Clarke doesn't know what to wear.
She has no idea where Lexa and her crew are planning on taking her, and she knows that looking like a lake tourists at a local bar could result in weakly poured drinks and dirty looks on the dance floor. In an effort to find an outfit that will let her blend in, Clarke has torn through her closet and the suitcase she had yet to unpack for the past half hour without coming to a decision. With a glance at the time on her phone and a resigned sigh, Clarke finally settles on a soft gray summer dress. It could pass for casual or classy, depending on the attitude she carries herself with, and Clarke trusts herself to read the environment.
While she fiddles with her hair, Clarke scrolls through her phone, rereading the brief text conversation she'd had with Lexa. From anyone else the short and matter of fact replies might have seemed terse or unfriendly, but Clarke has heard Lexa speak- she was just unremittingly formal in any medium. Despite her desire for an uncomplicated good time tonight, part of Clarke is still in a state of pleasant nerves at the thought of spending the evening with Lexa.
There is a cold layer beneath her happy anxiety though, like the shadowed part of the lake; a patch of sudden cold and depth where thoughts of her father and Wells live. The chill of it makes Clarke catch her breath every time she stumbles through those parts of her heart.
Last night her mother had actually attempted to cook- an event that culminated in limp pasta and over-salted sauce- and insisted that she and Clarke eat together in the dining room. They'd sat silently for twenty minutes while Clarke tried to choke down her lukewarm meal as quickly as possible, only for her mother to set her fork down with a sigh and tell Clarke that she would "need to make time to grieve."
Clarke had nodded through her mother's prepared speech, knowing that while nothing her mother said was technically wrong, they were built too differently to approach losing Clarke's father the same way. Abby had been solid all through Jake's diagnosis and treatment, through the parts where it looked like he'd beat it and then through the sudden swift fall before he died. She'd taken a sabbatical over the summer, like she'd scheduled her breakdown, like she could feel everything she needed to in three months and go back to being solid again for the sake of her position at the hospital and for Clarke. Abby watched home movies and cried, slept late and cried, ordered takeout and cried. Clarke didn't think her mother's grief was insincere, but it did feel as though she was purging it from her system, and Clarke didn't know how to do that.
Clarke had spent all her tears on nights sitting with her dad at the hospital, reading him old science fiction books and trying not to let her voice catch as she watched how hard it was for him to breath. She'd used all her tears on the days he would smile almost like his old self, only to sink again just as quickly. She'd used her tears when her dad had squeezed her hand for the last time. Once he was gone and Clarke had to stand beside her mother at the funeral, thanking people for coming and pointing them towards the refreshment table, all her tears had dried up. Their absence left behind a salt flat expanse inside her, a dead zone she couldn't find her way out of. It was better not to try.
Which was why she'd texted Lexa immediately after her disastrous dinner, insisting that Lexa take her dancing at her earliest convenience. It turned out Lexa was either a quick planner or a constant partier- one option struck Clarke as far more likely- and had texted Clarke that she and "several friends" would be going out next evening to the town over. Clarke had waved off Lexa's offer to pick her up, not wanting to deal with the hassle of her mother, and suggested she'd rendezvous with them somewhere in town.
Lexa had promptly texted her the address of Lakeside Liquor, a run down store next to the the gas station and Family Dollar. It isn't particularly far away, and Clarke doesn't want to deal with the logistics of her car and drinking, so once she is satisfied with her wardrobe she tugs on a pair of silver flats and slips out the front door. She decides to only text her mother only once she's long gone.
The night is warm, foreshadowing the many muggy summer nights ahead, but for at least this evening there is a pleasant breeze blowing as Clarke walks to the liquor store. Even in a small town, the light pollution is enough to dim the stars, but Clarke can make out Orion's Belt and the Big Dipper, constellations her father had painstakingly pointed out to a younger Clarke at her continued insistence. Clarke pulls her eyes from the sky and focuses on the asphalt.
