The first time Lexa kissed Clarke was after Christmas their senior year, and it was on a dare.
"What I'm saying is that you dating Bellamy is just as unlikely and weird as Clarke and Lexa getting together," Octavia said, throwing a fry at Raven with a roll of her eyes. "It just isn't happening."
"You think I wouldn't get together with Lexa?" Clarke asked, raising her eyebrows, the movie they'd put on earlier all but forgotten. Raven was grinning shamelessly, winking at Lexa (much later, it would occur to Lexa that that was because Raven knew, Raven knew before even she did) and goading Clarke along.
"Octavia has a point about you and Lexa," she offered, shrugging.
"Why?"
"You two are like...I dunno. I can't even imagine you kissing, let alone dating," Octavia said, and perhaps if Lexa had been less drunk that night, paid more attention to Clarke's friends and less to the movie, she would have noticed the glint in Octavia's eye (much later, it would occur to her that Octavia knew, knew before even Lexa did).
"Like what?" Clarke asked, looking supremely offended. "Lexa, don't you have something to say?"
"Does it really matter?" Lexa asked (it does, it does, it does). "Raven just wants to rile you up."
"Fine, Clarke. You want to prove me wrong? Kiss her."
"What? I'm not doing that just to prove you wrong."
"Come on. I dare you." This, of course, spurred Lexa on. Lexa, who never backed down from a challenge, Lexa, who had had dreams, who was starting to see Clarke a little differently, whose drunken mind thought it would be harmless fun.
Before Clarke could say another word, Lexa pulled her down and kissed her, tasting the beer and fries on her lips, wondering if it was normal to have her head spin as much as it suddenly was. Wondering if it was normal to kiss your best friend and think, I'm home.
(When she released Clarke, there was a dazed expression on the blonde's face. When she released Clarke, Raven and Octavia looked practically gleeful.)
(Many months later, Raven told her that she'd been rooting for Lexa from the start, that Finn was just Clarke's version of denial. It'll pass, she said. Clarke'll see, she assured her. She was wrong.)
//
Octavia and Raven hadn't changed much since college.
Raven had gone on to graduate school, studying something beyond Lexa's capacity to understand, hoping one day to work for NASA. Octavia, on the other hand, had gotten a job straight out of college, working at a newspaper, claiming that the pen was mightier than the sword and that she'd bring about change.
Both still looked at Lexa with that gleam in their eyes. Both still seemed sure that 'Clarke'll see.'
"How's it been?" Raven asked sympathetically, frowning a little. She'd driven out a long way, and though they'd all assured her she didn't need to come, she'd acted offended and claimed she'd never break tradition (the fact that Clarke did just last year, the fact that Clarke had been breaking all their traditions lately, went unsaid). Lexa smiled as best she could, her eyes on Clarke and Octavia, who were chatting with Carol in the kitchen.
"Tough," she admitted.
"I can imagine. Have you guys talked about Finn?"
"Not really. She knows I see the Greenes though."
"You should never have kept that a secret from her in the first place. There was no reason to."
"She wasn't talking to me, how was I supposed to tell her anything?" Raven rolled her eyes.
"Don't pull that shit with me," she said, punching Lexa lightly on the shoulder. "If you wanted to tell her, you could've."
"She says she doesn't trust me."
"Give her time."
"You've said that before."
"And I'll keep saying it till something changes. Lexa. She'll see." Lexa stared at Raven, this girl who became her friend because Clarke became her friend, this girl who supported Lexa from the day they met—who 'rooted' for her—who chose to side with Clarke after Finn, who left Lexa alone when she needed someone the most. Lexa stared at her and shook her head.
"It doesn't matter."
"You're angry with me?"
"You, Octavia, Bellamy...yeah, I'm angry."
"Clarke forced us to choose."
