Chapter Text
The first time they meet, it's at a party. Technically. Maybe calling it "meeting" is too generous. Maybe not. Names aren't exchanged, but Clarke doesn't need them to be. It's a small school, public, but tight knit. Everyone has heard of Lexa Woods. You don't become the school's first female quarterback without word getting out. So Clarke knows who she spills half a cup of shitty beer on in the basement of a frat house. It's Lexa freaking Woods.
They speak only pleasantries, apologies pouring unfiltered from Clarke's gaping mouth. Lexa brushes it off in a few words and a small smile, something about how you wouldn't even notice the wet spot on her dark button down. It's calming, in a way that shouting over some bad house music shouldn't be. It's gentle, the way Lexa pulls Clarke closer by her shoulder to have easier access to her ears as she speaks.
Clarke has little in ways of a response, first the sensation of Lexa's hand on her clouding her mind, now distraction by way of Lexa's biceps nearly busting out of the aforementioned black shirt. She is bigger than she appears on the field, Clarke notes, all broad shoulders, impeccable posture and taut skinny jeans. On screen, her offensive line dwarfs her in the huddle, her height more reminiscent of a Russell Wilson than a Cam Newton.
She's also much prettier in person, hair flowing down her back, instead of a tight braid, and sensible eyeliner in stark contrast to the usual eye blacks marring her cheeks. She considers telling Lexa that, that she's rather beautiful in a way that highlight reels and promotional photos can't capture. She wonders how Lexa would react. She imagines Lexa already knows.
Lexa leaves shortly after she pulls away from their brief contact, disappearing as quickly as she appeared, with a nod and a half smile. Clarke chugs what was left of her drink before getting another refill (in her defense, the previous one is now all over the star quarterback). Part of her wants to forget the interaction. A larger part of her knows that she won't.
When her best friend can no longer stomach her beer, ingested mostly during keg stands in competition with the school's leading rusher, Clarke leaves the party, the sober friend reluctantly corralling the wayward gang. She lamentably wasn't drunk enough to start up a real conversation with Lexa, and she certainly isn't drunk enough to be holding Octavia's hair back as she heaves into a trash can.
The second time they meet, Lexa initiates the conversation. Clarke is sitting as far back in the lecture hall as she can justify, the class too small to permit sitting in the last few rows. She's trying to not stand out, not too close that the professor calls on her, but not too far back that the professor notices and makes her move closer. A row behind the majority of students seems like the "just right" location. Goldilocks would be proud.
She isn't usually a back-of-the-class kind of kid, but it's theater appreciation. And it's one of the few in class meetings they'll have. And she hasn't really been listening, once the professor starting rambling about elementary theater drivel she toned him out. Instead, she's working on a sketch when she is taken from her thoughts by a tap on her shoulder.
"Hey, do you want to be partners?" The voice sounds familiar, and when she turns around, the face confirms it.
"Lexa?" she asks, despite knowing the answer. Lexa nods, furrowing her brow slightly."Do I know you?" She bites her lower lip in thought before attempting to answer her own question. "Were you at that Sig Ep party last week?"
"Yeah," she concedes immediately. "I, uh, spilled my beer on you." Clarke flushes at the memory, realizing she not only made a terrible first impression on the poor girl, but then she brought it back up. She could have lied, saying she only knows her because she loves football. Everyone was wasted at the party anyway, and Lexa probably talked to a million girls that night. There's no way Lexa really remembers her. Clarke begins to wonder what god she could pray to that would make the ground open up below her feet and swallow her whole.
"Right," Lexa reminisces, quietly. Clarke looks away, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. She sits lower in her seat and fiddles quietly with her sketchpad. "But we should probably get started on that." Lexa nods to the board where a list of "Get to Know You" questions are listed. The rest of the class is involved in chatter among themselves, already paired off. It only make sense for them to be partners. Even if Clarke is drowning in embarrassment.
Lexa is a business major with a minor in sports management, is in the class in an attempt to get free show tickets for her sister who apparently "loves that Broadway shit" and her fun fact is that she doesn't have one. Clarke is in the education program, she loves all art, theater included, and she didn't know what siblings were until she was 10, since she and all of her friends growing up didn't have any. Lexa smiles as if she's actually interested and Clarke feels guilty for believing she could be.
She doesn't see Lexa for class again. The professor holds few classes outside of plays and doesn't take attendance when he does. A girl with dirty blonde hair, high cheekbones and a harsh demeanor calls herself "Lexa" at every play the class attends. Clarke doesn't find it her place to call "Lexa" out. No one bothers to tell the teacher.
The third time they meet, Clarke is attending a meeting for the theater group on campus. Auditions are a week away and the director and creative team want to speak with the potential cast and crew. Clarke has been in shows before, has worked with these people before. Barring a few new faces, those of freshmen and students who came over from the "activity fair," she knows everyone. This is her domain, and hopefully this would be her musical, her first lead, as well.
The third time they meet, Clarke is all smiles and good vibes, talking to the other actors about the musical, about the change-up pitch they've been thrown with "Spring Awakening."
She is open and free, not hiding behind a red solo cup or a sketchpad, not wishing to fade into the background of a frat party or melt into her seat. And just as she talks, she listens, amenable and hopeful. The director shares a taste of his vision, instructions for the auditions, a warning about the musical's "sensitive material." She takes it all in.
The third time they meet, Clarke almost misses Lexa. Lexa, who sits in the back of the room, a sheen of sweat coating her face and neck, still in her workout clothes, is out of her element. She is nerves and darting eyes, paying as much attention as she can, despite the overwhelming feeling of dread.
The third time they meet, Lexa is sporting a black eye and a litany of bruises, just barely obstructed by makeup that is clearly not waterproof. Clarke extends a greeting regardless.
The third time they meet, Lexa doesn't say a word.