Clarke cracked her eyes open slowly, dreading the thought of waking up from her deep slumber. The little red alarm clock on her bedside table showed the time was 12:31, and the only reason Clarke deducted in her foggy mind that it was daytime was the light streaming in from where her dark green curtains couldn't quite meet.

Of course, she had a reason to sleep in so late on a school day. After spending most of the night kneeling by her toilet and praying to God she'd die soon, one would assume she earned her right to rest.

Much to her surprise, Clarke's stomach didn't clench or gurgle when she sat up and stretched, nor did she feel the need to make another mad dash to the bathroom. However, her full bladder did coerce her into entering the damned room once again, and she thanked her lucky stars that it was now her lower cheeks that rested on the porcelain.

Clarke couldn't bear to look at herself in the mirror as she washed her hands. Her blonde hair coiled up into the messiest bun ever made atop her head, with strands sticking out every which way and hanging by the sides of her face. As if her hair wasn't bad enough, the image of the dark bags under her eyes and the deep, burning cracks in her lips were enough to haunt her throughout the day. Washing her face didn't help much, though she couldn't deny how soothing it was to finally smooth on some lip balm without having to wipe it off, among grosser things, an hour later.

Though she still cringed at the thought of last night, she could just her hear mother in her head. You need to eat, or else you'll get sick all over again!

She dawdled down the hall, hesitant to even look at anything that wasn't toast with butter. Or worse...spaghetti. She shuddered. Clarke was completely aware the spaghetti hadn't made her sick, but considering it was the last thing she tasted before the contents of her own stomach, well...

"Well good morning, sleepyhead!" Michael cooed loudly from the old orange armchair in the living room, hands behind his head and legs stretched out on the matching ottoman. "About time, I was starting to worry you were dead."

"Gee, thanks," Clarke mumbled once the initial shock died out. "What are you doing here? You're gonna catch what I had, airhead. Go back to school."

"Nah, I already had that stomach flu a week before school started, I'm basically immune," he hopped up from the chair and headed to the kitchen.

"Oh bite me," Clarke growled as she followed the taller boy. "Why are you here anyway? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy your company, but for all you knew I could've been ralphing all day today too."

"Yeah, I guess. You're my best friend though, I wanted to see if you were okay," he grinned at the blonde, pausing momentarily in his preparation of Clarke's breakfast.

She smiled, groggy. "Thanks, dude. You're my best friend too."

"And I may or may not have wanted to ask if you like Lexa," he wiggled his eyebrows at her.

"Damn it, Michael!" Clarke moved to lunge at him, but stopped dead in her tracks when he raised the still greasy butter knife in defense. She sighed. "Michael. I'm straight, remember?"

"Mhmm," he hummed, eyeing her sideways as he continued to butter the toast. "I suppose a lot of straight girls go weak in the knees when they meet a pretty girl."

Clarke lifted her chin defiantly. "Actually, they do. It's called jealousy. She's just pretty, and I'm kind of jealous," she huffed, eyes closed and chin still stuck up.

"Chyeahh, jealous of all the girls she's boinked."

"How many?" Clarke leaned closer with a frown.

"Ha! See! I was lying, she's a virgin. At first I thought you were just buggin, but then I noticed the drool on your chin."

"I was not drooling," Clarke pouted and crossed her arms. "And I was not buggin, I was just sick."

"Aw man, that's too bad, because she told me that she thinks you're really cute," Michael shrugged, handing Clarke the pieces of toast on a napkin. "But oh well, I guess when I go back to school I'll just tell her you're not into-"

"Wait! Wait," Clarke interjected too loudly for her own comfort. "Okay, yes, she's cute. Fine. But I'm not gay."

"Okie dokie, Clarkey," Michael skipped over to the armchair and plopped down again. Clarke sat on the floor beside him.

Clarke chewed her toast slowly and swallowed hesitantly, waiting a few minutes between bites just to be safe. Michael focused back on the TV show he'd been watching before Clarke woke up.

After several minutes, though, the suspense was killing Clarke. "Is she gay?"

"Gay as a goose."

"As a-"

"It's from Cheers, Clarke. You really need to watch more television."

She sputtered. "I have better things to do! Whatever...why haven't I seen her around before?"

Michael shrugged. "She keeps to herself, only really hangs out with Lincoln, or with me every once in a while. We talk on the phone a lot, though. And sports probably keep her too busy after school to hang around town or anything."

