Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sure, it was Paris, but the excitement and intrigue was fresh for about, oh, five days, and now she found herself sitting at another corner café, bored out of her goddamn mind.

She had seen the city from the top of the Eiffel Tower, strolled through the Louvre, driven around the Arc de Triomphe, climbed the many steps to the bell tower of the Notre-Dame. Everything. She’d done everything you’re meant to do in Paris.

It was a cool spring day, the sun was high in the sky, and Lexa found her only companions to be a perfectly warm and flaky croissant and a lukewarm café au lait that she hadn’t even touched since it was brought by a mustached waiter (obviously).

Frankly, it was all getting old.

She didn’t know if it was homesickness or boredom, but there was a weight in her chest that was slowing her excitement and dulling the bright colors around her into a single blur. Lexa was never this mopey or broody, but something about being in France all alone made it hard.

She sighed. She was being lame and cynical, and she knew it. She was just starting her semester abroad—something fun and exciting, for fuck’s sake—and yet she was already done with Paris. She had chosen somewhere completely foreign to her, somewhere far away from everything she was familiar with to try and start a fresh chapter in her life. She had hoped that being in a new place, a city known for its magic and wonder would give her a new sense of passion.

She wasn’t so lucky.

She let her mind wander, her eyes float across the cityscape before her. She was the only one sitting outside in the café’s veranda, and the wait staff had all but abandoned her after a few “non, merci”s. She was just sitting there, scowling at the bright colors and sounds around her, wondering what the hell she was missing about France.

Then, a flash of gold caught her eye. A girl about her age entered the small gate and sat down a few tables away from her. She sat slightly angled away from Lexa, so that all she could see was the elegant slope of her neck and the very edge of her profile. The girl pulled a book out of her bag and set it down as a waiter glided over and asked for her order. Lexa heard a light “un café, s’il vous plait” and let herself enjoy the smooth accent of her French.

As the waiter left, the girl opened her book and pulled a pencil out of her hair. She looked around her and began sketching. Lexa watched with (probably creepy) abandon as her hand glided swiftly over the page.

What started out as a few random lines began to take form and look like the buildings around them. Lexa marveled at how a simple pencil could make the paper look so alive, like a small black and white photo of their surroundings.

She was so busy watching the girl’s hand swipe broad strokes across the page, litter it with light shading and dark lines that it took her a few seconds to realize she had stopped.

And was looking right at her.

Lexa froze and waited for an angry glare or some sort of verbal insult, but when none came, she recognized a hint of amusement in the girl’s eyes. Blue eyes. Eyes as blue as the sky above them and hair as gold as a field of wheat. Skin fair and light and perfect. And so, obviously, Lexa decided to further her embarrassment.

“Eh, bonjour,” she said.

The girl smiled and Lexa immediately forgot every minute of the month she spent studying French. Whoever called it the “language of love” was an asshole because in reality, it was entirely too easy to forget the smooth vowels and rounded sounds when staring at someone who could easily break your heart into pieces.

A light laugh fell from the girl’s mouth.

“Bonjour,” she responded. “Tu n’es pas Française.” She stated it more than asking and Lexa felt herself blush. She shook her head no.

“Americaine?”

“Oui.”

“Ah, ça a un sens. Souhaites-tu asseoir avec moi?” she asked. Lexa paused and frowned a little, trying to translate her words in her head. Sensing her hesitation, the girl gestured to the seat next to her. Oh, an invitation to sit with her.

Lexa figured she had nothing to lose in sitting with a pretty girl at a small café in Paris. She stood with her plate and cup and walked over, taking a seat next to her. She didn’t really know how to greet her, so she went the old-fashioned way and stuck a hand out.

“Je m’appelle Lexa.” The girl looked at her hand, smiled, and reached out with her own. The soft hand shook Lexa’s once.

“Clarke. Enchantée.” Lexa smiled in return and pointed at Clarke’s sketchbook.

“You’re very good at drawing. Uh, trés bien.”

It was just a small compliment, but Clarke still blushed.

