Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The keychain feels cold against Lexa’s fingertips. Metallic, iron. Familiar.

Her finger traces the curve of the ring, the leather patch on the ignition key, the reminder that her motorcycle is safe and locked in the storage below.

Still, she worries for it. She always does when it’s out of her sight.

Lexa blinks the wind-induced water from her eyes.

She’s faced many kinds of weather: late autumn storms on the countryside, sunny days on mountains where the snow won’t melt. She’s sat on rooftops and felt the wind wrap around her figure, she’s seen dogs sticking their faces out of car windows, excited to catch the cool breeze.

It all feels very different. Sometimes the wind is brisk and refreshing like early mornings in spring, other times it’s harsh and demanding and ready to throw her off balance.

Here on the ocean, the blow of air is cold. It’s noisy and chaotic and this kind of wind is not her favorite. It rushes too much; hurts her ears.

A voice announces through the intercom in a lazy accent that the ferry will reach shore in approximately four hours. Behind the violent sputter of the engine the shoreline is long gone and Lexa wonders what she’s left behind this time.

“You don’t look Arkadian.”

Lexa looks to her side at the girl who the husky voice belongs to: blonde hair in a messy bun and leather backpack on her shoulders.

(The girl doesn’t look Arkadian either.)

She hums at Lexa’s silence. “Travelling?”

Lexa tilts her chin in half a nod, squinting her eyes against the harsh wind. The girl has half a smile on her lips and Lexa is not sure if it’s friendliness or amusement, or maybe just a twitch of her face against the rushing ocean.

She also doesn’t quite understand why the girl would show interest. People generally don’t ask about Lexa’s story or nationality unless they’re checking her at the border.

Although she’s never enjoyed small talk, Lexa’s curiosity gets the better of her. “You?”

The girl glances at Lexa before her eyes settle back on the horizon. “Going home.”

For every country Lexa has seen; for every lake she’s slowed down at to sit at the riverbank and study her reflection in the water while wondering what makes her look different each time; for every shabby, broken-down motel she’s stayed at, there are at least three things she can’t seem to forget.

The ferry to Arkadia reminds her of them, too.

(1. There is no such thing as home.)

“Where are you from then?” the girl wonders.

Lexa’s fingers grip tighter around the iron railing and her eyes flicker across the waterline. After all this time, the question still makes her nervous with the sudden pressure to explain herself.

She shrugs. “Nowhere in particular.”

The girl brushes a windblown strand of blonde hair out of her face, leaning on the railing. “So you’re the mysterious type, huh?”

“No,” Lexa replies, not missing the challenging eyebrow quirk the girl gives her, “though I do not see how a place of origin would clarify anything about me.”

The girl remains silent and Lexa almost expects her to take her leave, to give up on a conversation where there’s obviously nothing to be shared.

(“You are impossible, Lexa,” and stern looks and cold eyes and mumbled words of disappointment that make her chest feel heavy.)

But the girl stays where she is, and Lexa does not tell her to leave.

They stand there for a good while, the boat’s rushing too loud to call it a silence. There’s nothing but a grey sky and endless, blue water around them. In the moment she shares with this stranger, quiet questions bubble in the back of Lexa’s mind. She wonders if maybe this girl sees the same things beyond the horizon and if the rocking of the waves calms her down too and if she feels just as small in the middle of the ocean.

But neither of them speak, and Lexa is convinced their conversation had ended a while ago, until the girl pushes away from the railing and says, “You know, there should be a restaurant inside.”

Lexa hears her walk off, footsteps across the white-painted deck, leaving her surroundings feeling empty. It’s an odd feeling, Lexa has only ever needed herself – she is enough, and being alone does not equal loneliness – so why would a stranger by her side make such a subtle, unexpected difference?

It’s two steps later, before Lexa has the chance to figure out how this brief encounter could have possibly affected her, when the girl asks, hands in the pockets of her jacket and grinning over her shoulder, “You coming?”

The wind pushes under Lexa’s sleeves, burns her skin with chills. She lets go of the railing and turns to follow the girl inside.

Every town has their own coin: an ugly face with misshapen nose, triangular building or staggering mammal. If the buildings are high then the coins are small, and the other way around. Lexa presumes it’s because rich people need their money to take in less space so they can carry more of it.

The only Arkadian money she has are single bills, stuffed and crammed into the pocket of her jeans, creased with folding lines. The cafeteria owner frowns over the rim of his glasses when Lexa smoothes them out, ignoring the tears around the edges of the paper, and hands him the cash for her sandwich.

His wrinkled hands eventually take it from her, unnecessary slow and reluctant, and Lexa stuffs the few coins of change back in the same pocket.

Below deck the interior is metallic, with tables and dark blue chairs where most travelers sit out the journey. Voices echo coldly through the room, the sound less chaotic than the wind outside but on the border of being static nonetheless.

Lexa contemplates whether she had preferred to stay outside, near the railing. Decides it doesn’t really matter.

The other girl picks a spot at an empty table near the window and Lexa wordlessly takes a seat across from her.

“So where are you really from?”

(2. Everyone runs in circles.)

Lexa takes a bite of her sandwich, postponing her answer. For a moment, her eyes drift to the grayish blue behind the window. The water is still and quiet, and the boat pushes through it like a dull knife.

She faces her companion again and decides there’s no harm in telling the truth.

“Born in DC.” Lexa watches the girl across from her pick at her fries. “Grew up in Polis.”

The girl smiles. “You’re going to love Arkadia. It’s very different from anything Southern. Lots of nature, independent villages. Tight communities.”

Forests made up entirely of dark trees and single asphalt tracks, people who own guns and spread gossip like fire.

Lexa knows how to read between the lines.

“You ever been there before?”

Lexa shakes her head. She has been to similar places, though.

The plastic teaspoon in her cup has no use without sugar, but she stirs it anyway.

The girl seems to think about what to say next, though Lexa is not sure what else there is possibly to be said between them. Company usually makes her feel uncomfortable, restless; people exhausting her with their too many words, spoken and unspoken opinions that she somehow has to take into account – but admittedly, she does not feel the urge to escape her seat at the moment.

There’s something light about the stranger with her easy smile and honest questions, with her blonde curly hair and genuine interest. It doesn’t feel forced.

Lexa would almost say she is enjoying the stranger’s company. And maybe she doesn’t have to be cold to this girl, maybe there’s no harm in a carefree connection.

(But old habits are hard to break and the only change is in her own heart rate and the lack of remarks that would end their conversation.)

Lexa takes another bite of her sandwich, listens to the sounds around her. The place is buzzing with ferry travelers; a blurred mix of strong Arkadian accents, touristic excitement, and the giggling of children running around.

The window to her side offers an escape and Lexa looks past the white foam left by the ferry, to where the water looks a very particular and unchanging shade of blue. It seems very unevenly divided, she thinks, with everyone cramped in here and so much space out there.

She moves her hand to rest in the pocket of her jacket, her finger tracing the familiar outline of her bike’s key, and for a moment she wonders what it must be like to lie in the ocean surrounded by nothing but water for hundreds of miles.

“So where are you headed?”

It pulls her back inside and Lexa blinks, her attention falling back to the stranger who is still sitting across from her, is still trying to talk to her.

Where is she headed? Normally she would make up a destination: a distant relative, a student exchange program, or even claim she was on her way back home after a vacation.

This time she doesn’t.

“I don’t know,” Lexa admits. “I just… ride.”

The girl cocks her head. “You ride?”

Lexa nods. “A ’98 Suzuki. Early DR 650.”

“I have no idea what that means,” the girl admits, “but it sounds like a really cool… motorcycle?”

Lexa wants to say: No, it’s a piece of scrap that barely rides anymore; the seat is worn and the kick starter doesn’t work half the time and I’d much rather have something like the Ducati that I saw in a magazine the other day, but Lexa loves her motorcycle and she would never say such a thing.