"What does she play?"

"Basketball and softball. And you know what they say about softball players," he winked.

Clarke rolled her eyes. "Please, it's just a coincidence that she plays softball."

"Coincidence or not, she doesn't hear the end of it from me," Michael laughed. Before he could react, Clarke stood up and punched him in the arm with just enough force to make it hurt. "Hey, what was that for!"

"Why haven't you introduced us before!"

"Because you're straight! Right?!" Michael countered, a smirk playing at his lips, though just hiding to avoid another jab.

Realizing she was trapped, Clarke grumbled and picked up her napkin to throw it away. "Whatever."

She sighed when she returned and cuddled up to Michael on the chair. "She thought I was cute. She was there in the restroom with me when I first got sick, she probably thinks I'm disgusting now."

Michael frowned and hugged his best friend closer. "I don't know, she looked and sounded really concerned when she told me I should take you home. She called me last night too, to ask if you were okay. I told her I'd call her today. Or...maybe you can call her?"

"Do you want a fresh one?" Clarke threatened.

"I'm serious! It would probably make her day, and she would probably be happy to actually hear how much better you're feeling," Michael defended.

"I don't know... maybe it would be easier to just freshen up and go to school for the rest of the day," she mused.

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea..." Michael teased, tugging at a stray hair from Clarke's bun. "It would take a lot more than just 'freshening up' to fix all this."

"Wow!" Clarke yelled and turned to slap his arm. "Rude!"

He snickered. "If I'm lyin' I'm dyin'. Hey, can I come over for dinner tonight?"

"Do you even have to ask?" Clarke grinned.

"Nah, your mom loves me. Oh, and make sure you're looking your best."

"Just for you? Why?" Clarke inquired, confused.

"Stop grilling me, take a chill pill. Now get your sick butt off me, I have to get back to school."

"Michael, do not," she warned as she rose from the chair. "I swear to god, if you-"

"Shhh, Clarkey. It'll be icy. It'll be peachy-keen, jelly bean. It'll be-"

"Okay yeah just get out now," Clarke laughed and just about pushed her best friend out the front door.

Thanks to Michael, Clarke grew increasingly uneasy as dinnertime neared. She mapped out a timeline of events in her head to calm herself down, but it only made her over-analyze anything and everything that could happen.

3:15, start getting ready. What if the water's been turned off by the city? What if the hairdryer breaks? What if I can't find my favorite eyeliner? What if I can't find my cutest shirt?

4:00, mom comes home. What if she thinks I'm going on a date? What if she thinks Lexa is here as a date?

4:00-5:00, continue getting ready, make sure everything is perfect. What if I end up getting sick again? What if I somehow mess up my makeup or outfit? What if they get here before I'm ready?

5:30, dinnertime. What if mom makes something really messy and I make a fool of myself? What if Lexa's allergic to something? Again, what if I end up getting sick again? Oh god, she's already seen one instance of my barfing, god forbid she sees another...

Despite her pessimism, 4 o'clock rolled around and Clarke already took a shower and finished drying her hair, not a problem in sight.

"I'm home Clarke, where are- oh, well don't you look nice," Abby, Clarke's mother, rounded the corner in the hallway and caught Clarke making faces in the mirror to find the best angle to apply her eyeliner. "I take it you're feeling better."

"I am," Clarke exhaled, cautious not to smudge the makeup. "Michael's coming over for dinner, he's bringing a friend."

"A friend for him, or a friend for you?" Abby smirked at her daughter. "You're focusing on that eyeliner more than you focus on your own art, who are you dressing up for?"

"Nobody, mom," Clarke whined, desperate to at least finish the last little bit of eyeliner as slowly as possible as an excuse to avoid eye contact. "I just want to make a good impression, we barely know each other."

"Hmm," Abby droned, hesitating before turning to walk to the kitchen. "Alright, well I hope your new friend likes chicken."

Michael relaxed into Lexa's plush bed and rested his eyes, 'only for a moment,' he'd promised. 'Accidentally' taking a nap was his initial plan, but Lexa's obsessive pacing and mumbling proved to be too much stimulation for his ears. "What are you so nervous for?" Michael huffed and pushed himself up to his elbows, head lolling back.

"I don't know what to wear. Should I go business casual? Or just...casual?" Lexa chewed her lip and surveyed the outfits she'd thrown beside Michael.