“Merci, mais c’est seulement pour le plaisir.” Lexa’s lips pursed in confusion. Clarke spotted it and searched for a translation. Her hand twirled in the air as if fishing for words in the air.

“Eh, for happiness,” she said in a heavy accent.

The words hit Lexa like a punch. For happiness.

She wondered how her own language could sound so beautiful coming from someone who didn’t speak it.

“Que fais-tu à Paris?” Clarke said.

Lexa knew she was asking what she was doing there in Paris, but she was struggling to remember how get her mouth to move and brain to function in French mode.

“Uh, étudier?” she said. Her grammar was really fucking atrocious. But that’s why she chose to come to France to study. To improve her French.

If she had known she’d be sitting in a café with a beautiful girl who couldn’t speak English, maybe she would’ve studied a little harder.

“À l’université?” she asked. Lexa nodded, but struggled to figure out how to explain her major.

And she wasn’t about to say international relations in a vague, French-ish accent.

Instead, she leaned over to Clarke, plucked the other pencil out of Clarke’s ponytail, and commandeered her sketchbook.

Using the best of her artistic ability, she drew a small Earth with a big flag sticking out of it. She drew a heart for good measure.

She passed it back to Clarke and was delighted when she laughed. She turned to Lexa with a smile.

“Ah, relations internationales.”

Lexa frowned. She could’ve easily said that. But Clarke’s amusement at her drawing was worth it.

“And you?” Lexa asked. Clarke seemed to understand the question was reciprocated.

She began drawing in the book next to Lexa’s. A caduceus.

It made hers look like a kid’s doodle.

“You’re studying to be a doctor?” Lexa was surprised. She would’ve guessed that Clarke was the classic Parisian art student. She was certainly good enough to be, from what she’d seen.

“Un médécin, oui. À l’Université de Paris,” Clarke said, eyeing her. Lexa nodded slowly. Noticing her reaction, Clarke leaned in close to Lexa.

“Mais ce que je veux vraiment faire,” she whispered, “c'est d’être une tatoueuse.”

Lexa’s eyes widened a fraction. Not because she understood Clarke was saying (she literally had no clue), but because she could feel the warmth of Clarke’s breath tickle her cheek. She spotted a glint of a secret in Clarke’s impossibly blue eyes.

Knowing Lexa was lost in translation, Clarke paused for a second to consider her next move. Suddenly, she took Lexa’s hand in hers and sat it on her knee.

She turned to dig through her bag for something and Lexa tried not to let herself spontaneously combust at the feeling of Clarke’s leg under her hand.

With a small sound of victory, Clarke pulled a small black marker out and popped the cap off with her teeth.

Lexa tried not to look at her lips.

With gentle fingers, her hand traced up Lexa’s arm to her bicep. She leaned in close with the marker in her other hand and looked up at Lexa.

“Puis-je…?” she asked. Lexa knew she was asking permission to do…something, but Lexa just nodded. She was too flustered for words, let alone considering the merits of letting a (beautiful) stranger feel up her arm. (It was fine, really.)

Clarke began drawing on Lexa’s skin. The marker was thin, very thin, and left a clear, sharp line of ink in its wake. She outlined a swirling design around her arm. Doubled back and thickened the contours and added small swirls and loops. Lexa just stared at the growing tattoo on her arm, amazed at the beauty and detail that seemed to flow from Clarke’s fingers.

When she was satisfied with her work, she sat back and admired the ink. Lexa tried not to look to shocked.

“You want to be a tattoo artist,” she whispered, still staring at her bicep. It was incredible. And she did it with a marker, for fuck’s sake. Lexa finally looked up at Clarke.

“Oui,” she said, recognizing the understanding in her eyes. Lexa shook her head slowly in disbelief.

“You are amazing. This is amazing,” she said, gesturing at the makeshift tattoo. Clarke just stared at her with a smile, so (like an idiot), Lexa gave her a thumbs-up.

Clarke laughed bright and loud and Lexa felt it pulse through her veins. Her blood hummed with newfound excitement.

