Clarke makes it all the way to the kitchen, throws open the pantry door and pulls the chain light before she remembers she can't cook. Something about taking care of Lexa, the domesticity of it all, had fooled her into thinking she somehow newly possessed this skill by virtue of genre construction.

Clarke walks into the pantry and closes the door behind her, alone with the boxes of mashed potato flakes, canned corn, and the still swinging light chain. She fights the urge to sit on the floor, curl up, and turn off her brain. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep or the early hour or the strangeness of the circumstance, but it felt like at some point in the night she and Lexa had slipped into a sideways space where nothing existed apart from them and the house. It wasn't an unwelcome sensation, not entirely, but the intimacy of it frightens Clarke- like this morning was one for telling secrets, whether you wanted to or not. Like staying up together as the sun rose was some kind of pact magic that existed in humans since there had been a sun to rise and Lexa's place in her heart was going to be cemented there indelibly. As if it hadn't been the summer of Lexa already for Clarke.

There was simply too much to lose, and Clarke doesn't feel strong enough to brave another loss.

Clarke comes to herself, realizing that she's been locking eyes with the Quaker Oats man the entire time. She grabs the oatmeal off the shelf, takes a deep breath, and opens the pantry door, emerging out into the kitchen where golden sunlight bisects the room- half in brilliant warmth, the other in cool shadow.

It takes a moment for her to find where the pots are stored, the kitchen is so rarely used. After a scuffle with an overstacked cabinet and a moment to peel off the price tag, Clarke stands in the middle of the kitchen, pot held in one hand as she studies the directions on the oatmeal with a frown, deciding to eyeball the measurements rather than try to find wherever the measuring spoons and cups had ended up.

The next few minutes are taken up with the minutia of boiling water, of finding sugar and pouring milk, of rinsing blueberries and shaking up orange juice jugs. Birds sing outside the window. The normalcy of it is comforting to Clarke, and she tries to focus on nothing but the task at hand, doing her best to shake off the meditative moments where Lexa's face comes to her mind and she finds herself staring into the middle distance.

Even with her attempted full attention, the oatmeal clumps and singes at the bottom, and Clarke does her best to hide the inconsistencies with copious amounts of sugar and berries. She clears a bowl of fake lemons off a decorative tray and replaces it with two steaming bowls of oatmeal, two spoons, two glasses of orange juice, and two green cloth napkins that Clarke folds and refolds, fussing with the placement of them so much that Clarke actually begins to lose respect for herself.

Clarke takes a deep breath, pushes her hair out of her face, and picks up the tray, padding softly back into the living room, walking carefully to avoid spilling any juice. She looks up to see Lexa, still on the couch, the sunlight accentuating every cut and bruise. Clarke could paint every shade of purple and blue she sees there, every rusting red that spiders across her skin, but she wishes she couldn't, wishes the only sketches she could draw of Lexa were ones where she was whole. Clarke sighs, and it's a sigh of mingled sadness and affection.

Lexa attempts to sit up as Clarke comes forward to set the tray on the coffee table. Clarke frowns at Lexa's grimace of pain at the movement.

"Lie back down, Lexa," Clarke commands.

Lexa shakes her head, "I'll have to sit up eventually, Clarke."

Clarke sighs again as Lexa continues to struggle, finally settling on placing the pillow from her floor-bed behind Lexa with a disapproving look.

"Thank you, Clarke," Lexa says, and her eyes are only a little glassy from pain, "There is room now, if you would like to sit?"

Clarke nods, taking a seat by Lexa's socked feet. Lexa's socks are gray, with red toes and heels, and Clarke is too fond of her. She hands Lexa a bowl of oatmeal, and slides her orange juice closer to her on the table.

"Thank you for breakfast, Clarke," Lexa says, stirring the oatmeal slowly, "I don't know how to thank you. For everything you've done."

Clarke shakes her head, remembering how she'd frozen the night before, how she'd been so frightened of losing Lexa she'd been unable to help the way she wanted to.

"I wish I could have done more," is what she ends up saying.

Lexa smiles, split-lipped and soft, "I already owe you a great deal, Clarke. I don't know that I could afford more."

They eat in silence for a time, Lexa taking measured bites and methodically chewing, Clarke doing her best not to wolf her food down immediately. As the food runs out, the words build up, and Clarke begins to dig her toes into the carpet.

"So," Clarke says, elongating the 'o' as she pushes the last clump of oatmeal around the bottom of her bowl.

"So," Lexa replies, placing her own bowl on the table and folding her hands like she's in a boardroom, sets her shoulders like a general.