She nods instead.

“And you just ride,” the girl echoes. “With no goal in mind?”

“Does there have to be?”

The girl shrugs. “Most people like to plan their vacations so they know what to expect. They know where they’re going to stay, how much it’ll cost them, that they’ll be back home before the holidays are over…”

(And Lexa knows this: some people take holidays and never come back. They stay gone and build a new life somewhere else.)

Lexa’s tea is almost cold. She plays with the plastic stirrer, creating a little whirlpool in her cup, and feels the eyes across the table study her.

Her silence seems to tell more than Lexa anticipated.

“You don’t go home,” the girl mumbles, “do you?”

Lexa’s stomach flips. She pushes it down. “Not often.”

And she wonders if it’s something written across her face, something that says, I am on a very extensive road trip, or if perhaps she just looks like someone without a destination.

“So you’re a drifter.”

It’s not a question so Lexa doesn’t respond. Everyone has their own idea or label for who she is. And she doesn’t really care what others think – if anything, Lexa is rather proud of her independency.

But this isn’t about her being independent. This is about the girl asking her if she ever goes home and looking at her like she wants to understand why.

There’s something in the girl’s eyes that Lexa doesn’t recognize. It’s not the usual look people give her when they realize that she’s basically floating through society. It’s much lighter than that. Wonder, curiosity. And very… blue.

Blue enough to make Lexa look away like she’s been burned.

They both sip the last of their drinks until all that remains are droplets on the rim of their cups and a few breadcrumbs on the table.

“Well, if you’re ever in town…” The girl breaks the silence as if it had never been there and fishes a small, worn-down pencil from the pocket of her jacket. She scribbles something on a napkin, tracing over the letters a few times to make them readable. “And you need a place to stay, or need advice on the best camping spots in the area or whatever…”

She chuckles her words and slides the napkin over to Lexa. “You’re always welcome to drop by.”

The girl smiles, carefree and honest – it frees Lexa’s chest, makes breathing both easier and harder for some reason – before she stands up. “I’m Clarke, by the way.”

Lexa knows; the girl wrote her name on the napkin. She considers giving her name too, but then the girl is already gone and Lexa figueres it doesn’t really matter.

(3. If paths cross, it means they’re headed different ways.)

She sees gold hair again later that afternoon, on the highest platform on deck, windswept but unmoving. The girl has one eye shut and the other behind a cheap camera aimed to the west side of the ocean.

Lexa wonders what there is to see beyond a blue hue, what there is to capture on photo that isn’t already much like everything else. She turns away from the girl and back to the endless ocean view over the railing, and tries to forget the name Clarke.

After all, there should be no reason to remember.

As soon as the first lighthouse comes into sight, people swarm off the chairs downstairs and onto the ship’s deck.

Everyone who had wanted to be the first to climb on the ferry is also first to get off. Rows of people push through the small gates, kids running down the wooden pier, excited to be home or at their late vacation destination.

The ferry worker tries to roll out her Suzuki from the vehicle deck, left-handed and awkward, and Lexa is quick to take it off his hands.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, and he grumbles something unintelligible.

She’s greeted by a large sign that tells her she’s arrived at Port Thelonious.

The dock is lined with small restaurants and cafeterias. Although it’s still early afternoon, Lexa books in at the first hostel she sees. The building is all dark oak wood and a practiced smile at the reception, prices too high for the tiny rooms they offer, and everything screams this place is a touristic rip-off but Lexa doesn’t feel like being picky.

She unpacks her bag on the bed, takes a shower and with wet hair still wrapped in a towel, goes through her things systematically.

(This does not include the note in her pocket, which she pretends to forget.)

Her flashlight seems to be running low on batteries – she’s not sure how, but apparently it drains power even when it’s off – she’s out of instant noodles and her prepaid is running low. She makes a mental list and then an actual list, collects her laundry and the supposedly clean bed sheets and pays the required fee to use the washing machine downstairs.

Not much later she is outside again. If her bank account is running low on money, the ATM on the corner of the street doesn’t show it. She’s only offered bills of tens and twenties, so Lexa withdraws two of each and hopes it’s enough to get her through the week.

The bills stutter through the opening, faded green. The name Jaha is written in small letters beneath the face profile on the paper money, earnest look and short goatee. Lexa stuffs the bills of ten in the trusted pocket of her jeans, the twenties behind a hidden zipper in her bag.

Her afternoon passes quickly and she ends up in the hostel’s lobby, reading her roman noir and watching other guests check in. Compared to the hours she usually spends on her bike, today wasn’t a long day. Still, she feels exhausted.

Tension had cropped up in her muscles after being stuck on the boat. Though the ferry had slowly travelled across the water, it hadn’t felt the same as covering distance on her bike. The wind rushing past her ears had left her tired and empty, windswept by the chaotic sound. The chatter of dozens of people had been suffocating, the only calming presence being that girl she met.

On cue, her fingers touch the slip of paper in the pocket of her jacket. She hadn’t forgotten it, not exactly, but she hadn’t allowed herself to think about it either.

She leaves the note in her pocket and focuses on her book, listens to the receptionist recommend an unnecessary and expensive room to a clueless couple.

(They take it.)

Lexa sleeps restless that night, not filled with the excitement or uncertainty of an unexplored country, but with a strange feeling that this place will not be like the rest of the world. She pushes it away to the back of her brain, lets it bury in her spine with the conviction that perhaps it’s a late seasick effect.

The next morning comes with an included breakfast: cold scrambled eggs and French toast. They offer her coffee but she takes tea instead. The only newspaper they have is being read by a greasy-haired, grumpy looking man, so Lexa uses her time to scan the surroundings of the breakfast area. Her eyes fall on a large painting hanging on the wall: a mountain colored in white, dark blue, and shades of green. Rugged edges and sunlight hitting from an odd angle.

“It’s called the Ark’s Summit,” a young employee tells her as he wipes clean the table next to her, noticing her gaze, “to the east of here. Quite the tourist attraction. A must see if you haven’t.”

She smiles a little in acknowledgement and drains the last of her tea. Her eyes skim one last time over the painted mountain – which, admittedly, doesn’t seem that different from other mountains – before slinging her backpack over her shoulder and leaving through the hostel’s doors.

She twirls the engine key around her finger, finds her motorcycle in the stalling and heads off on a road to the west.

Arkadia is all dark green and orange, cold air on a bright morning. The sky is white and blue and the road gets smoother once Lexa finds her way out of town.

The side surfaces of her bike feel cold against her legs, the black seat and rumble of the engine familiar beneath her.

She leaves the sign Port Thelonious behind her and goes in search for something else, someplace else.

Later that day her bike sputters through a bend in the road and Lexa tightens her fingers around the handles. Her leather gloves are warm but this far up north the temperature is low during fall, and her legs are aching from the cool wind. It’s something she’s used to, something that doesn’t bother her that much, but it’s there nonetheless.

She slows to a stop at a strip of dirt along the road and takes off her pitch black helmet, stretching her legs. In the distance lies a city, lit up with tall buildings and people going to work, surrounded on both sides by faraway mountainous hills. It’s not a place she wanted to pass through, so Lexa had skipped it, taken the left fork in a turn and ignored the signs of available hotels.

She sips water from a small canteen, watching the sky. Thunderous clouds are heading for the city beneath her. A haze in the distant air lets her know it’s raining locally and she considers staying here for a while, crossing her legs on the ground and watching the first lightning strikes hit the city.

A cold breeze hits her neck and she pulls up her collar, shuts off her bike’s engine, drops her helmet on the ground next to it.

It’s still early, and she’s got nowhere to be.

People show her confusion when she refuses their coffee, liquor, or an extra week for half the price. Misunderstanding. They offer her free caffeine in the hope she’ll want more later; see her as a tourist, an investment.