“You would be great,” Lexa said. Clarke blushed a bit and looked down at her hands as she capped the marker and stuck it in her bun.

There was a beat of silence as both girls tried to recompose themselves.

“Que fais-tu dans ce petit café?” Clarke asked. Lexa knew enough of the language to assume that Clarke was asking what she was doing alone in a tiny café.

“Rien.” Nothing. “Paris est terne.” Paris is dull.

(Lexa had looked up the French word for “dull” earlier that morning for satirical reasons. It proved helpful.)

Clarke, on the other hand, looked absolutely affronted, as if she had insulted her personally.

“Quand es-tu arrivée ici?” Clarke asked. Lexa’s eyebrows raised again. Clarke’s hand started circling the air.

“When did you arrive?” The accent was thick and sweet, like syrup. Honey, maybe.

“Oh, la semaine dernière.” Her French was awful in her own ears, but she was grateful she at least knewsomething. Clarke thought otherwise.

“Lexa!” she screamed. Lexa practically jumped and looked around in surprise to see if anyone had noticed Clarke’s outburst. But it was just them.

“Lexa, c’est la ville de la lumière. La ville de l’amour!”

Lexa shrugged at her incredulous expression. Clarke’s eyes roamed across the background, her eyebrows scrunched in thought. She turned to Lexa.

“Je vais t’apprendre.” She paused as if making a decision. “I will…teach you.”

The accented words buzzed in Lexa’s bones.

Suddenly, Clarke threw her sketchbook into her bag, dropped a ten euro note on the table, and grabbed Lexa’s hand.

She let herself be pulled by the pretty girl but felt something bubble up inside of her.

“Wait,” she said suddenly, “wait, attends!” Clarke stopped and turned around, her face surprised at Lexa’s sudden outburst.

“You don’t have to do—Why are you doing this?” Lexa asked, her voice growing smaller and smaller as she realized the sun was hitting Clarke’s eyes just right. They glittered. Like actual fucking crystals.

But Clarke just stared, her eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

“Pourquoi?” Lexa asked. Why?

“Je vais te montrer Paris proprement.”

Lexa cocked her head slightly. French was hard enough to understand on its own. But add that to trying to think about anything other than the way Clarke was basically a walking vision of everything you’d expect in Paris—elegance, beauty, wonder, and quite the view—consider Lexa a lost cause.

Clarke pursed her lips and brought a hand up to push back a few loose strands of hair.

“I will show you Paris,” she said. A small smile lifted the corner of her lips and it took all of Lexa’s willpower to keep herself from looking south of Clarke’s eyes.

Clarke leaned towards Lexa, head bowed slightly as if she was about to share a secret.

“For happiness,” she whispered.

//

They walked in a comfortable silence for several blocks, but when a familiar glass pyramid came into view, Lexa stopped.

“Clarke, I’ve already been here. Uh, déjà vu?” she tried to explain. But Clarke didn’t even acknowledge her. She kept walking down the wide, busy road, but turned her head slightly to look at Lexa. Her eyes said follow me. Lexa caught back up with her, slightly excited at the thought of an adventure of some sort.

“L’inattendu abrite le beau,” Clarke said. Lexa had no clue what it meant, but she was pretty sure she was about to find out.

Clarke turned onto a narrow street and led them down an alleyway. Right when Lexa started getting a little worried, Clarke stopped at a wooden doorway. A small sign hung just above, reading “Le Peintre Perdu.” Clarke reached out with a hand to grasp the knob before turning to Lexa.

“A better Louvre,” she said with a smile. She opened the door with a small ding and stepped inside. Lexa followed slowly, looking around the room that was glowing with dimmed lights. It smelled like old wood and paint, like closed doors and safe secrets.

It was a small gallery.

Clarke entered and stopped, letting Lexa step around her with wide eyes and an open mouth.

The art was…incredible.

Frames of all sizes hung from the walls. Everything from charcoal sketches to massive works covered in acrylic lined the old, grey wood. All of it competed for Lexa’s attention, and she felt overwhelmed by the colors and shapes and artistry.