"I was in a fight last night," she says.

"Yes," Clarke nods, eyes running over Lexa's various injuries,"I put that much together."

"Nia and her group are-" Lexa seems to grasp for the right words, "They-she-objects to my sexuality."

"So she's an asshole."

"Yes. Also I dated her sister."

"Oh," Clarke says, eyebrows raising as she looks away from Lexa and down at her empty bowl, "Are you and her sister still close?"

Lexa takes a long time to reply, "No. We're no longer close."

Clarke glances back at Lexa, who is staring out at nothing, mess of hair and tousled braids obscuring her expression.

"There's more you're not telling me."

"Yes," Lexa says, but offers nothing else.

"Okay," Clarke says, "I guess that has to be good enough."

Lexa nods once.

"For now," Clarke amends.

Lexa's shoulders fall, but she nods again.

Clarke collects their bowls, stacks them on the tray and takes them back out to the kitchen. The sun has fully entered the room now and with the unforgiving light Clarke realizes how tired she is. She'd like nothing more than to turn back the sun, pad back into the living room, and collapse onto the couch with Lexa.

When she does come back to the living room, Lexa is sitting up on the couch, a look of horror on her face.

"Lexa?" Clarke asks, moving to her quickly and kneeling next to her, "What's wrong?"

"Clarke," Lexa says, and her eyes are downcast, "I have something to confess."

Clarke frowns, puts her hand on Lexa's knee.

"I think I got blood on your white couch," Lexa says, pulling her tangled blanket to the side to reveal the smudges of dried brown blood from the many cuts and scrapes they'd been heedless of the night before in their haste to set Lexa's arm.

"Oh, shit," Clarke says, thinking of Abby and the interior decorator she'd hired to do this room.

"Yes. Shit," Lexa grimaces.

"Well," Clarke says, chewing at her lip, "I guess we have to flee the scene."

It takes time for Clarke to search through Abby's bag to find her keys, and longer to painstakingly get Lexa to the garage, her arm thrown around Clarke's neck as they move as slow as possible, partly for silence and partly for Lexa's bruised ribs.

The car is new, and starts with a barely audible purr, but opening the garage door sounds like a landslide. Clarke reverses slowly, switching off the automatic headlights so not even a stray beam can make its way across Abby's upstairs window and alert her to their escape.

Once she turns onto the twisting lake road it's smooth sailing- the road is deserted this early in the morning and well paved this close to the water and the complaints of the rich who abhor potholes. The silence Clarke had wrapped them in to secure their escape becomes nerve-wracking- the only sounds the smooth whir of wheel over still wet road and the gentle huff of the air conditioning. Clarke turns on the CD player with a quick jab, and her mother's Coldplay CD starts to play. It's corny, Clarke thinks, glancing over at Lexa to gauge her reaction, but not too embarrassing.

Lexa has her elbow up on the window, chin in her hand as she looks out, a surprisingly relaxed gesture that feels at odds with the bruises and cuts that are still fresh on her face. Lexa looks so at ease that Clarke decides not to disturb her for directions, and instead points her internal compass towards the center of town, driving only a little over the speed limit to savor the morning.

As they leave the tree dappled lake roads and begin to pass the far less grand homes of town locals Lexa slowly loses her ease. By the time they've reached the roundabout at the center of town, war monument to victory winged high, Lexa's hands are laced tight in her lap, the set of her shoulders a visible few inches higher. Clarke stops at the entrance to the deserted roundabout and looks to Lexa, at a loss for their route finally.

Lexa nods forward, "Straight on, Clarke."

Clarke finds herself driving slower and slower, weaving carefully to avoid the several stretches of rough road, inching to a near crawl as they cross the train tracks that bisect the town. Clarke has never seen a train on these tracks.

Here is the part of town where the business's change every summer Clarke is here, where no one can seem to sustain a dream or a storefront. They pass by the giant empty parking lot of a failed grocery store, a place where seagulls inexplicably congregate, and by a strip of fast food restaurants- the only places that have had a face lift in the past several years, and only to keep up with the marketing campaigns that must be kept uniform through every state.

Clarke glances over at Lexa, and there is something wistful in her look, like she's also taking in the enormity of a town that only ever seems to grow more faded and cracked every year.

"Turn here, Clarke," Lexa instructs, and Clarke does, turning down a tree lined street with a number of old and once beautiful houses that are showing their age. At the corner is a church, white paint peeling, message board advertising a surprising number of services throughout the week, and an unelaborated on verse: Proverbs 6:16-19.

