AN: yep, this is the end. Thanks for sticking with this story! :)

Things you said at the kitchen table

"I can't believe we're having this conversation!"

"I just don't understand why you should sleep on the ground when you have a perfectly comfortable bed upstairs," replies Abby unfazed.

Clarke sighs, loudly and frustrated, throwing her hands up to the kitchen ceiling for emphasis, and articulates: "Because it's the whole purpose of camping?! To be outside!"

Her mother tosses her braid off her shoulder - a dead give-away she's at her wit's end - and keeps chopping carrots, arguing at the same time, which could potentially result in domestic disaster if she weren't The Unyielding Doc Griffin (as Octavia calls her). "I'm sparing you a horrible experience Clarke, you'll thank me later, when you're older and don't have arthritis."

Clarke drops her arms and stares at her mother across the table - throwing daggers - silently witnessing Marcus enter the room and slip a hand around Abby's waist to grab a carrot stick while she's distracted by a kiss on the cheek. He smiles at the teenager too and sits down at the kitchen table discreetly chomping on the vegetable.

It's twenty to seven on a Thursday evening and the July sun is still filtering in the room through the shutters in warm rays, illuminating dancing dust at the rhythm of the ceiling fan. Marcus starts peeling the shell off of the hard-boiled eggs left to cool in a bowl, and pretends not to notice the tension in the room.

Clarke clucks her tongue. "Wells and Octavia, and even Bellamy, are coming here in Arizona for a weekend in the canyons just to see me, Mom, how can I not be there?"

"Don't be melodramatic, Clarke," taunts her mother in her condescending tone, "of course you'll see them, it's just an hour away, I'll drive you there and back."

"What? Mom, please, Lexa is my age and she'll come to camp with Lincoln!" Who is her seventeen year old cousin, trained lifeguard at the local pool, and will probably be there on their family request to babysit them (but Abby does not need to know that).

"Lexa is not my daughter," is all Abby has to say on the matter.

"But-"

Abby only raises her eyes from the cutting board, stilling her hand, and Clarke falls silent, because it's her mother's no more discussion look and she's counting the days to her sixteenth birthday (now less than two years away) when she'll have a driving license and won't need to beg her for a ride.

She also bites her tongue to avoid spitting out words she doesn't really believe and would regret that same instant. There's always Raven, she thinks; Raven usually backs her up (and Clarke tries not to think of her as a big sister, which is pointless by now), but Raven can't really help her this time. So Clarke shifts target: "Kane?"

Marcus looks up from his task like a deer caught in headlights - as he generally does when forced to take sides in the household - to find both women pointedly looking at him. Poor Kane, cornered in his own house like a tamer in the lion's cage. He must think they are some feral feline breed, ripping each other's throats one minute and cuddling on the couch like kittens the next (because that's the nature of their relationship, with her mother, it's fierce and antagonistic, but oddly possessive, Clarke can't deny it). She wonders if he ever mourn a time this house was quiet and still and his - like when he walked in in the middle of an impromptu Shut up and Dance choreography in the living-room the other week, and was pulled into it right at the reprise - but he's usually good sport, Clarke must give him that.

She almost feels sorry for putting him in the spotlight like this at times. Just not now.

His gaze shifts from mother to daughter before he slowly parts his lips and ducks to take time. "Well, it's just an hour away," and he pauses. Clarke feels like throttling him, betrayed (but if she's honest with herself, later she'll recognize she's being overly dramatic), until he continues: "And I'll have a patrol nearby, Abby, they'll be perfectly safe."

So he thinks the real issue is her potentially heading into trouble and her mother won't be there to prevent it? Her heart sinks. But one look at Abby and Clarke decides she better cherish meagre gain than press for unattainable victories. Abby flattens her lips in a thin line (like she does before explaining just how disappointed she is) and that's Clarke's cue to leave the battlefield. "Thanks Sheriff," she mutters with contempt, stomping her bare feet all the way upstairs for show.

She stops at the top of the steps and sits down on the floorboard, leaning against the wall, covered from view from the kitchen, and listens - like she does every time there is an argument she cannot wrap her mind around.