She began to wander around, letting her eyes trace over ever piece and take in the extent of it all. It felt like Clarke was sharing a secret with her, and it was indescribable. The art was nothing like the art she saw in the Louvre. Of course they were breathtaking and admirable, but these—these were real and human and felt like something from this lifetime.

After moving slowly throughout the room, Lexa felt herself pause in front of a small canvas. It was a night landscape with oils and it was astonishing. It was the kind of art you felt in your blood and bones, in the very core of your being. The center of your mind.

Clarke came up next to her.

“Tu l’aimes?” she asked, leaning in close to whisper. They were alone, but the gallery felt sacred. Like it had to be protected from the eyes and ears of the rest of the world.

“Oui, I love it. Uh, je l’adore. It’s the best painting I’ve ever seen,” Lexa breathed. Her eyes hadn’t left the frame. She didn’t see the warm look in Clarke’s eyes.

“Cette galerie, c’est pour l’art inconnu. The unknown,” she tried to explain. Lexa nodded.

“It’s better than the Louvre,” she said, sincerity laced in her voice.

“Tu flirte avec moi,” she said. Lexa could at least translate that, and looked at her confused. Clarke nodded at the painting with her chin, a shy smile on her face.

“L'artiste, c’est moi.”

//

They went to a movie theater next. Lexa found Clarke’s arm linked through hers as they walked down a cobblestone road in the setting sun. It was comfortable, easy even. As if they had known each other for years instead of the mere hours they’d spent together.

Clarke stopped them in front of an old-fashioned theater and turned to face her.

“Le cinema francais est indispensable,” she explained. Lexa watched Clarke’s lips move with each syllable. She didn’t know when she started looking at Clarke’s mouth (it was a new development, really) but she couldn’t remember life before the desire that was tingling under her skin. She let Clarke pull her through the glass doors without a word of protest. As they approached the ticket counter, she gestured at the bright board above them.

“Tu choisis.” You choose. Lexa looked up at the bright board hanging above their heads and doesn’t recognize a single title.

“Je ne sais pas.” Lexa was glad to at least know how to say “I don’t know.” Clarke smiled and rolled her eyes.

“C’est le but,” she said. Lexa’s eyebrows scrunched together. Clarke’s hand started circling again, as if searching for the word in the air. “Eh, the, eh, raison.”

Oh. She didn’t know any of the movies, and that was the point. Lexa looked up and tried to make sense of the words (obviously, she had no chance). She decided to go with the shortest title on the board.

“Amélie?” she asked more than said. Clarke’s eyes lit up and Lexa couldn’t help but feel a little proud.

“Une Americaine typique,” Clarke said. Lexa had no idea what that meant, but she didn’t really care about anything beyond making the girl in front of her smile. Clarke walked up to the girl behind the glass.

“Deux pour Amélie, s’il vous plaît,” she said. The girl nodded, accepted her money and passed back two small stubs. She leaned forward into her small microphone.

“Vous êtes mignonnes ensemble,” the buzzy voice said. Lexa turned to Clarke for some sort of translation, but was surprised by her by taking Lexa’s arm and winking at the ticket girl.

//

Clarke had this habit of resting her entire elbow on the armrest and holding her hand in the air, her thumb and forefinger rubbing together in circles. She watched the movie intently, smiling and laughing every now and then. There was a dimple that peeked on her left cheek of she grinned just right. A small freckle that sat elegantly above her lips. (Lexa tried not to look at her lips.)

(That was dangerous.)

She had no idea what was going on in the movie. To be honest, she had given up halfway through when she realized she had been covertly watching Clarke more than the screen.

“Tu dois regarder le film au cinema, Lexa,” Clarke whispered. Okay, apparently not that covertly. Clarke moved her hand to hold Lexa’s, where it stayed for the rest of the movie.

Lexa didn’t watch a second of it.

//

When they left the theater, it was dark and they were still holding hands. Clarke had burnt the daylight with her, showed her the smaller things that she didn’t know she had been missing.

