Clarke creeps down the stairs, hugging the bannister to stay on the far edge, careful not to make the wood creak. The house makes a settling noise and Clarke freezes, listening to the silence to make sure Abby hasn't been disturbed. Both she and her mother are light sleepers, and Clarke needs this morning to herself. The only sound she hears is the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the den, and Clarke let's out the breath she was holding.
She makes it to the bottom of the stairs and heads to the back breezeway, socked feet on the hardwood making her shuffle slide as she goes. She pulls on tennis shoes and is about to shrug on the hoodie she'd brought with her when her eyes catch the brown leather jacket hanging from a peg by the door. Clarke runs her finger across it and hesitates only a moment before she pulls it down and over her shoulders. The leather is a little stiff from being left alone since last summer and the sleeves go past her fingers but Clarke doesn't care. She turns her nose into the collar and breaths in.
It's just after 4am, and light is beginning to color the sky gray-blue, the dark water of the lake picking up hints of color at the top of its soft waves. Clarke has painted that same look a dozen times. She heads down to the dock, grimacing at the noise as she pulls the aluminum rowboat over the stony beach and into the water.
Clarke doesn't dare attempt the outboard motor so close to the house, and instead pulls the oars out, awkward and a little out of practice at rowing, and sets out across the lake. There is mist on the water, Clarke moves through it like memory, and she thinks this morning might be a good one for ghosts.
Partway across the lake Clarke stows the oars and switches to the motor, the engine catching with a tired roar. She steers into an empty dock in front of an expanse of grass, a three story house with towering windows set far back on the lot.
The house is dark and she knows no one is home. The Jaha's haven't used their summer house for years, but they have never sold it. Clarke heads to the tree in the backyard, where she can see the treehouse through thick summer green leaves. The wood of the old playhouse is rotting and almost as green as the leaves and Clarke knows it wouldn't be safe to climb up in. She sits on the grass instead, jeans going damp from the morning dew, and thinks how to begin.
"I wanted to tell you in person," she says. Clarke rubs quickly at her eyes, trying to stop the wetness there before it starts, "but you really should have been here for it."
Wells is buried in a family plot the Jaha's have owned for three generations, but Clarke believes more in spirits than bodies, and she still thinks of him as being here, in the place they spent so much time in. It was always Wells' favorite.
"My dad died," she says finally, "I thought you should know."
She doesn't want to be angry with Wells, but she is, because her best friend should be here for her right now. He should be alive to become a brilliant professor, and to beat her at chess, and to show her how to cook, and to write her long letters while she's at school, and it's been three years now and that's long enough. Wells should just be alive.
So should her dad.
Clarke tears at the wet grass, wrapping green between her fingers. She sighs and stands because she has no words left to say and trudges back to her boat, shoulders up and head down, coat collar up around her ears.
Clarke sits stubbornly in the boat, aluminum siding dinging against the dock as the water laps at it. Whatever she thought this morning trip would make her feel, it hasn't, and that exhausts her more than the approaching dawn does. She's afraid of the way death seems to compound itself, reopening the past and making everything hurt more than is fair. She's afraid this sadness is bigger than the summer, and she doesn't know how to go back to Georgetown this way.
Clarke's stomach rumbles and she frowns, not yet ready to return to the house and her mom and their marble topped kitchen. She starts her engine and heads in the opposite direction of home.
Clarke docks at the lakeside gas station, tying off the boat and entering the tiny convenience store. She walks into the sounds of an argument she feels it's far too early in the morning for.
"Listen, I can't just give you a fishing license."
"Tristan," a serious and familiar voice says, "fishing license fees are for lake tourists. I am a resident."
"And it's still seventeen dollars," he replies.
Lexa is standing at the counter, a fishing pole in one hand and a baseball cap over her curling braids. She's wearing a fishing vest and knee shorts and there's an actual tackle box at her feet, and she looks so perfectly the part of the serious angler that Clarke wants to laugh and then immediately draw her.
"Tristan," Lexa says, her voice low and even, "this is extortion."
"It's the law!" the cashier throws his hands up in exasperation.
"Good morning," Clarke says, and Lexa jerks at her voice, turning with that same unsteady suddenness that got her in trouble on the greenhouse ladder. Clarke enjoys this immensely.
Clarke can see Lexa visibly calm herself, lowering her shoulders and schooling the surprise from her eyes.
"Clarke," she says, "good morning."
Clarke smiles at the precise way Lexa says her name. There's a moment of silence before Lexa nods to the cashier.
"This is Tristan," Lexa says, "He's about to give me a fishing license."
"I'm not," Tristan replies, "Unless you've got seventeen dollars."
Lexa turns her baleful glare on Tristan who becomes very interested in the "leave a penny, take a penny" plate on the counter. Lexa looks back to Clarke.