On the opposite wall there's a composition of squared card sized embroidered letters to form the family name Vera Kane framed about twenty years ago. They were in the kitchen when they first moved in last October, but were relocated there when Abby decided to redecorate that wall with chalkboard paint - a choice that the artist in Clarke embraced wholeheartedly and Marcus passively accepted like the rest of Abby's interior design choices. On the plus side, the new position of the four frames now gives her a fragmented insight on what is going on around the kitchen table (where it seems most meaningful conversations always take place) reflected in their glasses.

"Since we all know it's obviously not about arthritis, then why can't Clarke go camping with her friends?"

From her hidden spot on top of the stairs Clarke silently smiles at Marcus, who unexpectedly became her best ally in dealing with her mother since... even before they moved in.

"Because... I know what they'll be up to and I don't trust teenage boys."

"What?" Marcus' disbelieving face matches Clarke's, "You mean Wells who, despite harboring Jaha's genes, is the most respectful and well mannered fourteen year old I've ever met, but will probably never get a chance with his best-friend-forever Clarke; and seventeen year old Bellamy Blake, who's likely to have no interest in fourteen year olds?" he points out - and it's a stab to Clarke's back in a way, she has to bite her lip. Because Octavia talks about Bellamy all the time and she's seen pictures of him in the last few months and she must admit he's growing on her, with his freckles and his brooding attitude, sharp comments and long curly locks falling on his eyes. As for Wells, he has been doing a lot of sports since she's gone, which did wonders to his shape; she still thinks they'll never be more than best friends but Kane shouldn't know that. How does he know that?

Abby drops the knife and shakes her head, sending a warm gold cast off hue when the light hits her hair and it glows like a halo. Even when she's crossed with her, Clarke can recognize her mother is beautiful. She wishes she had her notes and pencil to sketch the scene reflected in the glass and try to capture that spark of unleashed, raw energy she hopes she's inherited.

"They won't be the only ones around and in any case, I know teens, Marcus, and I know Clarke. She's too curious for her own good... I know I was at her age," Abby grumbles.

That's just so embarrassing, Clarke cringes while Marcus downstairs merely looks amused.

Her mother is making assumptions anyway. She should have told her she was going to accept Lexa's suggestion and share the tent with her. Their respective first impression had been terrible - mostly due to Lexa's resting bitch face and Clarke's self-assured, confident act - but the girl is witty and funny underneath the cool facade and once she got to know her better they bonded quite easily. Lexa was probably the most excited about the camping idea, Clarke feels a pang of guilt at letting her down if the weekend falls through.

"You can't lock her up, you know," Marcus reasons as her mother sets aside carrots to start slicing tomatoes, "she needs to make experiences, be it camping and sleeping on the ground, or other; so what if she wants to experiment? Think of it that way: what if she likes girls?" (to which Clarke's cheeks flush instantly) "What if she likes girls and she was off camping with only female friends, she'd probably experiment anyway, wouldn't you let her go then?"

Clarke, on top of the stairs, sits perfectly still and drags all saints down the heavens in her mind (not really knowing why exactly), suddenly feeling like eavesdropping on this conversation was a huge mistake, yet unable to not keep listening. Because now it's too late, now she needs to know and be forever deceived by her mother passing judgment (and she's not ready to rip again that fragile bond they are so slowly, and with so much effort, rebuilding); or forever pretend not to know. Abby was right: she is too curious for her own good and it's going to blow up in her face.

But her mother just purses her lips and hisses: "Another girl wouldn't get her accidentally pregnant!"

And that's it. Boys are hot, and a whole different world to discover, but girls are so pretty and much easier to approach - and she doesn't really know how she feels about it - but all Abby cares about are resulting medical conditions. Clarke almost bursts out laughing.

Marcus nods: "Fair point," he concedes. "Do you want me to show up at camp with the team in full combat gear and instill the fear of God and men on every boy in a thirty mile radius?"