"Just down this street. On the right," Lexa supplies.

Clarke drives forward and turns into a parking lot so cracked to pieces that dandelions are growing between the asphalt. Several cars are also parked, none of them new, and all of them with some unique car ailment- a duct taped on exhaust pipe, missing hubcaps, a door of a completely different color. The apartment complex they sit in front of seems similarly dilapidated- a grungy beige that was popular two decades ago, a roof that's missing shingling, and rusted out balcony fencing. Clarke parks and turns off the engine, turning to Lexa.

Lexa doesn't look at her, and there is color to her normally pale cheeks. Clarke is suddenly aware that what she had mistook for anxiety in Lexa may well have been something else.

"Lexa?"

Lexa picks at a blood stain at the hem of her shirt, eyes trained downward, "I may need your help getting up the stairs Clarke, but I will be fine from there. Thank you for the ride. It was kind of you."

Clarke frowns, and shakes her head, taking one of Lexa's too busy hands in her own.

"Quit it," she says, and Lexa looks up to meet her eyes, "You're being real fucking weird right now."

Lexa smiles, which surprises both of them, and nods.

"Okay," Clarke says, squeezing Lexa's hand one last time before opening the car door. She goes over to Lexa's side and helps her out, looping an arm around Lexa's waist to support her. They hobble to the stairs and make their way up, Clarke insisting on several breathers when she sees that Lexa is gritting her teeth. When they finally make it up to the second floor, Lexa leads them to the third door down. The numbering announces that it is the 2nd apartment, but the faded imprint and screw holes of a lost number hint that it is in fact the 12th. There is an outdoor lamp that Lexa carefully unscrews the glass from, fishing out a hide-a-key and spending a moment struggling with a sticky lock, before finally pushing the door open.

It's dim inside, the blinds all pulled closed, and it takes Clarke's eyes a moment to adjust. The inside of the apartment is like stepping into a sepia photograph- everything seems to have that faded out brown look to it. There is wafer thin brown carpet, a brown and tan patterned couch, and more wood panelling than Clarke had thought still existed, including an ancient wood panelled TV. Clarke can hear the refrigerator humming.

"Is there anyone else here to help you?" Clarke asks.

Lexa unwinds herself from Clarke's hold on her, limping towards the couch. She sits on the arm of it and begins to laboriously unlace her shoes. Clarke starts forward to offer to do it for her, but stops herself.

"My sister will not be back from her haul until tomorrow evening, but I will be fine until then, Clarke."

"Can I get you anything? Some water?"

For a moment Lexa looks as though she might refuse her, and then she winces, "Water would be welcome."

Clarke opens several bare cupboards before she finds where the glasses are kept, grabs an orange plastic one and fills it at the sink. By the time she returns with it Lexa has managed to get one boot off and seems to be taking a break to steel herself before the next one.

"Here you go," Clarke says, passing the glass over.

"Thank you, Clarke," Lexa says, and the words make her sound tired. "And thank you for bringing me up. I really will be alright now."

"I know," Clarke says, staring at her, "Can I stay anyway?"

The side of Lexa's mouth quirks up in a sad smile, and in this dim house she looks broken down and at home.

"Of course," Lexa says.

Clarke matches her half smile. She feels adrift in this house, not sure what to touch or where to sit, but she knows she doesn't want to leave.

"I think I should get out of these clothes," Lexa says, pulling at a tear in her dark jeans, which brings to attention her dirt and blood rimmed fingers, "and perhaps take a shower."

"Okay," Clarke says, feeling her face color, "can I- should I help with that?"

"I will manage, Clarke," Lexa says, smiling at Clarke's stutter.

Lexa begins an uneven, one-booted walk down a dim hallway, opening a door on the left, and turning back to Clarke for a moment before she disappears inside, "Make yourself at home, Clarke."

Clarke nods and gives a stilted wave at Lexa's disappearing form, biting her lip at the bizarrity of her own behaviour. Left alone in the house, Clarke isn't quite sure what to do with herself, deciding to take a slow loop through the living room, fingers running along the wood panelling, catching at the seams. Behind the couch is a shelf with a few photos and tchotchkes that arrests her attention.