The road is cracked, ribboned with lines of relayed tar that cover the worst of the weathering. It makes Clarke's steps feel heavier and the warm weight of the darkening evening feel more oppressive. Clarke has the urge to start running, like she can outpace this fearful feeling that's pressing down on her, but she forces her steps to even out, takes quick breaths.
With a strained sigh she turns into the parking lot of Lakeside Liquor and into the wash of blue-white light from its aging sign. Lexa is staring towards the building, her back to Clarke as she stands rigid, hands clenching and unclenching nervously.
"Lexa," Clarke calls as she approaches.
She turns and Clarke catches her in a hug that surprises them both. Lexa stiffens in her arms before she relaxes, winding one arm around Clarke's waist and holding her carefully. Lexa is solid against her and Clarke feels safer than she should have reason to.
"Hello, Clarke," Lexa says.
"Hi," Clarke breathes against her.
Someone clears their throat and Clarke realizes they are not entirely alone. She regretfully pulls away from Lexa, finally getting a good look at the other girl.
Lexa is in black skinny jeans and a steel blue button down, the muted color making her green eyes paler. Her sleeves are carefully rolled past her elbows, and she's wearing the best and most ridiculous digital watch Clarke has ever seen. Her hair is pulled back in a series of braids that Clarke would have thought were too fanciful for the girl if they hadn't been so carefully patterned and regimented.
There are three others standing nearby, presumably Lexa's friends, and they watch Clarke with a guarded curiosity.
"Clarke," Lexa says seriously, "this is Indra. She is my most sensible friend."
Indra gives a small nod, managing to look both bored and suspicious at the same time. If Clarke had thought that Lexa held herself stiffly, it is nothing compared to how Indra stands with a sort of barely restrained animosity. Her spine is rigid and her head tilts up at an angle of seemingly permanent disdain. Clarke has a feeling that they'll both be happiest if they steer clear of each other.
"And this is Nyko," Lexa says, "he is my least sensible friend."
Nyko doesn't look affronted by this assessment at all; simply shrugs and takes it with a smile. He's burly, and slightly bearish, long hair pulled back in a ponytail and a beard just to the side of being messy. There's a spiraling arrow tattoo on his shoulder, spreading blue-black from under the cut-off sleeve of his t-shirt. Clarke wonders if he designs his own body art and resolves to ask him on a night when she plans to be more sober.
"Lexa never listens to my insensible plans," Nyko says, "but you know her a week and convince her to go clubbing. You'll have to teach me to be a better bad influence on her."
Clarke grins and nods as Lexa sighs loudly.
"I'm also the local medicine man, if you or your lake friends are looking for a summer prescription of anything," Nyko finishes with a wink and an imaginary toke.
Clarke laughs.
"I'll pass the word on," she promises.
Lexa shakes her head in exasperation and Clarke has a hard time imagining what Lexa would be like high as the introductions continue.
"This is Lincoln. He is usually sensible, but he met a girl two weeks ago and is less so now," Lexa raises an eyebrow at her friend and Lincoln looks abashed.
Lincoln is enormous- football player, body builder huge- and he has wonderfully shy eyes. He is also ridiculously handsome, with the kind of face Clarke would draw for a Classics class. Clarke would think he'd be more confident with his physique, but the way he ducks his head down to listen when Lexa talks tells her that Lincoln is not an aggressive soul. He rubs a hand across his mostly shaved head as he shakes Clarke's hand gently.
"Hi," is all he says, and Clarke already likes him enormously.
"Wait up, babe! I got the pre-game supplies!" a tiny bounding figure yells as she nearly tackles Lincoln. "Oh my god, Clarke!" she says, nearly dropping the bottle of bottom shelf vodka in her hands, "What the fuck?''
"Octavia?" Clarke says, "Hey!"
"You know Octavia?" Lexa asks, looking between them.