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
"I'll make it up to you. Somehow, someday. I've always rooted for you, you know that, right?" Lexa smiled slightly, looking away from this girl, this girl who was her friend, who was the first she told about her mother, who had held her tightly after that night—after the night with Finn, a drunk, violent Finn—and told her it wasn't her fault, wasn't her fault, wasn't her fault.
"I do," she nodded, but she didn't meet Raven's eyes, and they lapsed into an awkward silence.
//
"This is by far the best steak I've ever had, Mrs. Griffin," Octavia said, a faint furrow to her brow as she attempted to cut the tough meat.
"Lexa made it," Carol muttered, shaking her head.
"Oh. Well, in that case, what the hell, Lexa, it's like rubber."
"She's lying, Octavia," Clarke sighed, giving her grandmother a look. Carol, however, just turned to Lexa with a hurt expression, and Lexa laughed.
"They don't know what they're talking about, Mrs. Griffin. This is brilliant."
"Does Lexa win points with Clarke by sucking up to Carol?" Raven asked, looking around the table. When no one answered her, she held up her hands. "Man, tough crowd."
"Much like the steak," Abby muttered, taking a large gulp of her wine.
"I get it, okay? No one likes my steak. It's not my fault, James usually was in charge of the grilling." Everyone, from Elizabeth to Raven to Abby, went silent, staring at Carol with bated breath. The silence was suffocating, stuffing up the air and clogging up the lungs—it was an asphyxiation from the unsaid sadness, the unexpressed pain, the unspoken suffering. Chests rattled with suppressed sobs as Clarke looked down, as Abby turned away, as Elizabeth hid her tears. As Carol, this woman who bore so much—who had lost the man she loved, who filled every second of her day in order to avoid such silences, such pauses, because she was a shark and she had to keep moving in order to keep breathing—turned to Lexa with a faint smile. "Pass the potatoes, hon?"
"Of course, Mrs. Griffin," Lexa said softly. "Did Clarke ever tell you about the time we got locked out of our apartment and had to scale the side of the building in order to get in?"
"Lexa, I—" Abby began, looking at Carol sympathetically, clearly about to lecture Lexa on tact. But then, to the surprise of everyone but Lexa, Carol laughed, her expression from before clearing somewhat.
"No, she didn't. How did you get locked out?" Lexa ignored the way Elizabeth still couldn't look up, the way Abby stared at her, the way Clarke's mouth was hanging slightly open from shock, the way Raven and Octavia had gone back to fighting with their steaks. Lexa ignored everyone and focused only on Carol. (Keep moving forward...keep breathing. Keep the lungs expanding.)
"Raven and Octavia's idea of a prank. Our neighbors called the cops on us. I have to say, it was the longest night of my life..."
//
"It was nice, what you did." Lexa blinked, turning to look at Octavia in surprise.
"What was?"
"During dinner. You were the only one who knew how to handle Mrs. Griffin. I think the rest of us would've gone the 'handle with care' route." Lexa crossed her arms, leaned against the doorway, unsure if she wanted to speak to Octavia further. If Raven had been forced to side with Clarke, Octavia had willingly gone along with it. But before Lexa could decide, Octavia made the decision for her, looking around the hallway to ensure it was empty before leaning forward a little. "I'm sorry," she said, and in her defense, she certainlylooked sorry.
"Man, two apologies in one day. I don't know what I'll do."
"Lexa. I'm serious. I didn't even know what had happened. I just knew that you were supposed to take Finn home and it didn't happen. I blamed you."
"You and everyone else."
"You blame yourself, too," Octavia said softly. "You blame yourself for everything."
"Octavia—"
"She needs you, Lexa. She needs you."
"She's in the bathroom, Octavia, I can't—"
"She needs you," Octavia reiterated, her voice growing louder and harsher. Lexa nodded quickly.
"That's why I'm here," she said, attempting to placate Octavia's panic.
"No, I mean, these past few months, she just...she's been lost. And you're the only one who knows how to handle her. Just like Mrs. Griffin."
"I'm here for her."