She’s neither of those things.

They don’t understand she wants to avoid unnecessary comfort. Things that won’t last, things she might miss later on. Things she might start to long for when in reality she doesn’t need them.

Shouldn’t need them – it would merely be an inconvenience.

It’s cold days like these, above average altitude, when her bones feel like ice and she starts wondering how nice it could be to have a sip of liquor in her canteen instead of water, warming her from the inside out.

It’s days like these that she also scolds herself and forces the thoughts away, convinced that these are the moments that make her stronger.

But sometimes Lexa is weak.

For example, two days of small pit stops and too many hours awake later, travelling down a freezing mountain, she accepts a free sample of mulled wine that is handed out by beanie-wearing patrons in front of a distillery.

Their breath puffs white clouds when they grin and ask her opinion.

“It’s good,” Lexa smiles at them, and it is good.

The owner of the distillery is a large guy with a dark, long beard and a faded facial tattoo. He’s rather intimidating to look at and that’s exactly why Lexa doesn’t feel very intimidated. In exchange for helping him unload bags of malted barley from his truck and sweeping a broom around the brewing tanks in the back of the place, he lets her stay in the guest room for the night.

Clarke’s note is burning in her pocket and when Lexa takes off her jacket at the end of the day, she feels both relieved and empty without its presence.

She ignores it, convinced that if she keeps denying its existence, it will not affect her.

(She doesn’t know why she doesn’t just throw it away.)

The distillery owner lets her use the shower and Lexa makes the water run over her back cold, only lukewarm the last ten seconds in compensation for that free drink she accepted.

And she is not torturing herself – she just likes being prepared for times when there will only be cold water, and this should be a great boost to her immune system, and halfway through her shower she forgets to make up more reasons.

//

The sun rises at six thirty and with it Lexa; fully dressed and guest bed made, teeth brushed and backpack on her shoulders.

“You’re up early,” the owner says, unlocking the distillery’s front doors and moving behind the bar to start up a pot of coffee.

She hears that a lot on the rare occasion she’s not gone yet when others wake.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” Lexa responds, not intending to hang around any longer.

The 40 year old guy murmurs something of an unsatisfied, “You’re welcome,” and pours steaming coffee into a big, red mug. He doesn’t wait until it’s cooled down to take a sip, dipping his moustache and looking at her over the rim of his cup.

“You leaving again?”

Lexa nods.

He leans back against the counter, mumbles a contemplative noise. “If you follow this road south there’s a place called the Mugshot.”

Lexa shifts. She doesn’t like being told her options.

“My brother owns it,” the man continues, narrowing his eyes at her discomfort. “If you tell them Gustus sent you, they might offer you some work.”

She keeps her face neutral to not betray her skepticism.

He shrugs. “Chance to catch your breath, refill your bike.”

Lexa glances at her bike through the window, parked under a small shed next to the building. Gas prices aren’t high in Arkadia, but she is running low on money and it would soon be time to stop somewhere and save up again.

She nods a thanks at him and leaves through the door, jingling the bell above it, pushing herself by the small group of employees that comes in at the same time, rubbing their gloved hands and yelling cheery good mornings at Gustus.

Her bike starts with a reluctant grumble and she puts on her helmet, tightens the straps of her backpack.

Before she’s rolled onto the road, the owner of the distillery stops her, thermos bottle in his outstretched hand.

“For on the way,” Gustus tells her.

She follows the road south until a rusty sign of Skailand appears, bold white letters many times repainted on the surface.

Sky-land. She mulls it over in her brain, considering all the ways in which the name could be interpreted and wondering why it seems vaguely familiar. But they’re merely two words jumbled together and Lexa decides that must be all.

Skailand seems to be relatively large for a village, but scarcely populated. She passes a few red brick houses, paths leading into distant, more densely forested areas and meadows of cattle belonging to small farms. The tarmac road continues and she follows it, not bothering to turn onto the gravel sidetracks. Before she hits the center of town, which is splayed across the lowest part of the area and loomed over by distant mountains, a sign of The Mugshot slows her down.

She wasn’t looking for it. When Gustus suggested it, she had stored the information but hadn’t chased it.

Still, she slows down. A few crows scatter in haste from the small parking lot, settling loudly in nearby tree tops and watching curiously as Lexa parks her bike.

It’s a cozy looking café with yellowish walls and a dark wooden roof. The rustic sign sways with the morning wind, creaking softly. Flower pots decorate the side of the building and Lexa finds herself thinking, it looks nice. Not exactly what she had expected with a name like the Mugshot.

She looks around, shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket and slowly walks up to the entrance.

The diner is lit up with Christmas lights, too early for the time of year. The windowed door squeaks a little as Lexa walks in and she absentmindedly wipes her feet on the rough doormat.

The place smells of Italian spices and purple flowers. It’s enough to make her both hungry and unsettled, as if it’s purposefully trying to make her feel welcomed, trapping her, clamping down on her airways.

She pushes the feeling away.

A record player near the bar plays some classic song from the sixties; Lexa recognizes it from her father’s collection. He would play soul and blues in his study, humming along and frowning over the rim of his glasses at his work, his graying moustache tickling his upper lip and the mahogany door heavy against Lexa’s hands as she peered inside from behind it.

The memory hits her like a bombshell for a moment, making her feet light, her fingers tingle. But she’s ran into nostalgia often – it’s inevitable – and Lexa swallows it down.

It’s only late morning and the café is empty. She wonders if she missed a closed sign on the door since there are no employees to be seen either. Small tables are lined along the windows and a few countryside paintings hang on the walls. The record player skips to the next song and Lexa considers leaving; it doesn’t look like the owners are expecting company.

“Brutus!” A young voice hisses from a place Lexa cannot see, somewhere behind a flimsy door near the counter that probably leads to a backroom. “Brutus, you’re a terrible watchdog!”

A low, breathy whine comes from beside Lexa and she startles a little. A large, wrinkly dog lies contently on the floor next to her, head on his paws, frown on his face.

This is indeed a terrible watchdog.

Lexa glances back at the kitchen door where two wide eyes peer at her, a mop of blonde hair partly visible.

“We’re not open yet, miss.”

“Oh.” Lexa flexes her fingers around the strap of her backpack. “I wasn’t… Do you work here?”

The eyes peeking at her narrow.

“You’re awfully curious for a stranger, miss,” the youngster drawls, voice still muffled from behind the wooden doorframe.

Lexa feels something pull at the corners of her mouth. She shifts in place. “I suppose so.”

The boy steps out from behind the door, one hand still protectively holding the handle should the need arise to hide behind it again. “Never seen you here before. And I know everyone in town.”

“That’s impressive.”

“Not really,” the boy shrugs, “there’s only six hundred and seventeen of us here.”

Letting go of the door, he carefully keeps an eye on her as he moves to the bar and opens a large glass jar, reaching his hand in to grab a few mints and popping them into his mouth one by one.

“It’s not tourist season either,” he mumbles with a frown as he observes her. His eyes widen a little. “Are you from the bank? Do you want money from us?”

Lexa is quick to shake her head. “No. No, I don’t need your money.”

“Good. Because I would’ve made Brutus come after you,” the boy states solemnly.

Lexa glances at the snoring dog again, intimidating in size but probably too old of age to do any harm.

“Brutus the dog,” Lexa muses. “Like Marcus Jun-”

“Junius Brutus. Yes.” The diner boy closes the candy jar and glances at her with sudden curious eyes.

Before Lexa has the chance to wonder about his age, quietly charmed by the sharp-witted boy, a voice booms from the backroom.

“Aden, have you taken out the trash yet?”

Lexa’s gaze shoots up to the man who appears from behind the kitchen door, broad shoulders and dark hair, vaguely familiar features that remind her of the distillery owner.