"Hell yes, she knows me," Octavia replies, brushing her long brown hair back. "Clarke is my idiot brother's bff and occasional fuck-buddy," Octavia gives her a glare that Clarke knows is mostly teasing, "She's eaten my breakfast cereal before her walks of shame."
Lexa's eyebrows shoot up and her eyes flick to Clarke and then away again just as fast.
"I always made sure to leave you the toy, O," Clarke says, and smiles before taking Lexa's hand, threading their fingers together. As with their hug, Lexa stiffens momentarily before she melts and squeezes Clarke's hand back. Clarke knows that things are not so serious between them that she should feel obligated to reassure Lexa, but all the same she wants to. And besides- Lexa's hands are calloused in all the right ways. Clarke runs her thumb across Lexa's hand and Lexa looks as though she'd like to smile if her crew wasn't there. Octavia stares at their interlocked hands and a devious grin grows on her face. Clarke can only hope she isn't planning on regaling Lexa with more of Clarke's escapades- there were certainly enough stories for her to tell.
Octavia was crude about it, but she hadn't been lying. Clarke had known Bellamy Blake most of her life. He'd been an unrepentant dick during middle-school, but he'd mellowed considerably in high-school. When Wells had died Clarke had spiraled and Bellamy's group had been the closest to rebellious at her private school. Bellamy had indulged her need for a wild side, and more than that, he had been kind towards her- even protective. Bellamy knew about grief, had a good ear for listening, and an empathetic heart under the gruff. There were many things Clarke regretted about her out of control period after Wells' death, but sleeping with Bellamy wasn't one of them. They were too similar to work long-term, but there was a fondness between them that Clarke treasured. She hadn't spoken to him about her father's death. Telling her ghost of Wells had been all she could handle.
"Are you here for the summer?" Clarke asks Octavia, shoving away thoughts of death on a night when she wants to dance.
"Yeah. My aunt owns a house on the lake. She insisted I stay with her so she could 'groom me for polite society.' You'd think I was raised under the floorboards with the way she talks about my 'unladylike behavior.' If it wasn't for this specimen the summer would be a complete bust," Octavia finishes by punching Lincoln in the stomach. Her fist practically bounces off his abs and he grins down at her affectionately.
Clarke remembers Octavia as a bit of a hellion, and she is equal parts amused by and pitying of any woman trying to tame the younger Blake sibling.
The group stands in silence a minute, and Clarke can't tell if it's just the awkwardness of introductions or if serious group stillness is just how Lexa's friends roll.
"Okay, well this parking lot is super fun and everything, but let's drink and ride!" Octavia says, unscrewing the bottle of vodka and taking a ludicrously large swig of it. She screws up her face and roars when she finishes, passing the bottle to Lincoln, who takes an equally large shot with no added theatrics. He holds the bottle out to Clarke who takes it tentatively, steeling herself for the burn.
"God, I hate vodka," Clarke says, closing her eyes and swallowing it down. "Oh, fuck," she splutters, "that was worse than I thought!"
Lexa squeezes her hand slightly and looks at her with some concern. Clarke hands her the bottle with an embarrassed smile.
"I'm okay," Clarke reassures her and Lexa nods seriously as she takes the vodka.
Clarke isn't surprised when Lexa doesn't so much as wince at the taste of the alcohol, passing the bottle on to an excited Nyko. Indra drinks nothing, and Clarke understands why when she pulls a set of keys from her jeans, motioning the party to the single most tired looking pick-up truck Clarke has ever seen. The beast is moss green, with rust red accents at the wheel wells and around the windows, even eating a sizeable hole above the passenger side door. Surprisingly, there are no dings or scratches, and Clarke decides that whatever the age and disrepair of the vehicle, Indra must be a very safe driver.
"Shotgun!" Nyko yells, scrambling into the front of the truck.
"Oh, fuck no!" Octavia yells, "we're not getting blown off the back!"