"She's too stubborn to apologize to you. So I'll do it for her. Please, Lexa. Please, forgive her."
"There's nothing to forgive." Octavia snorted softly, shaking her head in amusement.
"You and I both know that's not true." Her look was significant, her eyebrows raised, her lips pressed in a thin line. But Lexa was unmoved, unbothered, unfazed.
"There's nothing to forgive," she repeated.
"Don't do that. Please, Lexa. She needs you." Lexa swallowed and she leaned forward as well, so that her face was merely an inch away from Octavia's. Anger erupted within her, a fury she didn't know she could possess, igniting the frozen parts of her soul—the parts that had broken off and withered away long ago. The anger was harsh, unforgiving, cruel, but it was alive, it was flourishing, and it was better than nothing at all.
"She didn't need me after it happened," she hissed, uncrossing her arms and poking Octavia hard in the sternum. "She didn't need me in the weeks that followed. She didn't need me until she was forced to need me."
"You need her," Octavia said stubbornly. "You do."
"I bear the guilt on my own. I dealt with it on my own. I'm just fine."
"But—"
"I don't need anyone. Not you, not Raven, and certainly not Clarke. Don't you get it, Octavia? It's all a lie. All of it." For a second it looked like Octavia would protest but then she nodded, taking a step back and hanging her head.
"It's hard," she said softly. "It's hard to live with yourself after you abandon someone." But Lexa was unmoved, unbothered, unfazed.
"It's harder to be the one abandoned."
//
The closest she ever came to admitting her feelings was the night of graduation, and the two of them were alone.
They hadn't been drinking. They'd decided against it. They didn't even want to go out like Raven, Octavia, and the others. Instead, they ordered Chinese, sprawled out on opposite ends of the couch, talking, their legs bumping together, eating, laughing.
Lexa remembered everything with distinct clarity. Clarke was wearing an old paint-stained t-shirt, a pair of sweats, bright pink socks, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She was terrible with chopsticks, her chunks of peppered beef continually falling back into the container. Lexa remembered it all with distinct clarity: if she hadn't already been in love with her best friend, that night alone would have pushed her off the ledge.
Clarke was beautiful, funny, charming, clumsy, ridiculous, smart, stubborn, strong, kind, unwilling to see reason.
Clarke was Clarke.
(Lexa loved Clarke).
There was a moment, a brief and fleeting moment, where the urge to speak up—to open her mouth and let the words flow as they willed—nearly overpowered all reason and logic. The closest she came to admitting her feelings was the night of graduation, and Clarke was Clarke, and Lexa opened her mouth to just say it. To get the obtrusive, substantial, crushing weight off her chest once and for all. What came out, instead, was this:
"Never change." Clarke had merely smiled, stabbed the beef with one of the chopsticks and showed Lexa her makeshift skewer with a grin before continuing to eat. I love you, Lexa wanted to say. I love you. But her lungs no longer cooperated, she was left breathless, her very alveoli unable to exchange oxygen and carbon dioxide, pumped to the brim with unsaid words, unexpressed feelings, unspoken emotions.
I love you, she wanted to say. But the moment was gone.
//
"When the others get here, you can't sleep on the couch," Carol said, and Lexa opened her eyes, noticing the older woman standing over her, hands on hips.
"That's not till tomorrow."
"You're lucky Abby is a heavy sleeper and that Lizzie has had so much alcohol the past few days. Frankly, I'm surprised she hasn't evaporated."
"You're way too mean to her."
"I'm honest."
"Same thing, really."
"Lexa. Why are you down here?"
"It's too cold on the floor."
"Why are you sleeping on the floor? Another fight?" Lexa blinked, sat up, waiting until Carol settled at the other end of the couch, her legs stretched out and propped up on the coffee table. "Well?"
"We're in a fight."
"Okay..."
"But Clarke doesn't know it."
"So...you're in a fight."
"Sure."
"Why are you in a fight?"
