Clarke can't seem to stop laughing at their predicament. The instant the rain begins to fall and Lexa cocks her head back to regard the clouds with a frown, Clarke takes one look at her face and bursts out laughing. Thunder booms and Lexa scowls and Clarke laughs, having trouble starting the engine she is so compromised. Clarke finally manages to get the engine to catch and they start towards the shore, their wake swallowed by shifting sheets of rain. The engine grinds through the sound of thunder and the clouds are an almost uniform bruised blue. Lexa is doing her best to put away and organize her gear without it getting soaked when the engine gives out with a sputtering cough in the middle of the lake.

"I think we ran out of gas," Clarke says, and Lexa can see her fighting ineffectively against a grin.

"Tourists," Lexa sighs, water dripping off the brim of her waterlogged cap.

Lexa grabs one oar and Clarke settles herself next to Lexa on the other and together they haul themselves towards shore, their course markedly zig-zagging as they struggle to row in sync.

"You have to skim the surface, Clarke. Skim-" Lexa says for the third time, water dripping down her chin and tickling across her collarbone.

"Lexa, I swear if you say the word 'skim' one more time I'm throwing you and the oars into the lake," Clarke says.

Lexa raises an eyebrow, "That would be an ineffective plan, Clarke. How would you get back to shore without oars?"

"I'd just have you push the boat," Clarke replies.

Lexa sighs deeply and Clarke laughs again, her oar twisting uselessly out of the water.

"Face it, Lexa, we've lost this race," Clarke says, "And we're already as wet as we're going to get. So why hurry?"

Lexa has to admit this much was true, and they settle into a slower but steadier pattern of rowing. Lexa tries to ignore the way her heart jumps every time Clarke's shoulder knocks against hers as they row. The rain is the warm summer type, heavy droplets making the surface of the lake a constant shifting static. Lexa sneaks frequent looks at Clarke as they row, the other girl's blonde hair pressed damply to her neck, a grin on her face as she watches the water with obvious pleasure, blinking away rain as it streams down her.

Lexa's arms are tired when they finally make it to shore and she ships the oars with relief. She jumps into the shallows, grabbing at the the aluminum siding of the boat to drag it towards the rocky beach. Water sloshes up to her waist, but it hardly makes a difference with how drenched she already is from the sudden summer storm. In a moment Clarke has hopped out of the boat too, splashing yet more water onto Lexa as she helps drag the the boat onto the shore, their hands overlapping as they work, the touch of Clarke's skin against Lexa's wet and nerve-wracking and lovely.

When Lexa's feet slip out from underneath her on the shifting stones she splashes forward in the water, head slipping under briefly and the taste of warm and gritty lakewater in her mouth. Clarke grabs her shoulders and hauls her upright, pulling them close together as she helps Lexa find her balance. Clarke's arms are around her shoulders and Lexa's hands have found Clarke's hips for stability and their faces are too close. Clarke is still smiling but her blue eyes have gone serious, the same stormy shade as the sky. Lexa shivers, though she is not cold.

"Do you have some kind of inner ear problem," Clarke asks, and Lexa has never been so fixated on a mouth before, "or are you just this way around me?"

Lexa licks her lips, "You do seem to unbalance me."

Clarke smiles wider and pushes Lexa's damp curls away from her forehead and behind her ear.

Lightning strikes, shifting the world blue-white for a moment, Clarke's eyes turning a shocking ice blue. Clarke yelps at the crackle of electricity in the air and they both jump, momentarily pressing together tighter. Clarke's body against hers is warm and soaked.

"We should get out of the water," Lexa says.

"Yeah," Clarke agrees, already leading Lexa towards the shore, fishing Lexa's fallen cap out of the lake as she does.

Lexa collects her tacklebox and gear, bass still on its stringer, and hikes after Clarke as she leads her up the lawn and towards a bright white house with a patio ringing its back. She steps under the awning and out of the rain with some relief, finally able to assess how truly drenched she is now that she's out of the deluge. Clarke is already twisting water out of her hair and staring out at the rain, and Lexa watches as stray beads of water trace down Clarke's arm and neck. Lexa is very aware that she's carrying a fish on a string and almost certainly looks half drowned.