Octavia grabs Lincoln's sleeve and pulls him along, yanking the truck door back open and shoving Nyko over. She manages to clamber on top of Lincoln and close the door behind all three of them as Indra sighs and narrows her eyes, stalking to the driver's side.
"I think we will be riding in the back, Clarke," Lexa says, and now that they are alone she smiles fully.
As she watches the curl of Lexa's lips, Clarke wonders what it will be like to kiss her. Clarke knows that she will, and the anticipation is part of the pleasure. Lexa looks nervous and intent, that look of overly serious vulnerability in her eyes that Clarke is already becoming so familiar with. Lexa's grip on Clarke's hand tightens as she pulls Clarke closer.
Octavia rolls down the window and screams at them, "Get in the car, gaymos, I wanna dance!"
Lexa raises an eyebrow and looks to Clarke, mouthing, "Gaymos?"
"Octavia has no filter," Clarke explains with a wry smile.
Lexa nods.
"I can already tell what a pleasure it will be to drink with her," she deadpans, and Clarke laughs, tugging them towards the truck.
Lexa performs a complicated ritual with the rusted tailgate, finally wrenching it open with a heavy thump. She gives Clarke a hand-up into the back and Clarke smiles at the gesture, hauling Lexa in after her. They settle in at opposite ends of the truck and Lexa hits the back window twice to let Indra know they're settled. The truck starts with a sputtering roar and jerks forward, and Clarke nearly tumbles over. Lexa throws out an arm to steady her.
"It's not the smoothest ride," she says, and there is something apologetic and self-conscious in her tone.
"It's a great ride," Clarke replies, "and I know that if we run out of gas at least we won't have to row."
Lexa smiles slightly, "Careful Clarke- you don't know how many times I've had to help Indra push this truck down a hill."
The ride is pleasant until Indra turns off onto the highway, the old truck vibrating as it picks up speed. Its not long before the wind is screaming in Clarke's ears, and her hair is flying in her face, tears at her eyes from the acceleration.
Lexa frowns at her discomfort, braids twisting around her own shoulders in the wind. There is a rolled up blanket in the back, and Lexa lays it on the bed of the truck, motioning for Clarke to join her. Clarke takes her hand and Lexa pulls her down, stretching out beside her. The wind is less shrill this way, and though the motion makes Clarke dizzy, it is almost comfortable. The highway is dark, the stars are out, and their subtle motion as the truck streaks beneath them is hypnotic.
Clarke looks over to Lexa, only to find the other girl already watching her, a soft look in her green eyes. Clarke leans her head on Lexa's shoulder and closes her eyes, resting in the feeling of Lexa against her side and how their feet knock together with the sway of the truck. Clarke had meant to avoid stillness tonight, afraid of all the noise in her heart, but with Lexa beside her she feels calmer than she has in months. They are both quiet, and Clarke counts Lexa's steady breaths as her shoulder rises and falls.
When the truck slows at a turn off, Clarke sighs and keeps her eyes stubbornly closed, sorry that the journey has to eventually end. They rumble along for another few minutes, traffic lights bright against her eyelids, before slowing and coming to a stop. Lexa sits up, and Clarke follows her motion with a resigned frown.
Octavia tumbles out of the truck with a whoop, and Clarke can see from the level of the sloshing bottle in her hands that the front of the truck has been well and truly pre-gamed. Lincoln follows after his girl, the way he has to squeeze under the frame of the door somehow making the beast of a truck look like a toy. Nyko follows, looking even more tipsy than Octavia, manic grin on his face. Indra exits the truck with a look of bloody murder on her face, catching Lexa's eye.
"You are welcome," she growls, and stalks after the rest of the group.
The club they've arrived at is sprawling, with the look of small town strip mall to it, all uniform gray concrete and pillars. Clarke can already hear the music, straddling the line between top 40 and country.
"I warn you Clarke- this is a terrible club," Lexa says.
Clarke smiles and pulls Lexa after her.
"It's not about the place," she says, "it's about who you're dancing with."