One photo is of a shockingly young Lexa, face dour even in childhood and pink barrettes, seated next to a teenager who shares the same sharp cheekbones, piercing eyes, and scowl. Clarke guesses this must be Anya in her youth- the half-sister she's heard only a little about and who seems to be away more often than not. Another photo is of a woman, perhaps a little older than Clarke is now, wearing elaborate braids and a fond smile as she looks down at a baby in her arms. There is not much beyond the similarity of her braids to Lexa's that would suggest her identity, but Clarke makes an assumption anyway. There is an American flag folded into a triangle that Clarke tentatively traces the edge of a star on, wondering who Lexa had cared for that fell. The rest of the knick knacks Clarke can't parse the meaning of- a small silver bell, a drawing of a startled looking rabbit, a snow globe of Chicago with no water inside, all coated in a layer of dust.

Clarke is momentarily startled by the groaning sound of pipes and the sound of spraying water, an indication that Lexa had at least managed to get the shower going. There is nothing else on the walls of the living room to hold her attention, so Clarke's gaze drifts downwards to a crate shoved underneath the coffee table. Refusing to listen to the part of her that suggests she might officially be snooping, Clarke gingerly pulls the box free and finds that it's full of a old records, the sleeves showing the signs of being well-loved rather than meticulously collected. She flips through them- Singin' In the Rain, Judy In Love, Breakfast at Tiffany's, A Couple of Song and Dance Men- faces Clarke vaguely remembers from old movies, songs that have been covered a dozen times since these recordings. She pulls out an old copy of Oklahoma! and smiles at the brilliant orange sky over the two lovebirds giving sappy smiles, about to burst into song. She glances around the room for a record player, but there's nothing in the living room. Still clutching the record, Clarke wanders down the hallway Lexa had disappeared down. Clarke can hear the sound of the shower through the door on her left, and she briefly places her ear against the wood, listening for she doesn't know what before she hurries along, pushing open another door on the right to escape.

Clarke can tell immediately that this is Lexa's room. The bed has been made with clinical precision, a frayed knit blanket folded at the end, and there is a row of plants sitting in the windowsill, all looking obnoxiously healthy and full. Aside from the bed, there is only one other piece of furniture; a desk with faux wood covering that peels at the corners, stacked carefully with books. Clarke shifts them slightly to read the titles and grimaces- Problem Solving in Chemical Engineering with Numerical Methods, Fluid Mechanics, Heat Transfer, and Mass transfer. Three pencils are laid out in a straight line and a protractor sits at the exact same angle. Impulsively, Clarke grabs a sticky note from a well-organized supply box that also contains silver paperclips and plain thumbtacks. She slaps it on the desk next to the pencils, scrawls "super weird" and draws an arrow to the now slightly askew pencils.

Clarke wanders the room, record and sticky notes still in hand, and she finds herself writing questions and sticking them around the room. "What are these" she writes next to the plants and sticks it on the window. "Why engineering" she writes a note on top of Lexa's books. Clarke opens Lexa's closet to find rows of plaid button downs and just two pairs of pants. "Which is your favorite shirt," she writes and puts it on the closet door handle. "Who made this," is stuck to the fraying yarn of the knit blanket. As time passes Clarke writes more open-ended questions, sticking them on the walls at arbitrary points- "who was the flag for" "what color is Anya's truck" "when will you tell me your middle name" "do you think the fish you caught were frightened" "should we get a posse together and kick Nia's ass."

Clarke almost misses the sound of the the shower turning off, only stopping her scribbling when she hears shuffling steps down the hallway. She drops the sticky notes back on Lexa's desk, returns the pen she'd been using back to its holder, just as the door opens and Lexa walks in.

It becomes quickly apparent that neither of them had thought through this part- where Clarke would stand or where she should look or if she should say anything when Lexa walks into the room soaking wet, hair clinging damply to bruised collarbones, and wrapped only in a rough gray towel. Their eyes meet for a moment before Lexa blushes- a coloring that Clarke can see goes all the way down her neck and chest- and looks away.

"Sorry. I'll go," Clarke says, taking a step towards the door, towards Lexa. Water is puddling on the carpet at Lexa's feet, running down her bare legs.

"It's okay. Just have a seat," Lexa says, backing up and gesturing in the direction of the desk chair. "You can," Lexa clears her throat, "face the other way."

"Oh," Clarke says, "sure."

Lexa opens the closet door, using it as an obscuring screen as Clarke flips the chair around, facing towards the window, eyes locked on the sky outside. She hears the sound of plastic hangers rattling and fabric rustling.

"I see you found the records," Lexa says from behind the door.

Clarke reflexively squeezes the record in her hand, raising it to her chest, feeling as naked as Lexa in the moment.

"No record player though," Clarke replies, her voice raspy to her own ears.