Lexa clears her throat, "I should go."

Clarke doesn't even bother with a response; just rolls her eyes and takes Lexa by the arm, leading her into the house, sopping shoes, fishing pole and all.

The door takes them into an enclosed breezeway where Clarke carelessly kicks off her shoes, Lexa following suit a hesitant moment later. She props her fishing pole against the wall and sets her tackle box beneath, at a loss for what to do with the bass. Clarke notices her frozen look and waves her inside.

"In here," she says, "you can put it in the sink."

The kitchen is immaculate, and Lexa feels a deep embarrassment at the amount of water she's dripping on the floor. The countertops are spotless marble and the appliances are a gleaming, fresh out of the box stainless steel. If Lexa hadn't suspected Clarke's wealth before, one glimpse into the kitchen assured her of it. Clarke fills a teakettle with water before gesturing for Lexa to use the sink, turning and flipping on a range top that Lexa guesses can't have been used more than a dozen times.

"Tea, coffee, or cocoa?" Clarke asks while Lexa slips the bass into the sink.

"I'm fine," Lexa says, drying her hands on a woefully inadequate kitchen towel.

"Coffee it is," Clarke replies.

Lexa decides it is simply easier to nod along with Clarke's demands. Something about the sound of falling rain, the damp cling of her clothes, and the easy slide of Clarke through the kitchen makes Lexa want to give in to whatever might happen.

"Hope you like instant," Clarke says and flashes her a smile, turning to busy herself with the cupboards. Lexa has long since decided Clarke's smile is her favorite, however fast and fleeting it is.

"There are beach towels in the hall closet. Grab a few for us?"

Lexa nods and pads softly to the front entryway. Everything in the house- from wicker balls to rustic lanterns to the cool blue and white palette- looks like it's been lifted from a "Better Homes and Gardens" catalogue, lake house edition. It's tasteful, if not particularly personal and Lexa tries not to roll her eyes at the bowl of seashells that were absolutely not collected on any beach within 50 miles of here. Lexa retrieves the towels from the closet, unable to stop a sigh of contentment as she pulls one around herself.

As she moves to return to the kitchen, she catches sight of the one personal touch she's seen during her brief tour. At the foot of the stairs is a family photo, framed in sanded driftwood. Clarke is in the center, sporting a completely unselfconscious smile in a pastel shirt and white pants, her hair pulled away from her face. Lexa assumes the couple behind her are Clarke's parents, her mother the woman with a somewhat careworn smile, the lines of concern around her mouth worn in. It's her father that shares Clarke's thousand watt grin, his large hand on his daughter's shoulder and happy crows feet around his eyes. He's wearing a brown leather jacket that looks very familiar to Lexa, and it only takes her a moment to place it as the one Clarke wore on their impromptu fishing trip. The overall impression is warm despite some pretension. They look happy. Lexa has long since trained away her jealousy at moments like this, and a picture that might have made her heart break years ago only causes a dull twinge and a sense of emptiness that Lexa pushes aside as she walks purposefully back to the kitchen.

When she returns Clarke has laid out mugs, and is pouring steaming water into them. A bag of sugar, a bottle of coffee-mate, and a quart of milk are placed in a meticulous line on the counter beside the mugs.

"Coffee bar," Clarke says, gesturing expansively to her set-up, "better than a Starbucks even." Clarke frowns, "Not that you have one of those in this town."

"It went out of business," Lexa replies, "There was no one to keep it going during the school year. Most townies prefer Tom's Donuts for their coffee."

Clarke makes a face and Lexa can feel herself beginning to smile. She curbs it beyond a twitch at the corner of her mouth and explains seriously, "Tom's is an institution."

"I'm sure it is," Clarke replies, "My family has spent summers here since I was eight and nothing seems to change."

"We don't put on much of a show for lake tourists," Lexa says a little stiffly.

Clarke traces a finger hesitantly around the rim of her mug, "Not what I meant."

Lexa nods, smoothing hackles she hadn't meant to raise, "I know."