"I've gone over there in literally nothing but a Speedo, maybe your usual blazer and slacks would be a bit too much."

"But you basically live there," she rolled her eyes. "I've met Clarke once and I've helped her once. I don't even know her mother's name!"

"It's Abby," Michael fell back again, resting his hands atop his stomach. "Just wear a flannel and some slacks, I don't know? With Reeboks?"

"Slacks with Reeboks, Michael?" Lexa admonished. "I thought you were better than that."

He laughed and chucked a pair of socks at her. "I don't know! Clarke thinks you're cute anyway, you could be wearing a Raggedy Ann outfit and she'd probably still go for it."

"She thinks I'm cute?" Lexa halted in her tracks, eyes wide and fixed on the floor instead of her friend.

"If she knows I told you that, I'll be in deep shit. Don't say anything."

"I won't, I won't..." she trailed off. A dark blush filled her cheeks and her heart fluttered. Saying she never felt this way before would've been a blatant lie, but it had been so long since she felt it, and much longer since she could actually let it show without worrying of some sort of punishment. "I...is she like me?"

Michael shrugged and threw his legs to the side of the bed to stand up. "But like I said, it doesn't really matter what you wear, Clarke will think you look great. And Abby's not a hardass, so just wear a flannel and some Levi's, you'll be fine."

The shorter girl smiled at him in appreciation, grabbed the clothes from her dresser, and bounded off to her en-suite bathroom to change.

"Don't forget to peg your jeans!"

A faint "got it" slipped under the bathroom door, and Michael set to work folding the clothes scattered over the bed and replacing them in the drawers.

Lexa emerged from the bathroom, followed by the scent of a dainty strawberry perfume. Her wavy hair rested over her right shoulder, strategically placed on its unusual side so as not to cover the breast pocket of her dark green flannel on the other side. The dark blue jeans hugged her waist and thighs perfectly, and gently sloped down over her knees and to their rolled-up bottoms just above her ankles.

"Vans instead, huh? Choice," Michael praised, finger on chin and eyebrows raised. "You're missing something, though. Maybe butch it up a little?"

The brunette's eyes scanned her room hurriedly. "Yes!" She loped to the rocking chair on the other side of the room and grabbed her varsity jacket from the backrest. "And it matches my shirt." She pushed her arms through the sleeves and pulled her hair back into place. The white-outlined dark green V on the left breast of the black jacket matched flawlessly with the flannel, and the white sleeves pulled the outfit together with her white Vans.

Michael gave two thumbs up and checked his watch. "Shit, we gotta motor, it's almost 5:30!"

"Clarke, this is the last time I'm asking you to stop pacing. You're making me nervous," Abby scolded her daughter, eyes never leaving the chicken breasts sizzling on the skillet. "What's gotten into you? Are you sure this person isn't more than a friend?"

"Mom, I'm sure. Her name's Lexa. She's a girl," Clarke groaned and plopped into one of the chairs at the dinner table, straddling it backwards to rest her elbows on the back and face her mother.

"Your point? Girls can like girls," Abby shrugged, tongs in hand.

Clarke sighed and rested her forehead on her arms. Of course she knew girls could like girls - she grew up in San Francisco, after all - but Trigeda was far less friendly than her old city. So much less friendly that, in a matter of only a couple years, Clarke went from actively questioning her sexuality to just shoving it under the rug every time her mind even glanced that direction. At first it was easy, but she felt the oppression catching her tail quickly, especially since meeting Lexa.

"Are you feeling okay, sweetie? Should I make you some soup instead?" Abby's tone dropped from curious prodding to serious concern in seconds.

"No, no, I'm fine. Just a little tired still, I guess," she raised her head tentatively, gaze to the tiled kitchen floor.

"Okay...but take it easy tonight, don't stuff yourself. I know how you can be," Abby teased, a sly smile barely stretching her lips.

The ding of the doorbell startled Clarke, then sent her spiraling into panic. She prayed her mother couldn't see her shaking legs as she rose from the chair and walked across the living to the front door. Okay, Clarke. You can do this. Deep breaths.

She held her breath in anticipation and opened the door.

"I told her I usually just walk in, but miss polite here made me ring the bell," Michael smiled and pulled Clarke into a bear hug.

"Can't breathe, not completely healthy yet," Clarke wheezed, regretting the stale air she forced to stay in her lungs moments before.