"I'm angry." Lexa swallowed. "I'm angry at her. Frustrated, incensed, heartbroken, and just...angry." Rather than look surprised or disappointed at the confession, Carol grinned widely.
"Finally," she said, laughing. "You're showing backbone! Good for you!"
"Aren't you supposed to say that I should forgive her? Let it go?" Carol snorted.
"No, of course not, that's stupid. My granddaughter hurt you terribly. You have every right to be angry."
"My sister says she wishes I never met Clarke." At this, Carol's expression changed. It became guarded, hesitant, shielded.
"What do you think?"
"I think...I'm better off for knowing her. But it just—"
"Hurts."
"Right."
"This isn't something I can answer for you, Lexa," Carol said, reaching over to pat her on the shoulder. "But don't forget what I told you. About moving on."
"I haven't forgotten."
"You're always welcome in my home, hon," Carol said, looking away. "Even if you and Clarke don't work out. Even if you two never speak again. You still have a place in my home."
"Thank you, Mrs. Griffin." Carol nodded, clapped her hands together, and got to her feet. She paused briefly as she walked past Lexa, making Lexa think she wanted to say something else, but instead, she merely leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Lexa's head.
After she was gone, Lexa settled back into the couch, trying hard to stem her tears.
//
The first time she hated Clarke Griffin was the first week of September, and Finn hadn't gotten into the cab she'd called for him.
She was not the first to hear of what happened after she left him at the bar, drunk and alone.
She was, however, the first to thrust the blame on her own shoulders.
(The keys, how could you forget to take his keys?)
(You were supposed to take him home! Home!)
(Why didn't you stay, watch as he got into the cab? Why didn't you do anything? Why did you let this happen?)
(Why, why, why, why, why?)
She hated Clarke Griffin for a wild moment, a frenzied hour, a panicked week. She hated Clarke Griffin because it was easy to force to her to shoulder some of the blame, even if it was in Lexa's own mind. But Clarke wasn't interested in sharing blame, pain, or guilt.
She hated Clarke Griffin when she called Lexa a murderer. When she cut off all ties. When Lexa was left alone to bear it all, left crumbling beneath the weight of her own sins.
She hated Clarke, but nothing, nothing, nothing, could ever surpass the hate she felt for herself.
(Why, why, why, why, why?)
//
Anya's phone call quickly became depressing, despite the falsely cheery mood she kept trying to force in.
"How is she?"
"The same."
"Does she need anything?"
"Good news from your side, I think. How's Clarke?"
"Fine."
"Mom says to tell her hello. And that she fully expects the two of you to work things out."
"Tell Mom to focus on her health."
"She says she can't be healthy until you're happy."
"Anya—"
"I'm relaying a message. You know how I feel."
"Yeah."
"If she makes you happy, little sister, just tell her."
"Right."
"Well, if you're going to just respond with one word, I think this conversation is at an end."
"How is she, really?"
"Holding on."
//
Clarke was staring at her.
It wasn't just a feeling or a sense. Lexa knew, for a fact, that Clarke was staring at her—staring quite avidly, too. She knew because Carol kept making little gestures, knew because Raven and Octavia were trying to hide their laughs, knew because Abby looked lost and confused.
"Want to go on a walk, Lexa?" Clarke suddenly asked. Lexa looked up from her book, pretending that she hadn't known about the staring, pretending that the sudden offer was a surprise.
"Yeah, sure. Of course." She got to her feet, ignoring Carol's thumbs up from behind Elizabeth, and followed Clarke outside, the chilly weather stealing the air form her lungs, forcing her to let out a small gasp. "What's up, Clarke?" she asked as they passed the first large oak tree, the tree Lexa had her panic attack under, the tree that witnessed her weakness, her breakdown—the only living thing other than Clarke to see such a thing.
"Since meeting Indra, I've been thinking."
"Thinking is never a good thing."
"I thought I was angry that you didn't tell me about her," Clarke continued, ignoring Lexa's interjection. "But I wasn't."