“Oh. Good morning,” he greets her, a small frown at the unexpected visitor. “I’m afraid the kitchen won’t be open for a few more hours.”

“That’s all right.” Lexa tugs on the straps of her backpack, grounding herself in place as the apparent diner owner moves behind the bar.

“I could offer you some coffee though?”

“Tea would be nice,” she responds, suddenly realizing she has no idea what she’s doing here and therefore she might as well be a proper customer and order something.

He nods his reply and Lexa takes a seat on one of the barstools at the counter.

“Aden,” the guy calls out absentmindedly as he turns on the kettle.

“Yeah, yeah, the trash – I know,” the boy mumbles, and Lexa watches him disappear behind the same door he had appeared from.

“We open a little later than usual on Sundays,” the man behind the counter explains, reaching for a cup, “but that’s mostly because the people here don’t get out of bed until noon on the weekends.”

“I think that’s the case in a lot of places.” She doesn’t think; she knows. Except for a few churchgoers, people sleep in. Saturday nights can be rough on the people. She likes Sunday mornings for exactly that reason.

The dark-haired guy chuckles. “You on vacation?”

Lexa nods, wondering if it’s really that obvious she’s not from around here. “Travelling.”

It’s always the easiest answer.

He places a basket of different flavored teabags in front of her, yellow and green and dark orange, and reaches for an apron that he ties around his middle.

“We don’t see a lot of tourists here this time of year,” he muses, pouring both of them a cup of hot water. “Then again, even during the holiday season most people head towards the east for skiing lessons or to freeze their asses off in poorly isolated cabins.”

Lexa huffs a laugh. She knows what he means. “The real winter sport experience.”

He hums, smiling. “Not your thing then, I suppose?”

She dips her teabag in the steaming cup of water, shakes her head. She contemplates telling him of her travels, of her bike outside, of the mountain ridge she speeded down this morning. But instead she says, “I was actually just passing through in search of a gas station.”

It’s not a lie. In fact, that’s all she searches for in every city: a gas station. Something to keep her on the move.

The wooden barstool creaks underneath her as she shifts her weight and watches the man ready his own cup of Earl Grey.

“A gas station,” the guy echoes thoughtfully, throwing his single-used, soaked teabag in the trashcan (a waste, Lexa thinks). “There is one downtown. No diesel though.”

“Regular is fine.”

He nods. “So you’re just passing through?”

“More or less. Might hang around a little while before continuing.” Even though gas prices are not as high here as Lexa has seen them in big cities, gas is still disturbingly expensive and she knows she’s going to have to save up for a while.

Sometimes she wonders why she even continues with her bike when it’s so expensive to maintain, but all in all, public transportation wouldn’t be that much cheaper.

(And, no – Lexa does not consider hitchhiking an option.)

Besides, there’s something about riding down unfamiliar roads with the freedom of going wherever she wants that she wouldn’t give up that easily.

The guy across from her absentmindedly goes to fill up the coffee pot on the counter and flips on the waffle iron too, seemingly going through the diner’s regular morning routine. “Have you decided where you’re going to stay?”

Lexa tries to sip her tea, burns her tongue. Places it back down. “No.”

And this is the part she hates: the part where she asks them for a favor, a job, a place to stay. It’s a necessary part, of course, because she would not be able to stay on the road without the hospitality of others, no matter how much she hates it and would rather deny it.

She thinks back to the distillery, to Gustus, to the way his apparent younger brother seems a lot like him but with friendliness that is easier to read on his face. Gustus had suggested she’d mention him, yet Lexa doesn’t want to make these people feel like they owe her anything just because she knows the name of a distiller in the next town. She doesn’t want them to think she chased Gustus’ suggestion like a hungry dog, a scrounger, in search for a free meal and easy money.

“Well, there is a small inn downtown,” the guy behind the counter muses with a light frown, unaware of Lexa’s discomfort and pouring coffee in another cup, “but it’s run by the guy who also owns the ski resorts to the east. Real business man. Nothing wrong with that, he’s just… the type of guy who offers to carry your bags so he can sneak a peek of what’s inside.”

He checks his watch before placing the cup of coffee on the counter, as if expecting a pick-up.

“We don’t like the Wallace family,” he mumbles with a shrug.

“Any better suggestions then?”

The broad-shouldered man absentmindedly wipes his hands on his apron and looks at her. “I could use a pair of extra hands around here, especially on our busy days. You seem like a trustworthy person.”

He narrows his eyes at her as if searching for a reaction that would prove the opposite. Apparently, he finds none. “There’s a room upstairs. It’s not very big, but livable. You’d be welcome to stay there for a while. Barely costs us anything, so I could even pay you a little aside from that.”

Before Lexa has a chance to reply, the diner door opens with a gust of cold air and Aden interrupts them.

“Is that yours?” he grins brightly at Lexa, cheeks tinted from the cold and hair mussed by the wind. “The bike outside?”

Lexa nods. “It is.”

“That is amazing!” He walks up to her with wide eyes and takes a seat on the barstool next to her, reaching his hand into the jar of peppermints again. “Did you ride it all the way here?”

Lexa nods again. With amusement she watches the diner owner sigh, take the jar of peppermints and place it on a high shelf, out of Aden’s reach.

“Did uncle Gus like it? He always talks about the big motorcycles he used to ride.”

The mention of Gustus comes unexpected, and the man behind the counter gives her a curious look.

Aden’s eyes flit between Lexa and the canteen strapped to her backpack; the canteen Gustus had given her, the one with Gus Grounder Distilling on it.

“I think so,” Lexa says hesitantly, following the boy’s line of sight. She motions to the bottle. “He gave me some tea for on the way.”

The man behind the counter clears his throat. “So what do you say? You want to hang around for a while?”

Lexa lets it run through her mind. For a moment breathing seems harder; already the idea of being stuck is making her uncomfortable, but this is an offer she shouldn’t pass.

She schools her face, controls her heart rate. “That would be great actually, thank you.”

The guy nods. “You’re welcome…”

“Lexa.”

He nods again, smiles. “Nyko.”

Nyko is not Aden’s father, as it turns out. It’s not an entire surprise as they share no similar physical features, but if their relationship is anything to go by, they are family.

It is not polite to ask about details, and so Lexa doesn’t.

Nyko refills her cup of tea while he fills her in on the job description, and Aden sits down at one of the tables with a stack of schoolbooks, and Lexa feels calm.

The kitchen is run by a woman named Indra, who comes walking in five minutes later and wordlessly takes the cup of coffee that Nyko had placed on the counter. Her scowl seems to be permanently etched into her face and both Nyko and Aden seem to know her well enough to not make small talk before she has sipped her morning coffee.

“Who is this?” she eventually grumbles, glancing at Lexa.

“That’s Lexa,” Aden says without looking up from his history book. “She has a motorcycle and knows who Brutus is and is going to work here.”

“You are?”

Lexa nods under the woman’s heavy gaze. For a moment she wonders if perhaps this is a co-owner who’s going to disagree with Lexa staying here. It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing happens, and Lexa feels the familiar weight of rejection settle on her shoulders.

Instead, Indra turns to Nyko and simply says, “Not the kitchen.”

“Not the kitchen,” he nods.

“Good.” With a last short glance their way and an extra gulp of her coffee, the short-haired woman disappears behind the kitchen door.

“Don’t worry,” Aden grins, “she will get nicer.”

//

The room above the diner turns out to be cozy; lots of oak wood and a sloped ceiling. There’s a couch and a coffee table, a small dresser and a sink in the corner. Although the place has been kept clean, the musty smell of furniture hangs in the air – a sign that no one’s been staying here for a while.

Nyko had explained he and Aden live nearby and not long after closing time they had gone home, Brutus the dog in the back of their truck.