"How are you today?" she asks. Lexa looks so focused, like every cell in her brain is bent completely on the task of talking to her, that Clarke feels some of the weight of the day recede from her. It's a relief, and suddenly Clarke wants very much to go fishing with this serious, off-balance mess, whose sentences are too clipped, and who knows flowers, and has her own tackle box. She wants it because this morning has already been too hard on Clarke, and she keeps catching glimpses of how soft Lexa looks under all that stoicism.
Clarke takes the impulse and runs with it.
"I'll get the license," she says.
Lexa looks surprised and Tristan glances up from his pennies for a moment before ducking his head back down again.
"You don't need to do that, Clarke," Lexa finally says with a frown.
"Hey, I'm a lake tourist, I should be supporting the local economy or whatever," Clarke says and Lexa frowns deeper. Clarke changes tack, "How about I cover the license, and you do all the actually hard work and catch me something?"
"It's not that hard of work," Lexa replies.
Clarke rolls her eyes, "Lexa. Come on."
Lexa seems to consider it.
"Alright," she nods, "agreed."
"Great!" Clarke says and slips her credit card to Tristan before Lexa can change her mind. "Oh, hang on," she says to the cashier, dashing to grab a box of poptarts, a container of corn bait, a bottle of cranberry juice, and a very sad looking banana.
Lexa raises an eyebrow when she returns.
"All set?" she asks, and if she wasn't so deadpan Clarke would swear Lexa was actually teasing.
"Yes," Clarke says and shoves Lexa lightly. Lexa's grip tightens around her fishing pole with an audible twang of the metal and she looks like she's willing herself not to blush. Clarke is delighted by this development.
Tristan rings her up and Clarke gathers her purchases, leading Lexa back to the dock. She hops in the boat and Lexa unties the rope, stepping in carefully after her. Clarke yanks the cord a few times before the engine catches and turns them around, heading them towards open water.
"Where we headed?" Clarke asks, "Where's the deadliest catch?"
"There's nothing deadly in the lake, Clarke. It's mostly bluegill."
"Oh my god, Lexa," Clarke says.
"And smallmouth bass."
"Please be joking."
Lexa's eyes slide to Clarke and she can see there is a near smile at the corner of Lexa's mouth.
"Yes, Clarke, I'm joking," Lexa says, and points towards the far side of the lake, "Over there is good."
Clarke nods and adjusts their course and they fall into silence, cutting through water that is beginning to dazzle Clarke's eyes with the glare from the sun.
Clarke watches the way that Lexa sits stiffly, fishing pole still in hand, studying their wake. The rising sun has made Lexa's eyes the color of light through lake water, a green that's shifting and magnetic and Clarke thinks about how long she'd have to mix her paints to make that color.
Lexa points them towards an opening in a patch of yellow reeds, the stalks swaying slightly in their wake, and Clarke nestles them inside. She cuts the engine and Lexa unlatches her tacklebox. Clarke smiles at just how many lures there are in it.
"Oh, here," Clarke says suddenly, searching through her grocery bag and fishing out the bait she bought, "you can use this."
"What is that?" Lexa asks, pausing as she ties a sinker to her line.
"Sweet corn bait," Clarke replies and then almost laughs at how affronted Lexa looks.
"I won't catch anything with that," she says. Lexa pulls a mason jar full of earth from her tackle box and unscrews the lid. Clarke can see the dark brown-red of nightcrawlers moving through the soil.
Clarke sighs, "Poor worms."
Lexa frowns and pulls a worm from the earth, and it twists in her fingers at the disturbance.
"I do not think worms can feel pain," she says, "All they are is a simple nervous system. They can't process that kind of stimulus."
"Are you a bio major or something?" Clarke asks.
"No," Lexa says, "Engineering. Chemical." She meets Clarke's eyes, "But I watch Jeopardy."
Clarke raises her eyebrows and scoffs, "Okay trivia-champ, why do they squirm on the hook if they don't feel pain?"
Lexa inclines her head slightly.
"Fair," she concedes. Clarke gives an audible 'hah' at her victory as Lexa regards the worm solemnly.
"Victory," she addresses the worm, "stands on the back of sacrifice."
She says it with such gravity that Clarke simply stares at her for a long moment. Lexa looks at her sidelong, just barely raising an eyebrow, and Clarke barks with laughter.
"That's mean," Clarke says through her laughter, "Making fun of the poor guy."
"I don't know what you mean, Clarke," Lexa says, turning back to the water, the corner of her mouth hiding a smile, "I'm acknowledging a noble spirit." She hooks the worm quickly, considerately hiding the process from Clarke by turning away slightly, and casts her line into the water.
The soft zipping sound the fishing line makes as it whizzes through the air makes Clarke's throat catch. It's the sound of too short summer days with her father, standing on the dock as he tried to teach her to cast, taking long breaks while he untangled her line from whatever seawood or bracken she'd managed to land in. "You've got a real knack for it, kiddo," he'd say, "Pretty soon you'll be hooking empty cans- maybe even an old boot!" Clarke shakes her head and swallows down the feeling, balling up her fists and smiling.
