks on. "The only thing more surprising than Lexa joining us for movie night would be Anya joining us for movie night." Raven snatches the remote from her, clicking through the channels rapidly.
"Ooh," she says, "Batman!"
Clarke perks up. "The one with Anne Hathaway?"
"No." Clarke deflates a little and takes a big bite of her pizza. She's seen it before and she tracks the plot with half an ear, preferring to giggle at Raven's muttered commentary and fight over the last pepperoni with Octavia. She comes away victorious, and Octavia rolls her eyes at her smug look.
"Maybe Lexa's Batman," Raven says, thoughtful. "And she's mysterious because she hasn't yet become the hero our University deserves. We already know she can kick ass."
"She is soft-footed," Octavia adds, teasing, "like a ninja. She scared the shit out of me yesterday, I almost threw my ramen at her." She turns to Clarke, expectant, but Clarke is remembering how Lexa looked on a city block, her shoulders hunched, trying to face a personal demon because Clarke wanted a taco, of all things.
"I have to go to the bathroom," she mutters, and stands, snagging another slice of pizza as she goes. She walks past the bathroom, to Lexa's door, nudging it open and sticking her head in.
"Hey."
Lexa looks up from her books. Anya glares from the bed. "Hello Clarke. Do you need something?"
"No." She holds out the plate. "I brought you guys pizza. There's uh, one pepperoni and one cheese, so you know. Fight it out between yourselves."
Lexa takes it. "Thank you."
"That's all," she mutters, backing up, "so-happy studying?" She shuts the door, her last view of Lexa a bemused look down at the plate of food in her hands.
When she gets back Raven and Octavia look at her, heavy and judgmental. "You have a thing for Lexa," Raven says.
"Shut up."
Octavia pats her shoulder. "We'll be here when it all goes down in flames."