It had surprised Lexa a little, how easily Nyko left her with keys to the place and a promise to be back in the morning. Especially after previous weeks spent in cities, where people were always suspicious of each other and motel owners only tried to trick her into paying more than she owed them, it felt strange for someone to trust her so easily.

When she had only just started her travels, every hospitable person had seemed like a possible threat: a rapist or murderer or thief waiting for her to be asleep under their roof.

It didn’t take long for her to realize she could not afford to think that way.

(She still doesn’t accept offers from teeth-rotten, drunk, old men – but she knows not every diner owner is out to harm her.)

Lexa drops her bag on the wooden floor and looks around the guestroom. Although it’s clear no one’s lived here for a while, there are signs someone once did. Dents in the wooden dresser, faded stains on the table, the worn-down feel of the faux leather couch – the details press into Lexa like she has somehow stepped into a life that’s not hers.

She’s had that feeling a lot today.

The afternoon had passed quickly. Nyko had thrown her a spare apron as soon as the diner had opened. Most customers had apparently been regulars and the job had been pretty straightforward. She knew how to serve coffee, cleaned up the tables, and (much to Aden’s delight) helped wash the dishes.

To Nyko and Aden, this way of living was the most ordinary thing and they had included her without hesitation. As she lies down on the couch and pulls a blanket over her legs, Lexa is struck with the realization that she will be living in close proximity to these people’s lives – close enough to overwhelm her.

But it’s all fine. She’s only going to stay here for a few days – a couple weeks, at most – and then she’ll be on the road again. She’ll have a full tank of fuel and nothing that binds her to this place and she’ll leave behind anyone that knows her name.

It’s all fine, really. She’s done this before.

(She repeats it a few times to make it easier to fall asleep.)

//

Skailand.

Lexa remembers. She remembers why the name seemed familiar, she remembers where she’s seen it before.

(If she’s being honest, she probably never really forgot.)

The rusty analog clock on the wall says it’s 5:30, though Lexa is not sure if it runs accurately, when she throws the blanket off her and sits up on the couch. She turns on the nearby table lamp and sifts through the pocket of her jacket.

An odd relief rushes through her when she finds the slip of paper, like she had been afraid she had thrown it away or it had somehow managed to get lost. Her fingers run over the gray letters – Clarke Griffin – followed by an address, all written in a curvy handwriting. Lexa scans her eyes over it a few times to make sure she didn’t misread, but it clearly says Skailand at the bottom of the note.

For a moment she is not sure what this means, if it means anything at all. Lexa wonders if somehow, unconsciously, she had set out for Clarke’s address, but soon decides against that. She had no idea where she had been going.

She remembers the girl’s words (and smile and eyes and the sound of her voice over the rush of the ocean) and knows Clarke had given her address for a reason. But Lexa did not set out with the intention to find her, she didn’t chase Clarke’s suggestion like a hungry dog, a scrounger--

So if this is purely coincidental, Lexa is set on keeping it that way. She is not expecting this information to change anything about this town and she is definitely not going to be looking for the girl.

And if would not bother nor surprise her, Lexa convinces herself, if they never even ran into each other.

But in a village with only six hundred and seventeen people, it’s not entirely surprising they do.

Chapter Text

Clarke Griffin is an insomniac.

It’s not something a lot of people understand; they tell her to drink less coffee or avoid TV before bed, to rise early and exercise more. Unfortunately, caffeine is the only thing that gets her productivity level over that of a zombie’s during the day, and the remaining advice never seems to have a lot of impact.

So she spends her days with a dull headache behind her eyes and catches herself staring blankly through windows a little too often.

She doesn’t sleep at night and she’s not sure why.

(That’s a lie, because she knows when it started.)

Wells had picked her up at the dock, warm smile and car keys twirling in his hand. It was a relief to see him, something Clarke had been looking forward to. She had put her bag in the back of his car and Wells had turned out of the parking lot – it was something close to being a routine by now.

There is a childhood of friendship between them: shared lunchboxes and fanatic soccer matches on TV screens, days of chess practice, giggling pride when they both got their first girlfriends, and adventures into the mountains where Clarke insisted on drawing the view while Wells worried about being home before dinner.

He’s like family.

The ride home is quiet and comfortable. Clarke’s head leans against the car window as familiar surroundings flash by. It’s raining today, and the droplets blur her view of yellow-green forests and jarred mountains in the distance.

Wells had put on one of his classic mixtapes and doesn’t try to make conversation, lets her get lost in thought, and Clarke is grateful for it. He knows she gets tired after a week of overseas appointments.

“Thank you for driving me home,” Clarke smiles at the friend next to her. After he’s done this so many times, she almost forgets how much she owes him.

“Of course,” Wells grins. He casts a sideways look at her, taking this as a cue she won’t mind a conversation. “Everything went well on the trip?”

She nods, eyes on the road ahead and her chin resting on the palm of her hand. “The usual. They want a new report by next month.”

The meetings had dragged on for hours, discussions that had no point and high ranking people that felt their opinions should be taken as facts. The convention had been mind numbing and if it’s up to Clarke, she will not spare it any more thought for the rest of the day.

She readjusts her elbow on the windowsill. “I met a girl on the boat.”

Wells spares her another glance. He hums, waits for more.

“I think she was a drifter.”

“A drifter?”

“Yeah,” Clarke’s eyes narrow as she thinks back, “like someone without a permanent home. Just travelling around, you know.”

“Ah. The adventurous young adult trying to find themselves by backpacking across the world.”

Clarke frowns. “No, I don’t think so... I mean, she was young, but it looked like she had been doing this for a while. Just said she drove around without a destination.”

“So… she’s homeless?”

“Kind of, I guess,” Clarke sighs. She’s not even sure why this girl had interested her so much, or why the term 'homeless' does not sit right with her either.

In the distance a sign of Hotel Mt. Weather is lit up and Clarke knows they’re getting close to home.

“I wonder what it’s like,” she mumbles out loud, more or less to herself.

Wells hears it anyway. “What what’s like?”

She shrugs. “Travelling around, no home to go to. Not having ties to anyone or anything.”

“Are you saying you’d rather have no ties to me?”

Clarke chuckles. “No, no. I just imagine that kind of freedom could be lonely.”

Wells smiles, shakes his head. “This is why you shouldn’t work in the healthcare department, Clarke. You become too invested in other people’s lives.”

Clarke scoffs. “I do not.”

“You do. You feel the need to fix anything and anyone that looks like they need saving.”

“The girl didn’t need saving,” Clarke objects. Though Wells has a point – he knows her too well – it’s not relevant. “I was just… impressed by her. Fascinated.”

She wouldn’t use the word envious but she does wonder what it takes to live that way for an extended period of time, drifting through society and other people’s lives without holding onto any of them. She wonders what that does to a person’s heart, if the longing for a deeper connection always stays a dull ache under their skin or if it eventually fades and disappears completely.

Clarke knows what it’s like, to some extent, to need time away from everything. But even after a couple of weeks on some tropical vacation, she’s always glad to come home again.

Wells turns right onto another road and asks if she’s hungry.

Clarke shakes her head; they pass a diner.

“Your mom is still at the Mountain for the conference,” Wells mumbles after a bit, breaking their silence. “Said she won’t be back for another week.”

“Yeah,” Clarke sighs. “I know.”

//

The house looks exactly the same and Clarke is not sure if she’s relieved or disappointed. Not that she was expecting things to have changed in the week she was gone, but still – it might be nice to come home one day and find the porch railing fixed, or the front door repainted, or her dad’s truck out of the driveway.

Wells carries her bag to the door, kisses her cheek and jumps back in his car with a promise to bring by pizza tonight.

Once she has made it into the house and closes the front door behind her, it’s quiet.