Abby laughs at that and Clarke covers her giggles too, watching her forget the tomatoes, dry her hands on a kitchen cloth and sit on his lap graciously.

"You'd do that," she states, amused.

"Yeah, and Clarke would hate me forever," he remarks before burying his nose in the crook of her neck. Clarke is about to have enough and leave them to their (unintentional) display of affection when she hears his muffled next words: "I think you should have the talk."

The Talk? That talk they had early on when she was a wee child of seven and her mother dropped in her hands a book about anatomy (for children). Clarke can just imagine how awkward it's been for her parents to answer her naif questions then, but now... now it'd be even more awkward for her. Unless her mother decides to drop on her bed another book or sneak a bunch of pamphlets in her backpack, then nag her with questions - which would be more her style, but not Kane's.

From the depth of her horrified imagination, already concocting the most cringe worthy scenarios, Clarke hears her mother answering: "She is a child, she's not having sex, Marcus, not for the next ten years."

"Your child is fourteen, Abby, and she has internet access, she probably knows everything there is to know already, maybe even more than you and I both. She's a level-headed young girl, you did a great job, give yourself some credit and have a little faith in her: she needs to make mistakes to learn, make her own decisions, test her freedom…" he says softly against her throat, drawing soothing circles on her back with his thumb while Abby bristles in his lap, uncomfortable with what she's told. "You can only make sure she makes informed decisions when, you know, she'll be too wrapped up in the moment to be smart about it. In ten years," he adds mockingly.

Clarke sits there, red to the top of her ears, dreading the time she'll have to actually hear all about those information, but can't help feeling a little bit grateful for Marcus' objective point of view. He really is a tamer of spirits, she thinks. Her mother is finally happy, but she is the really lucky one. A realization that comes paired with guilt for never really expressing any gratitude - in plain teenager style. He's not her Dad, he'll never be, but he seems to be as supportive as, and the only one who can talk to her mother like that - like family. He's also, overall, a nice guy. Her mother could have done a lot worse. (Clarke virtually high-fives her).

"You know, you could ask for Raven's help: she'll show up with a selection of cucumbers and zucchinis, and spare condoms," continues Marcus leaning back on the chair. "Just let me know when it happens so I don't walk in on vegetable violation," he says making Abby throatily laugh.

Clarke smiles, too, vaguely imagining someone who might make her laugh like that.

"Have you had the talk with Raven when…"

"Nah, I talked to Finn."

"Did it go well?"

"Well, yes," he says frowning, "I tried to joke and suggest he waited to be wed so they made a run for Vegas two days later to get married. But they got caught with fake IDs and were returned home." They both chuckle and it's refreshing, in a way. Clarke mentally notes to ask Raven about it later, but just keeps listening to the sound of happy voices. In the fragmented image of the kitchen in the glass, her mother stands up, entertained, and Marcus holds her hands, that way Clarke's seen in movies, brushing his thumb on the finger where a ring should be, making her heart race, unable to decipher what she's hoping for.

Abby snorts just to become serious soon after. "I just want Clarke to be as happy as I am now, one day," she confesses. He smirks that cheeky grin of his and they kiss after that, achingly sweet and languid, tangling hands in hair and clinging to one another in the warm dying summer day, like the rest of the world is not watching.

Clarke sighs and closes her eyes letting her head fall back against the wall - not exactly disturbed - and sees Bellamy's warm, freckled skin, Octavia's dark hair swinging around her as she turns, the sharp curve of Lexa's hip when she stretches in gym class, Wells' familiar, sheepish white smile, the calming, comforting raise and fall of her father's chest just before falling asleep on his lap, the shadow of Raven's eyelashes on her cheeks when she's working, Kane's perfect hands, dirty with soil, as he tends to his potted plants, and her mother's eyes, squinting in the desert sun with that tempting, alluring strike of copper and gold.

People are beautiful, she thinks grimly, sketches will never grasp how they make her feel or the sound of their voices, the warmth of a touch, the memory of a perfume, but she can paint a pretty thorough image of love in her head with just that, around a kitchen table.

The end.