Clarke nudges a mug towards Lexa.

"Peace?" she offers.

Lexa nods, and hands Clarke a towel, which the other girl takes with an audible sigh before wrapping it around herself. Lexa leaves her coffee black, the gritty acidity of the instant brew burning on her tongue. Clarke's coffee is practically white with the amount of cream she's poured in and Lexa thinks her tongue must be sweet with sugar. Lexa shakes her head and takes another bitter gulp of coffee.

"Come on," Clarke says, shivering under her towel, "let's get you out of those wet clothes."

Lexa is beginning to realize there is little point to arguing with Clarke- she doesn't seem to take no for an answer- and Lexa decides that her energy is better spent elsewhere. Clarke holds a finger to her mouth as they ascend the stairs.

"My mom is still asleep," she says and Lexa nods, crouching a little, though her posture doesn't seem to make her any more or less silent.

Clarke creaks the door open to her room, slipping inside and Lexa fidgets nervously in the doorway, unwilling to intrude. What she can see of the room looks the same as the rest of the house- picture perfect and magazine pristine- but there are glimpses of things that look like they might actually be Clarke's. There is a guitar resting on the bed and Lexa wonders if Clarke plays it before she sleeps or when she wakes up. There are also a number of mugs scattered around the room, and Lexa thinks Clarke must be something of a warm beverage addict. Twinkle lights frame glass panelled doors leading to a widow's walk. Everything Lexa sees, she enjoys.

Clarke bounds back to the door and presses a pile of clothes into Lexa's hands.

"Bathroom's across the hall," she says, and Lexa nods, retreating.

Lexa peels off her wet clothes and pulls on the shirt Clarke handed her, a dusty blue cable-knit sweater with a gray stripe running through it. It's oversized on Lexa, and the texture is strangely overstimulating, but it's not an unwelcome feeling. She pulls on the pair of soft sweatpants Clarke gave her with 'Georgetown' emblazoned down the leg and revels in her newfound warmth.

When Lexa leaves the bathroom Clarke is already dressed in purple flannel and a pair of scrubs. She's toweling her hair dry, and the gold returns to her curls as the damp leaves. It reminds Lexa of sunrise. Lexa clears her throat and Clarke turns to her with a smile.

Lexa's mouth is dry and she searches for words, "Have you managed to keep your spiderwort alive?"

"Ginger?" Clarke replies, "Yes, she's doing fine."

Lexa smiles and raises an eyebrow, "You named your flowers?"

"Apparently talking to your plants is good for their growth. Ginger needed a name if we were going to chat," Clarke says, and she brushes her hair back to disguise a blush, "I'm surprised the plant professor didn't know this."

"That's not a real profession, Clarke," Lexa replies, "And I doubt the benefits of plant whispering are proven science."

"Just wait until you see her," Clarke says, "She's thriving, thanks to me."

Clarke leads her down the hallway to a room where the roof slopes at an angle and pulls Lexa inside.

"Welcome to my studio," Clarke says and she rolls her eyes at her own faux grandeur.

It is a room that, had it not been raining, would have been filled with light. There are tacked up drawings and sketches across the whole room, narrow paths through half-finished projects on the floor. A framed oil painting of Clarke's parents is on one wall, next to a pencil drawing of a young man with dark skin and soft eyes, something like adoration in his gaze. There are even a few pictures of Finn that Lexa can see are tossed in what looks like a discard pile in the corner. The potted spiderwort is set on the window seat, and true to Clarke's word, there are multiple blue flowers blooming. There is a half finished watercolor of the plant on an easel opposite the window.

"This is why you wanted a plant," Lexa says, pressing her fingers into the soil with a nod of satisfaction at the damp feel of it. Apparently Clarke had remembered to water it recently.

"Yeah," Clarke affirms, "A summer project of mine."

"For school?" Lexa asks, and she can imagine Clarke as an artist, fingers a thousand colors from her work, hair carelessly streaked with paint every time she brushes it out of her eyes.

"No," Clarke says, shaking Lexa from her thoughts, "I'm pre-med. Not much scope for the imagination there, unless I want to get creative with the cadavers. Which would be unethical. And illegal."