"Yes, because anger is so easy to mistake for other emotions."
"I felt guilty," she muttered, still ignoring Lexa, coming to a stop at the bench—the bench they sat at to iron out the details of this two week deal, the bench where Clarke made sure Lexa still remembered the code word, the safe word, the word she chose that Lexa could say at any moment and end it all. "I felt guilty because it was my fault and I'd done nothing to help at all."
"It wasn't your fault."
"I knew him. Better than any of you. I knew how he got when he drank. It wasn't fair to expect you to take care of him. To take him home. Especially with how he felt about you."
"Clarke—"
"I convinced myself for the longest time that it was your fault. You could've stopped it. You could've prevented it. But the thing is, his blood, that man's blood, it's on my hands."
"Clarke, no."
"But—"
"You don't understand. I had months to think about this. Yeah, sure. You may have known better, and I may have known better, but at the end of the day, it was his choice. He chose to drive, he chose. His actions are on him and him alone."
"We should've known better."
"Yeah."
"Those two kids still won't have a dad."
"Come with me, on Lincoln's birthday. Help me with them."
"I'm sorry," Clarke muttered, leaning into Lexa's side, one arm wrapped around her waist. "God, Lexa. I'm so very sorry." Lexa held her, shouldered her, bore her, kept her upright. She held Clarke and allowed her defenses to drop, allowed herself to feel Clarke press against her, to feel the hot breath at her neck, to be comforted and comfort in return.
"Me too," she whispered. And for the first time, she felt she could breathe.
//
"She apologized," Lexa reported to Carol hours later. Carol picked up a can of beans, studied it carefully, then placed it back on the shelf.
"Let me guess, you forgave her."
"Well, yeah."
"What happened to that backbone?"
"You want me to stay angry?"
"I want you to stand up for yourself. She can't treat you the way she's treated you and get away with it with just an 'I'm sorry.'" She pushed the buggy forward, ignoring the gaze of another older woman who shook her head at Carol's raised voice. "It doesn't work like that."
"So what? I say, sorry Clarke, but your grandma said I was going too easy on you?"
"Well, of course not. You can't tell her I'm on your side, she'd never talk to me again."
"Mrs. Griffin—"
"This is the step in the right direction, Lexa. But this is the moment you play hard to get."
"Excuse me?"
"She can't think you'll always be there. Imagine it like this: Clarke is a child. You're the candy. If the child is sure the candy will always be there, she'll be careless with it. Willing to toss it around, just eat some when she wants it. If the candy isn't always there, she becomes a little more careful. She learns to respect the candy."
"Respect the candy?"
"Yes, respect it."
"That's the worst analogy ever."
"All I'm saying," Carol said, tossing a frozen pie in the buggy, her index finger pressed to her lips at Lexa's look, shaking her head, "is that you have to establish that you can't always be there unless she commits to you."
"Commits to the candy?"
"Exactly."
"She's my best friend, Mrs. Griffin."
"Yes, but there's only so much even you can give, Lexa. I think we've established that. Make the boundaries, make her see your value. You are expensive candy."
"Well thanks, Mrs. Griffin."
"Don't get too excited, hon. Rather than Smarties you're a Hershey Kiss, okay?" She grabbed another frozen pie, looked at Lexa like she dared her to comment, then moved out of the frozen foods aisle.
"I thought you'd be more upset that I've decided not to give up quite yet."
"Upset? Please. The only one who thought you'd actually given up was you."
"Turn myself into expensive candy," Lexa repeated softly, frowning. "Sounds doable enough."
"And you have exactly eight days to do it, surrounded by the Griffin family."
"It'll be a piece of cake."
"Considering your history with baking, let's stick with the candy analogy, okay?"
"Do you think I'm being stupid? For putting so much significance on an apology?" Carol stopped in her tracks, much to the annoyance of the shopper behind them. She turned to Lexa with a frown and raised eyebrows.
"It's hope. Hope is always stupid. And always worth it."