When Michael set her down, the sweet scent of strawberries delighted her nose, and she wished she hadn't wasted those first few seconds of air when she opened the door. Eleven seconds without this scent, eleven seconds she'd missed.

"Hey, nice to see you again," Clarke smiled bashfully, holding her hand out for Lexa to shake. Silky, as she remembered.

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better, I was kind of worried."
Lexa's default stoic expression softened, even if only a little bit. It was most apparent in her eyes, however. Somehow, those steely green eyes warmed to a welcoming jade, and Clarke felt as though they were pulling her in.

"Kind of? Seriously?" Michael's eyebrows flew sky-high once more, a disbelieving, open-mouthed smirk quirking his mouth.

"Get bent," Lexa whispered vehemently, her eyes turning stone cold once more, with only an ounce of lightheartedness.

In that moment, the three teenagers created a vision triangle: Clarke's eyes on Lexa, Lexa's eyes on Michael, Michael's eyes on Clarke.

Back to his usual demeanor, Michael casually strutted past Clarke to the kitchen to greet his 'second mother.' "How's it going mama Griffin?"

Lexa's eyes widened and her heart dropped as she stepped inside and Clarke closed the door behind her. She fell so far into her barrelling thoughts that she didn't quite catch Abby's reply, nor did she notice Clarke saying her name until a gentle hand rested on the backside of her elbow.

"Lexa? Are you okay?" Clarke asked, leaning into Lexa's line of sight in a victorious attempt to finally capture her attention.

"I'm fine, yes," Lexa nodded and recomposed her expression. Clarke gave her a weak smile before leading her to the kitchen to meet her mother.

"Hi Dr. Griffin," the brunette greeted the cooking woman cautiously. "It's nice to see you again."

Abby set the spatula she was holding down on the counter and hugged the younger girl. "It's nice to see you too, and under much better circumstances." Abby pulled back, holding Lexa's upper arms, and looked her in the eye. "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay," Lexa duplicated the feeble smile Clarke offered earlier. "I didn't know Clarke was your daughter."

"Of course!" Abby beamed, let go of Lexa's arms, and threw one of her own around the blonde's shoulders.

"You didn't know I was her son, either, Lex. Come on, space cadet, get with the times," Michael snickered and peeked under the lid of a pot on the back burner. "Oooh, mama Griffin made her world famous mashed potatoes?"

"Just for you, lord knows Clarke's the only one who fights you for the whole pot," Abby chuckled and turned off the stove. "Will you guys help me set the table?"

Michael reached up into a cabinet for the plates, Clarke set the utensils and napkins, and Lexa helped Abby bring all the food to the table.

Clarke couldn't help but wonder why her mom knew Lexa. Of course, Abby was pretty much the only doctor for the small town of Trigeda, thus knowing the vast majority of the residents, but something about the way they interacted had her thinking perhaps they'd spent more time together than just the occasional appointment. For what, she wasn't sure. Lexa couldn't have been unhealthy... after all, she played both softball and basketball. Perhaps she broke a bone playing, Clarke pondered as she pulled four napkins from the holder by the sink. It wasn't unlikely, but that didn't feel quite right, either. Clearly she hadn't been a consistent patient when Clarke lent a helping hand in her mother's office shortly after one of the nurses quit. She decided to keep her ears open and hope the subject arose during dinner.

The food occupied most of the space on the round, modest dining room table. A plate of fried chicken, a pot of mashed potatoes, a basket of rolls, and a bowl of steamed carrots adorned the table, and before anyone had the chance to admire the spread, somebody was digging into any one of the dishes. Clarke and Michael elbowed each other for a chance to fill their plate with potatoes, but while the two squabbled, Lexa snatched the spoon and served herself, much to Abby's amusement.

"It's not often someone's able to get at those potatoes before these two can," Abby laughed across from Lexa. "Maybe you can keep them in check better than I ever could."

"She keeps me in my place," Michael uttered around a mouthful of carrots. He slapped Clarke's hand away from the potatoes' serving spoon and took hold. "I don't know if she could do that with Clarke, though." He shrugged sarcastically and elbowed the blonde once more.

"Bite me. And give me that spoon, you're gonna take all the potatoes," Clarke reached for the handle and growled when Michael held it just out of her reach.

"Such manners, the two of you," Abby scolded lightly and plucked a chicken breast from the pile to set on Lexa's plate. "There you go, sweetie. If they're not fighting over potatoes, they're fighting over chicken."