Home smells of cleaning products and laundry detergent. Never of baked cookies or sweet perfume, unless Clarke takes matters into her own hands and sprays a bottle of deodorant around or decides to test her baking skills. Even then, the results are questionable.

The answering machine blinks, signaling the customary voicemail her mother has left for when she’d come home to an empty house. Clarke presses the rewind button and lets it play while dropping her backpack near the couch and heading to the kitchen.

Abigail’s familiar voice, somewhat distorted by the old-fashioned machine’s speaker, greets her warmly. There’s nothing special to the message: Abby lets her know when she expects to be back and hopes Clarke’s trip went well, there’s lasagna in the fridge and she can call in the evening.

The message ends and the familiar ticking of the clock on the wall is the only sound left. Clarke turns on both the TV and the kitchen radio to fill the silence, and carries her bag to her room.

//

Wells falls asleep with his legs curled up and a blanket pulled tightly over his shoulder. The couch really isn’t big enough to fit all three of them, but somehow they always make it work. Raven is squashed in between them, trying to force herself to eat the last slice of pizza, while Clarke is fumbling underneath her own shirt.

“What are you doing?” Raven nudges her with an elbow. The TV screen flashes black and white pictures into the otherwise dark room, illuminating their faces.

“I’m trying,” Clarke grunts, frowning in concentration, “to take off my bra.”

She flashes Raven a small victory smile when it unclasps. Casually – almost too casually – and with practiced ease, she pulls the garment from under her shirt and gives a pleased sigh to be freed of its restriction.

Not the least bit fazed, Raven’s attention is on the movie again. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

“I think he,” Clarke subtly points at one of the characters on the screen, “is trying to bang her, but she wants to bang the other guy.”

“Isn’t that the one she’s marrying?”

“No, that’s their photographer.”

Raven hums in response, still sounding confused. She looks at the other friend next to her, who is softly snoring. “I can’t believe he fell asleep during his own movie.”

“Wells always falls asleep.”

“True.” Raven props the last bite of pizza crust in her mouth and proudly closes the pizza box. “Knowing that, I can’t believe we let him pick the movie.”

Clarke’s body feels heavy and she cuddles a bit closer to Raven, resting her head against her friend’s shoulder.

“You tired?” Raven mumbles, and Clarke hums something of an affirmative. It’s not really a question to either of them, but she still appreciates the attentiveness.

The movie seems to be ending and Raven reaches for the remote. “Netflix?”

At some point during the night, Raven disappears from the couch and Clarke pulls half of Wells’ blanket across her legs to make up for the lost warmth. She floats somewhere in between dull alertness and almost-dreams. The distant, electric sound of the fridge is no longer drowned out by the TV’s murmur, and it sounds like nighttime.

Wells is softly snoring beside her, his presence comforting. Sometimes, around 3 AM when the rest of the world is sleeping, Clarke realizes how much she loves her friends.

(She decides she’s glad she’s not a drifter.)

In the morning, Raven appears from Clarke’s bedroom with bed hair and a worse limp than usual. She turns on the coffeemaker without a care in the world, noisily waking the other two on the couch, and toothily grins at them.

Wells is still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when Raven presents a stack of pancakes to them. She flops down beside the coffee table and watches her groggy friends wake up.

“I have to be at work by nine,” Raven mumbles through a mouthful of pancakes and syrup, “Sinclair has an appointment today, something about his wife having a baby. That leaves me in charge, kids.”

“Sinclair is going to be a dad?” Clarke asks, surprised.

“In a few months.” Raven quickly disappears into the kitchen, only to return with three skillfully balanced coffee cups in her hands. “It’s the first ultrasound, I think.”

“That’s great,” Wells says, taking his cup. Against better judgment, he tries to sip from his too hot coffee and grimaces at the burn.

Raven smirks. “I already convinced him to name the kid Raven, regardless of its gender, so don’t go trying anything.”

“Do you really want another Raven in town though?” Clarke asks. “You’ve kind of made a name for yourself here. Having another one would shake things up… They might steal your glory.”

“Shit. You’re right.”

//

The cursor on Clarke’s laptop screen blinks. She’s been in this situation a little too often – a blank document waiting on her oh so professional assessment of this semester’s healthcare standings in Arkadia.

Truth is, she just summarizes the reports her mother gave her and signs it with Griffin. Any questions would be directed to her mother anyway, unless they’re of minor importance. In that case Clarke Griffin is the face to turn to – blonde hair and sparkling eyes, friendly smile and convincing voice. They love her overseas, but Clarke can only work with what she’s given.

And when things are going bad, she can only brighten them up so much before the financial grimness shows through.

The men in suits had grumbled and muttered during the international health care convention. Arkadia wasn’t the only country with financial problems in that sector, and after much arguing the commission had finally admitted they might have spent too much on tourism and their own salaries.

But before they undertook any actions, they needed more than spoken words. And so Clarke finds herself, like often before, at her laptop with a stack of long-winded documents next to her. She has a headache and her eyes are burning a little, but this is her job.

She rolls her shoulders, takes another sip of coffee, and forces herself to focus.

//

“You look like crap.”

Clarke grins and looks up from where she’s sitting at the café’s bar. She had managed to finish half the report before deciding she needed to get out of the house. The past few days had still felt blurry and being stuck behind a laptop wasn’t going to produce many results. So she had taken her dad’s old truck out of the driveway and headed for a place to get lunch and clear her mind.

“Good to see you too, Indra.”

Indra gives her a nod, warm familiarity in her eyes. “Can I get you anything?”

“Small fries and a salad-”

“Without dressing,” Indra nods, pushing in a chair at another table. “Coming right up.”

The cook disappears behind the wooden door that leads into the kitchen and Clarke takes a look around the cozy diner she knows all too well. It’s not too busy – there’s the guy who works at the ice cream parlor downtown but never speaks much, eating a sandwich while typing away on his laptop at a table near the window. The record player plays a song from Indra’s collection like usual, and the couple who own a small farm on the outskirts of town sit at their regular table, drinking tea and eating their pastries.

Although the diner isn’t located in the shopping district of Skailand, it’s a favorite among many of the locals.

It took Clarke a while to come here again after her father passed away, the memory of him still stuck in one of her paintings on the wall: a view from a cliff near the coast, with seagulls flying under rays of sunlight. Nyko had once asked to hang some of her work in the diner, and it made Jake proudly ruffle a hand through Clarke’s hair every time they walked in to see it on the wall.

Eventually Clarke learned to appreciate the small reminder. Nowadays she still regularly has lunch here with Wells and Raven. After years of living in this town, they know the menu by heart and the owners by name.

Clarke is pulled out of her wandering thoughts by the food being placed in front of her and, to her surprise, a cup of coffee being filled. “Oh, I didn’t…”

“Indra said it’s on the hou-”

Looking up into green eyes that have been hard to forget, Clarke is caught off guard by the girl standing next to her, instead of the regular employee she was expecting. There is no doubt this is the young woman she met before, especially with the way the girl seems tongue-tied in recognizing Clarke as well.

“Hey,” Clarke smiles, suddenly breathless. “You’re the girl from the boat, right?”

“Yeah,” The young woman stammers, stopping herself from pouring too much coffee into the cup.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” Clarke admits honestly, because she didn’t and now that the girl is here, Clarke doesn’t know what to say. She can’t help but smile, feeling giddy for some reason, and hopes she doesn’t look like a complete fool.

“They offered me a job,” the girl admits, if that wasn’t obvious yet by the apron she’s wearing, “so I thought I’d save up for a while.”

As if Clarke has only just realized what that meant (the pretty, mysterious young woman is staying here in her town) her stomach flutters like it once did in high school and Clarke can do nothing else but give a sheepish nod.

There is a short silence between them while the girl stands there, holding the coffeepot in front of her. “Well, I should… I should get back to work.”