Suddenly, she had an idea, but it was crazy and probably too much to do for someone she had only just met but something about the girl and the warm hand in hers made it seem just sane enough. She turned to Clarke.

“Okay, it’s my turn to woo you in Paris.” Clarke raised an eyebrow. Lexa searched for the words. She swirled them around in her mind before letting them go. “Je veux faire quelque chose pour toi.” Clarke smiled.

“Ouvre la marche, Miss America.” She gestured in front of her, as if telling her to lead the way. Lexa could never get tired of the French accent that lilted her English. She pulled out her phone and quickly searched the fastest route to their destination.

They walked to the metro, hand-in-hand, and Lexa wondered how it was possible for every nerve ending in her palm and fingers to be so alive. They sat next to each other, too close for two people who had just met that morning, but, incredibly, not close enough. Clarke rested her head on Lexa’s shoulders as they swayed gently with the rattling of the subway car, and Lexa thanked the city of Paris for the thousandth time that evening.

//

They get to the place and Lexa’s heart sank when she saw that it was dark, the gates shut. Even the sign was dim against the purple setting of the sky.

Meudon Observatoire.

“Merde,” Clarke whispered and Lexa replied with the English counterpart.

“Shit, I didn’t think this place closed.” Her mind raced to try and figure out another way in. She eyed the gate, how tall the fences were, how dark it looked inside. She quickly figured out a plan and turned to Clarke.

“Clarke, wait ici. I’ll be back, okay? Deux minutes.” Clarke nodded and looked around them. It night was getting darker by the minute. Lexa considered her words.

“If you need me—si  tu as besoin de moi—eh, scream my name.” Clarke raised an eyebrow, and Lexa gestured to her mouth.

“Yell?” she tried, and Clarke nodded with understanding. Before Lexa could talk herself out of it, she kissed Clarke’s cheek. Immediately turning around, she took a running start towards the tall fence and jumped it very smoothly. Clarke gasped and yelled her name in surprise, but Lexa just turned back to her and winked.

Proud of how smooth she was, she took off running, going through the plan in her head. She wondered if she could still pick locks with a hairpin. It had been years—a lifetime, really—since she needed those skills, but she was sure it’d be like riding a bike. Or, stealing one in this case.

She had a lot to do in two minutes.

//

Lexa came running back and spotted Clarke leaning against the fence, looking up at the sky. She silently thanked the cool breeze for keeping her from being too sweaty and gross.

“Clarke!” She whipped around at the sound of Lexa’s voice and smiled. Lexa was sure that her smile was brighter and warmer than all the lights in the city combined.

“Okay,” she breathed as she approached her, “now you need to jump this fence.” She gestured at the fence and tried to mime jumping over, and Clarke looked at her incredulously.

“Moi? Quoi?”

“I’m here. Je suis ici. You’ll be okay.” She expected Clarke to put up more of a fight, but she merely sighed and tossed her bag over. Lexa caught it and set it down next to her.

“Okay, now put a foot here,” Lexa said as she pointed through the fence, “and your hands here.” She directed Clarke all the way up the fence, but when she got to the top, her foot slipped. With a squeak, she fell, but Lexa was ready for her.

She caught Clarke, but the momentum toppled them over. Luckily, Lexa fell onto grass and Clarke landed safely on top of her.

“Putain!” she cursed “désolée, désolée, désolée.”

“I’m okay, je vais bien,” Lexa insisted as she tried to get air back into her lungs. Clarke got up and helped her to her feet, but when she stood, they were close, almost nose to nose. Both of them stopped breathing.

But Lexa had some wooing to do.

“This way, Clarke.”

She led them to a wide hill, where a small blanket was spread out in the grass. A little bit of wine and cheese she had swiped from the small market that had locked up for the night and the most unimpressive bottle of wine France (compliments of the manager’s personal storage.

But most importantly, a view of all of Paris stretched out from their spot—the lights of the entire city glittering in the purple-ish hue of the night. Clarke gasped next to her, and Lexa knew it was all worth it.