She turns her focus on Lexa who is leant forward in concentration, gaze never leaving the bobber, her hat shading her eyes a darker green. A dragonfly skims above the water and Clarke wishes she'd brought her sketchbook.
"So were you going to call me?" Clarke asks and Lexa startles, the fishing pole jerking in her hands.
"Yes," Lexa says slowly, "I was nervous, but I was going to call you."
"Okay," Clarke says, rubbing her knees, "because I know this is like, the second time I've ambushed you, and I don't want you to feel like you can't get rid of me."
"Clarke," Lexa cuts her off softly, "I want to call you."
Clarke nods and leaves it at that. The heat of the rising sun is burning off the morning mist and Clarke begins to feel warm under her leather coat. She shoves the sleeves up, but doesn't take it off. Every now and then Lexa reels her line in and recasts, the picture of patience as she waits for a bite. Clarke opens her box of poptarts and chews on one contemplatively. She offers half to Lexa, who rests it on her knee, breaking off small segments every now and again. When Lexa finally does get a bite Clarke whoops and nearly stands up in the boat before she remembers that would be a bad idea. Lexa brings it in expertly, a shimmering, gasping bass that flicks its tail, whipping lake water at Clarke's face. Lexa unhooks it and loops a stringer through its mouth, dropping it back in the water to keep the fish fresh.
The excitement is short lived, and Lexa casts her line again, going back to her stillness and pensive stare. Clarke watches the brightening water and finds she doesn't mind the quiet.
"Did you ever receive your daisies?" Lexa asks after several minutes of silence, lifting her pole just a touch to bring the line away from a patch of reeds.
"No," Clarke replies, "My mom ran interference on him."
"Good," Lexa nods.
Clarke stares at the bobber lifting in the soft waves, chin in her hands.
"You know he drove four hours to get here?" Clarke says, and she hears the bitterness in her own voice, "He was always big on romantic gestures. Not so big on fidelity, I guess." Clarke sighs and rubs at her coat sleeve, "And he has really bad timing."
Lexa glances at her curiously and then looks away. Clarke feels suddenly self-conscious.
"What about you?" she says quickly, forcing another smile, "Any terrible ex stories?"
Lexa's shoulders stiffen and Clarke immediately wants to backtrack.
"Yes," Lexa replies, "but they'd scare away the fish."
"Okay," Clarke says, taking the out, "then tell me about flowers."
Lexa's expression softens and Clarke falls a little in love with the way that looks, the tension leaving her eyes and the line of her jaw unclenching. A cloud passes over the sun and the sudden shadow makes everything gentler.
"What would you like to know?" Lexa asks.
"I looked up spiderwort. Did you know there's a flower language?" Lexa nods and Clarke continues, "It means momentary happiness."
"Was that the question?"
"No," Clarke says, and then, "Why is it your favorite?"
"I should have a reason?"
Clarke nods, "You seem like the type that would."
Lexa gives a short shrug, "I didn't know the meaning when I saw it. I like it though. It's true."
"You think so?" Clarke asks with a frown.
"Yes," Lexa replies, "Happiness is transitory."
"All happiness?" Clarke asks.
"That has been my experience, yes," Lexa says, and the sky seems to darken further with her words.
Clarke thinks it may have been her experience as well, but the conversation is getting dangerously close to a place that Clarke does not want to visit, and she hurries to divert it.
"Your favorite flower though, that's kind of a big decision," Clarke teases, "Shouldn't you make a pros and cons list? Weigh your floral options? Know a little more before you get so invested?"
"Maybe I should have," Lexa says and looks to Clarke, "but there are some things you know you like when you see them."
Clarke thinks she may be blushing, but she's saved by a pull at the line, the bobber hopping beneath the water and the fishing pole jerking in Lexa's inattentive hands.
Lexa's focus snaps back to the water and she reels the fish in- a tiny bluegill no bigger than Clarke's hand, with a spined fin and iridescent green stripes.
"He's so small," Clarke says and tries not to sound wistful about a fish she's only known for five seconds.
Lexa glances at Clarke and then with a sigh lowers the fish carefully back into the water. They watch it flash away, a streak of silver-green just beneath the water.
"Thank you," Clarke says.
Lexa nearly smiles, the corners of her mouth twitching.
"Don't thank me," she says, "We had a deal that I would catch something for you. I have decided that one was yours." Lexa finally manages the full smile and Clarke thinks it was well worth the wait, because Lexa's eyes are perfect when she does.
Clarke smiles back. She thinks the way Lexa is looking at her lips means she has seen something she likes. The clouds over the sun have made Lexa's eyes opaque, a solid marble green, and Clarke thinks she might like a closer look when the first drops of rain begin to fall.