“Wait,” Clarke says with the longing to reach for the girl’s arm, though she stops herself. “How long will you be here?”

The question seems to catch the girl off guard. “I don’t know.”

“Okay, well,” Clarke forces herself to not be disappointed with that answer. “I don’t live too far from here. Maybe when I’m not half dead from work, I could show you around town sometime. I mean– if you’d like, of course.”

“Maybe,” the woman nods. Clarke thinks she sees the ghost of a smile before the girl is moving towards the kitchen again. “I’ll see you around, Clarke.”

She disappears behind the door as quietly as she had appeared, and Clarke realizes she still doesn’t know the girl’s name.

//

Lexa walks past Indra, who is restocking the fridge, and wordlessly exits the kitchen through the backdoor. It shuts behind her with a heavy thump. The outside air is crisp and Lexa takes a deep breath.

How long will you be here? The question echoes in her head. And out of all people in this town, of course Clarke Griffin is the one to ask it. Lexa is not sure if she’s upset or relieved to run into her again; an encounter she wished to avoid but had quietly hoped for nonetheless.

There’s something warm about Clarke. Something that makes Lexa want to stick around a little longer and know more about the girl with the easy smile. Something that makes her want to say: yes, I’d love it if you showed me around town sometime-

She’s not sure what this feeling is, but it can’t be good. She glances at her motorcycle parked some distance away. Her fingers itch to run over the keychain in reassurance but she left it upstairs in the pocket of her jacket, tucked away with the note Clarke had written her.

Driving off is not an option right now, no matter how much she feels the sudden need to escape Skailand. She needs this job at the diner. Clarke Griffin might be an unexpected distraction, but Lexa can handle distractions. She’s been on her own for years and has been through enough to understand that she doesn’t belong anywhere – not in a city, not on the countryside and most definitely not in a friendly town.

Some girl she met on the ferry wouldn’t be able to change that.

When Lexa heads back inside, Indra glances at her from where she’s stirring a pot of soup that has the whole kitchen smelling like spices. “Oh, good. I was starting to think you had bailed on us.”

It doesn’t sound very accusing but Lexa mumbles a quick apology anyway. Indra hands her two bowls of soup, a smirk at the corner of her mouth. “Table four. Go.”

//

Wells places his wrist against Clarke’s forehead. “How long have you been awake?”

Clarke slaps his hand away. “I’m not joking. It’s the same girl.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes!” Clarke stands up from the wobbly office chair to pace beside her friend’s desk instead. A few of Wells’ colleagues throw her disapproving looks at the volume of her voice, but like usual Clarke ignores them. “I even saw her motorcycle in the parking lot when I left. It was one of those beaten up, rickety things that Raven would love to get her hands on.”

Wells turns a little in his own office chair, fidgeting with a pen between his fingers. “Then what is she doing here?”

“Saving up, I think. Nyko offered her a job and she took it.”

He grins at her. “Then I guess we know where you’re going to be spending most of your time.”

“What do you mean?” Clarke fakes innocence.

“Please,” he chuckles. “If the dreamy look in your eyes is anything to go by, this has to be the most gorgeous girl in the world.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. She shrugs and mumbles half her next words. “Well, she is pretty. But she doesn’t seem very interested in me. Besides, I’m sure she’ll be gone again before I know it.”

Wells nods timidly. “As long as you remember that. Don’t want to see you get hurt over a passerby.”

The way he says it sounds unnervingly familiar. Wells has always been someone who warns her about danger before it’s even crossed her mind – and annoyingly, he’s usually on to something.

She pushes the thought away; it’s way too soon to even consider this girl having an impact on her at all.

Wells breaks the moment by reaching for a stack of photos lying on his desk. “I took these while you were gone. Went on a hike into the mountains. I know you love the view this time of year.”

“You went without me?” Clarke pouts. She takes the photos from him and inspects the sceneries she knows all too well, tainted in late fall colors.

Wells chuckles. “Thought you could use the inspiration. The weather is too unpredictable to go up there and draw it yourself, so I figured these would help a little.”

“They do.” Clarke smiles thankfully at her friend. Even though she’s the painter, Wells loves being part of the process. He finds beauty in the corners of life, sometimes more than Clarke can even see herself, and shoves it towards her with enthusiasm as if she can create the things he can only dream of.

He’s an appreciator. And not a bad photographer, she thinks to herself, tucking the photos into her backpack.

“All right, who jammed the printer?” someone calls out from the other side of the workspace. A bunch of groans resound through the office and Clarke takes it as her cue to leave.

She gives Wells a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and, after a quick goodbye, slips out of the town office.

//

The paintbrush trembles a little in Clarke’s hand. She puts the finishing touch on the canvas and sits back with the restless feeling that it’s not finished at all and probably never will be.

It feels incomplete, yet she doesn’t know what’s missing. There simply doesn’t seem to be any heart in it. No subject, no emotion – no story. It feels empty, like she does.

Sometimes, spending time overseas does her good and she comes back with itching hands and a restless longing to lock herself in her studio and create abstract things of beauty that are already hiding somewhere on the canvas. Other times, the pale side of business grays out her mind and she’s left with nothing of color when she comes home.

Her eyes fall to the local newspaper that she had placed below the easel to cover the floor. Only a few drops of paint stand out on the clusters of black on white texts (the floorboard underneath still has stains from when she didn’t take protecting the floor as seriously) and she huffs a chuckle at the newspaper’s striking headline of the week: Wallace jr. visits Pirate Festival. Below it is a picture of Cage Wallace, smiling, standing next to three kids who apparently won the costume contest. The yearly festivals had been an attempt at attracting tourists from nearby areas, and judging by the grin on Cage’s face it had worked out well.

Her eyes wander further across the newspaper until she’s met with a row of house ads. Clarke allows herself to admire the small pictures for a moment. There are neatly trimmed lawns and spacious driveways, smaller apartments in the next town, an old farm that has been for sale for a few years now. None of them seem particularly interesting to her, but it does remind her of the fact that she’s still living in the same house she grew up in. She’s had this conversation with Raven a little too often: “Time to spread your wings, Griffin,” which was always followed by a plea to not spread them too widely or leave Raven alone in this town.

After graduating high school, most of Clarke’s friends moved away for college. It wasn’t exactly unexpected – they all had big dreams of travelling to foreign countries and chasing their dreams, and this town was too small for that – but Raven was more than happy to get a job at the local garage and Wells was already in the right place for the start of his career thanks to his family’s status in Arkadia.

After Clarke’s father died, finding a new place to live had dropped low on her to-do list. Her friends had argued it might be good to move away from a house full of memories, but instead Clarke had stayed. She had stayed, with the fridge still covered in childhood pictures and the curtains still the grayish blue that Jake had picked out and the wooden piano in the corner of the living room that no one could play beyond a few simple chords.

She took a part-time job that allowed her to travel and since her mother was rarely home, it felt like she had been living on her own for the past two years after all.
It’s not a bad thing; she’s earning enough to save up, has her closest friends nearby and every possibility to move away if she wanted to. But for now she is content, occasionally drawing cartoons for the local newspaper and drinking too much coffee in the nearby diner.

Still, something feels off today. She feels restless, unfocused. Her mind keeps wandering to the girl travelling on her bike and the things she must’ve seen without anyone to share it with – things that Clarke could fill canvasses with.

There’s a certain sadness to it, imagining a lonely traveler in the middle of nowhere. Clarke’s chest tightens a little.

She reaches for her notebook and a pencil, shrugs on a jacket, and leaves through the front door.

//

It’s seven PM and the sun is about to disappear beneath the horizon.

Indra is the only one left downstairs in the diner, finishing up in the kitchen which is something she’d ‘rather do alone without having anyone standing in her way.’

(It was her way of telling Lexa to call it a day.)