“Lexa, c’est incroyable.”

“Well, I try,” Lexa said proudly. She took Clarke’s hand and led them to their spot, sat down, opened the wine. Clarke was watching her with a strange glint in her eyes the whole time. As Lexa passed her the small cup of wine, she set it down on the grass and suddenly moved towards her. Without warning, she put both hands on the curve of Lexa’s jaw. She leaned in close, close enough for Lexa to feel her breath tickling her lips. She whispered.

“You are really something, Lexa Woods.” Then, almost magnetically, she pulled them together. Their lips met like ships finding the shoreline, and Lexa was home. Clarke was still, waiting for Lexa to respond in some way, and, oh, Lexa did. Her lips moved, all taste and bite and tongue, and Clarke kept up with her ever step of the way. She swiped her tongue across Clarke’s bottom lip and she keened, low and deep and Lexa felt it rumble all the way through her gut. She thought—no, she knew she could invent a whole new language with what the felt. She could fill entire dictionaries full of verbs and nouns and adjectives to seal the void between the words they could not understand in each other’s mouths. But really, what more was there to say and know when they were kissing? No words in any language could ever be enough to describe the way her heart fluttered in her chest, the way Clarke tasted, how well she understood her despite their language barrier—

Lexa pulled back suddenly as her brain caught up.

“Wait, did you just speak English? You said something in English. Like real English.” Clarke’s blue eyes were dark and wide, her chest heaving.

“What are you talking about?” she said, surprised. Lexa pointed at her.

“There! Again! English.” Lexa was speaking in extremely short and simple words, but she was still trying to get her brain working after their kiss. Clarke stared at her for a few seconds and then sighed, her shoulders sagging with a small laugh.

“Okay, you got me. I can speak English.” Lexa stared, mouth agape. Clarke’s hands flew up to pull her hair behind her ears and rub her forehead in worry.

“My mother is Americaine, but I was raised here in Paris. My father insisted I be fluent in both so I grew up speaking French at school and English at home,” she rambled.

The accent looped and dipped in Clarke’s words, and Lexa swore that she had never heard something more beautiful. It was like singing without the music. (Was that a thing? It had to be a thing.)

“So, all day,” she said, trying to articulate her too-slow thoughts, “you were pretending not to understand me?” Clarke’s head dropped and she rested a hand on Lexa’s shoulder, her fingers toying with the hem of her collar.

“Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to lie or anything. It’s just, you were so cute when you tried to speak French and make me understand. And I didn’t want to lose my French appeal.” She looked at Lexa with apologetic eyes.

“Now I’m embarrassed,” Lexa deadpanned. Clarke laughed again and Lexa couldn’t help but smile.

“Don’t be, it was cute. You’re not bad,” Clarke said, teasingly.

“I’m awful, Clarke.”

“Yeah, you are, but it’s okay.”

They lapsed into quiet and Lexa could feel the waves of guilt coming off of Clarke.

Lexa wasn’t mad or anything. In all honesty, she was trying to reign in the surprising amount of desire that pooled in her gut at the sound of Clarke’s slightly accented words that Lexa could understand. She was reeling at the realization that Clarke could understand her. That she could understand Clarke. Without a warning, Lexa placed a hand behind Clarke’s neck and pulled her in for another kiss.

“I’m not mad. Actually, I’m really happy I won’t have to make a fool out myself anymore,” she breathed. Clarke smiled.

“L’amour nous rend fous. Love makes us fools.” Lexa nodded in agreement, but felt her heart jump at the words. Clarke realized what she had said at the same moment, and her face froze in surprise. Lexa just leaned in for yet another kiss, slower and sweeter that time, all yes that is true and I am a fool for you.

They stayed there for who knows how long, wondering if the stars had fallen from the sky and into Paris as the small lights glittered all across the city. They kissed and talked in hush tones, drank wine and nibbled on cheese. They sat with their hips touching and hands on top of one another and fell in love high above the City of Light.