Lexa raises an eyebrow and Clarke grins, suddenly grabbing Lexa's wrist and leading her towards the window seat.

"Here," Clarke says, "sit."

Lexa does, careful not to jostle the spiderwort, sliding it carefully to the opposite end of the window seat. Rain streams across the window behind her, fast tadpole trails against the glass.

"What should I do?" Lexa asks, shifting uncomfortably.

"Just look natural."

Lexa grimaces, and Clarke smiles.

"Not that natural."

Lexa struggles to rearrange her face and settles on a light frown.

Clarke takes up a position cross-legged on the floor and stares at Lexa a few moments. She seems to come to a silent decision and finds her materials- eschewing the paints and instead pulling out a thick pad of drawing paper and fishing a stick of charcoal out from the muddle of her art supplies. Something in Lexa tenses at the disorder of paints and pencils, but Clarke seems to know just where everything is placed.

"Hold still," Clarke commands and Lexa has no trouble obliging- stillness has never been a problem for her. She does not know where to settle her eyes though, and they naturally come to rest on Clarke, observing her as she works.

Clarke's entire demeanor changes while she sketches, all traces of teasing and silliness gone, replaced by a serious line to her mouth that turns down every now and again as she runs the charcoal across the page. Her eyes study Lexa almost impersonally, like her gaze takes in all of Lexa and her secrets and sorts through them impassively. Lexa is used to a critical gaze- Anya's soul-stare is something of a legend- but Clarke's look unsettles her in a different way. Lexa feels a shift in her chest, a pang of longing that maybe Clarke does see right through her, and Lexa surprises herself with how much she seems to want that.

Lexa isn't sure how much time passes, but it is enough for the quality of light in the room to change- the gray of the rain fades and the hypnotic sound of its falling ceases, replaced by gold streaming through the window. The light warms Lexa's skin and catches the blue in Clarke's eyes as the artist studies her. Clarke bites her lip and squints between her sketchpad and Lexa, finally putting her charcoal down and rubbing blackened fingers against her neck absentmindedly.

"Here," she says, "Take a look."

Lexa stands from her perch on the windowseat, stretching her arms as she approaches Clarke, who hands her the sketch with a small smile and turns away with a creator's shyness. Lexa studies the portrait carefully.

She looks vulnerable in the sketch, the sweater's size making her look small, the slip of it off her shoulder exposing skin there. Her posture is rigid and tense, and for some reason this makes her look even more fragile, like a glass teetering on the edge of a table. It's the look Clarke has captured in Lexa's eyes that concerns her the most, her expression apparently not as neutral as she thought. There is that look of longing she experienced, that desire to be seen, laid out plainly on the page. She cannot be sure whether Clarke understood her feelings in the capturing of them, but it's enough to make her itchy with anxiety, the borrowed sweater suddenly too rough against her skin.

"Are you alright?" Clarke asks, and Lexa is suddenly aware that she has remained silent too long. She nods once and hands the portrait back to Clarke.

"You are very talented," Lexa says, when she finds her words.

"Well," Clarke says, and bites her lip, "you stayed very still."

The way Clarke is looking at her both calms Lexa's anxiety and makes her heart race in a new way. Lexa reaches out a hand before her mind catches up to stop her, and Clarke looks at her quizzically.

"You have," Lexa pauses, "charcoal on your neck."

"Oh," Clarke says. She pauses and then takes a very deliberate step closer, leaning into Lexa's touch.

Clarke's skin against her twitching palm is cool and soft, and Lexa wants nothing more than to run her fingers down its line, the intensity of her desire making her whole arm ache with the weight of holding back. Clarke closes her eyes and cocks her head to the side, pushing more firmly into Lexa's hand and now Lexa's whole chest aches with want.

Lexa takes a careful step forward, closing the distance between them.

"Clarke!" A woman's voice carries shrilly from downstairs, and Lexa and Clarke jump apart, "Why is there a fish in my kitchen sink!"

Lexa's heart is racing and Clarke laughs. Lexa thinks she will never forget that sound.