The sky is pink and orange, and from where Lexa sits she can make out the swaying of distant tree branches. It’s cold but dry on top of the diner’s roof, and the sound of a voice below comes unexpected.

“When Indra said I could find you upstairs, this is not what I thought she meant.”

“Clarke.” Ten feet below, Lexa finds her looking up from the ground.

“Hi.” She’s smiling. “I tried knocking on your door, but…”

“Oh.” Lexa tries not to blush. “Sorry. I– Do you want to come up?”

Clarke nods, so Lexa climbs back inside through the window. She manages to open the door just in time to be met with energetic, blue eyes.

“Hi,” Clarke says again, strangely sounding as breathless as Lexa feels. She’s wearing a brown leather jacket, hands tucked into the pockets. “This a bad time?”

“Uh, no,” Lexa stammers, opening the door further to let Clarke inside. It feels weird to invite someone into the room like it is her home – but that’s what people do, right? “Come in.”

Clarke mumbles a thanks. She smells of sweet perfume that makes Lexa want to breathe in more of it, to figure out where she recognizes it from. It has her distracted for a moment – it doesn’t quite smell of flowers but she does know it from somewhere.

They end up standing in the middle of the small room and Lexa realizes she has no idea how to deal with guests.

“Make yourself at home,” she manages to say. She gestures at the couch with a hospitality that she’s seen in the movies – hosts usually offer a drink too, like whiskey or coffee, but she’s got neither of those. “Would you like some… water? Or I can make tea?”

Clarke’s laugh is genuine as she sits down. “So well-mannered.”

“You sound surprised.”

“In a good way, knowing you probably don’t have guests over a lot.”

“I don’t,” Lexa says, smiling. She takes a seat next to Clarke on the couch, tension easing off her shoulders. “You might be the first one, actually.”

“Really? You’ve never had anyone over for dinner, or sleepovers, or… to have tea or something?”

We did, she thinks. When I was younger, guests came to visit and talk about business and drink scotch with my father and they would smoke cigars on the balcony and the smell would get into my room sometimes--

She shakes her head instead.

Clarke hums. “Well. Who knows.”

And this is one of those times Lexa wishes she was better at reading people.

Clarke doesn’t leave her much time to ponder it, though. She reaches for the book on the coffee table, the one Lexa picked up a few days ago from a small used bookstore where they gave her two extra novels for free.

“You know, I think you’d have a lot to talk about with my friend Wells,” Clarke says, scanning her eyes over the book cover. “He’s into this kind of classy stuff as well.”

“Classy stuff?”

“Noir fiction, black and white movies. Murder mysteries and tragedies.”

Lexa hums, amused. “Does he like whiskey as well?”

“No,” Clarke laughs at the prediction, “he’s all about the red wines, actually.”

It makes Lexa smile. She wonders why that’s so easy around Clarke Griffin.

Before Lexa can figure out what the girl is doing here, on her couch – well, not her couch, technically – Clarke gets up with a mischievous glint in her eyes and wanders towards the still half-open window. She casts a glance at Lexa over her shoulder and without further warning, goes to climb out of it.

Lexa freezes. “What are you doing?”

“Come on,” Clarke urges her. “I want to see what it’s like up there.”

They end up side by side on the roof, their shoulders only shy of touching. Lexa has her arms wrapped around her legs and the moment strangely reminds her of one they’ve spent before, on the boat, when everything felt calmer as well.

Clarke makes her feel both calm and restless at the same time, and Lexa is slowly getting addicted to the feeling.

“You know, when I was a kid, I spent so many evenings looking down from that mountain,” Clarke says, her voice like a warm blanket in the quiet night air. “I never imagined what it looked like from here.”

Her eyes are fixed on the silhouette of Mount Weather, its jagged edges standing out against the last rays of sun. “Have you been up there?”

Lexa shakes her head. “I heard it has ski resorts.”

“Yeah,” Clarke laughs. “And a hospital wing full of tourists with broken arms and concussions. But it has the most amazing forest, too. And a view that stretches almost all the way to the coast. And just before the sun goes down, they turn on the city’s streetlights and it looks like a million fireflies from afar.”

“That sounds amazing,” Lexa wonders quietly, occupied with the soft reverence in Clarke’s eyes and forgetting that she’s seen mountains and forests and views like that before. Somehow, Clarke makes them sound like something else.

“You sound amazing,” Clarke says, then stammers to correct herself. “I mean – with the places you’ve been and the things you must have seen. I’m sure they’re amazing.”

Lexa nods. She looks away to hide the blush that suddenly creeps up to her ears. “Some of them.”

In the distance another few homes turn on the lights inside as the cover of darkness slowly crawls over them. The air is getting colder but Clarke seems to have no intention of moving anytime soon.

Lexa is careful with her words. “Can I ask why you’re here?”

Clarke tugs on her sleeves, suddenly looking nervous. “Actually, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Okay.”

In the tall grass of the meadow, crickets start chirping.

“Would you… tell me about Polis?”

It’s so unexpected that Lexa doesn’t respond in her confusion, her mind already on the defensive, trying to figure out why anyone would want to know anything about the place where she grew up. “Polis?”

“Yeah.” Clarke frowns thoughtfully. “You said you grew up there?”

“Why do you want to know about Polis?” Lexa tries to ignore the suffocating feeling pressing on her chest. The question wasn’t, tell me about your childhood or tell me about the house you grew up in, but still that’s all she hears, all she can think of. She tries to force the unreasonable thoughts away.

Color spreads over Clarke’s cheeks. She looks away and chuckles. “It’s kind of embarrassing, now that I think about it.”

But Lexa waits until she continues.

“I… create stuff, like drawings and paintings. There’s an art school in Shallow Valley. It’s to the west, not far.” She waves her hand, as if saying that’s not important. “I’ve been thinking about applying. Part-time, at least. They require a portfolio, with examples of my work, for consideration.”

Lexa nods unsurely, still not quite understanding what this has to do with Clarke being here, on top of this roof with her. “You’re an artist?”

“It’s a hobby.” Clarke shrugs. “I don’t know what happened, but at some point I got stuck. Stuck in the same sceneries, the same environment, the same feeling. And then I ran into you, and you’re... the opposite. You flow. I want to know what that’s like – to flow.”

Her eyes shine with an intensity that Lexa remembers from the boat ride, as if she can see something that Lexa doesn’t recognize in herself.

But then Clarke blinks and huffs out a laugh, as if trying to hide it. “It made more sense in my head.”

“I think I get it,” Lexa assures her. She’s still not sure how Clarke thinks she could be of any help, but the least she can do is offer some understanding.

“I know you don’t share much. That much I’ve figured out by now,” Clarke says. “And you don’t have to.”

She gives an understanding look, and for a moment Lexa feels guilty.

“I was just selfishly hoping you could free me,” Clarke fakes a dramatic accent, “from these bonds of non-creativity.”

It makes Lexa laugh. Their shoulders bump together. “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. I’m really not that interesting.”

“You kidding?” Clarke asks. “You’ve been to more places than all the people I know combined, you’re well-mannered even though you’ve never had any guests over and you read books. That’s about as mysterious as they come. I don’t even know your name.”

Lexa runs a finger over a crack in one of the roof tiles, ignoring the heat she feels on her cheeks. “And what if you find out all there is to know?”

“I won’t get bored with you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

And Lexa is worried about being disliked, about disappointing people, about not being enough. She doesn’t know how to talk about hobbies or dreams because she doesn’t have any. She knows who she is, spent more time with herself than anyone else – but how does she share that with others when she has nothing to say that people consider interesting?

She supposes she has to start somewhere.

“It’s Lexa.”

“Hm?”

“My name.”

“Oh.” Clarke smiles. She stretches out her hand.

Lexa takes it.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Lexa.”