"We had to sell it," Lexa says, "But I refused to let Anya take the records. No one would buy them anyway."

Clarke looks down at the record in her hands- those cheerful smiles, that brilliant sunset-wondering how long it had been since Lexa had listened to it.

"I wouldn't have guessed you were a fan of musicals."

"They belonged to my mother," Lexa says, and Clarke can feel her walking up behind her, turns to look back up at her. Lexa's hair is still tousled and wet, hanging loosely over her shoulders and a black and blue flannel. Faded block letters that read "Tri-State" ran down the legs of her worn gray sweatpants. Lexa looks pale and scrubbed clean. The blood and grime is gone, and what's left is the fine lines of repair, like shattered ceramic carefully glued back together. "She loved old movies, old musicals. When I was small we would spend all night watching them. She knew every word to every song. She was not as talented at the dance numbers."

Lexa's eyes are fixed on the record as she speaks and Clarke can see in them that depth of resigned sadness she's seen there before, like loss was a home you could grow used to rather than one you ran away from.

For a moment Clarke is tempted to ask more, but thinks better of it. Whatever had happened, Lexa's mother wasn't here now, and the sadness

on Lexa's face was explanation enough.

"I'm sorry," Clarke says, holding out the record.

Lexa shakes her head slightly, the corner of her mouth going up in an attempt at a smile.

"It's alright, Clarke," she says as she takes the record, placing it carefully on the desk, "It was a long time ago."

Clarke can't help but think of her father, can't help but wonder if in a year, five years, ten, she will still have that same broken down, rusty catch in her voice that Lexa has when she speaks of her mother. Clarke wonders if she'll also insist that the pain is too long ago to matter, even as she handles pieces of her father so gingerly, like they might cut her open if mishandled. Her heart aches for herself, and for Lexa.

"It's this one," Lexa says, turning back to Clarke and holding out the post-it note from the closet, "my favorite shirt."

Clarke laughs and it catches in her throat, twists around the tears there. She reaches out to Lexa, grabbing a fistful of her shirt, soft and faded to the touch and heated from Lexa's still water warm skin. Clarke feels Lexa's hands in her hair, and tugs her forward so she can bury her face against Lexa's middle, inhales the smell of fabric softener and that uniquely green smell that belongs just to Lexa. She feels Lexa's fingers continue to twist through her hair, feels Lexa bend to hold her, feels the soft kiss Lexa leaves on top of her head.

"I'm sorry," Clarke says around the tears, face buried in Lexa's shirt.

"I'm not," Lexa says, and Clarke both hears and feels her voice, so close are they together. "It's not wrong to be in pain, Clarke."

Clarke continues to clutch at Lexa, taking comfort in the steady feel of her body around her, the way Lexa's careful fingers run through her hair, grazing her neck.

"I'm so tired," Clarke says.

"I know," Lexa replies, "I am too."

Clarke looks up and meets Lexa's eyes, green and weary and soft for her.

"Can I stay?" She asks.

Lexa nods, and holds out a hand for Clarke to take. Clarke reaches for her, and Lexa locks their fingers together, pulls Clarke to the bed. She folds Clarke underneath blankets and close to herself, and Clarke nestles into her arms, careful against Lexa's ribs. Lexa's bed smells overwhelmingly of her, and Clarke clothes her eyes, breathes it in and is comforted. When she opens her eyes again she finds Lexa still looking at her with the same warmth, the same care. Clarke traces a line across Lexa's sharp cheekbones, dancing over the scrapes there. Lexa's fingers find their way back to Clarke's hair, stroking it away from her temple and, instinctively, Clarke turns to kiss Lexa's wrist.

"Clarke," Lexa sighs, and Clarke watches her cheeks and neck color again.

Clarke loves the sound of her name in Lexa's voice, loves the way Lexa seems to melt under her lips even more. Clarke is exhausted, and so tired of being sad. More than anything she just wants to sink into the sound of Lexa saying her name.

"This is a really strange summer for me," Clarke says, "but I'm glad you're in it."

Lexa smiles, still looking a little shaken, "Well, this is all fairly standard for me."

Clarke traces the smile with her fingertips, her touch lingering at the corner of Lexa's mouth.

"I liked kissing you the other night," Clarke says.

"I enjoyed it too, Clarke."

"So you wouldn't mind if I tried it again?"

"No," Lexa says, and her voice is lower, her eyes darker.

Clarke closes the distance between them, presses her lips to Lexa's jaw, to her neck, to the place just below her ear.

"Clarke," Lexa says again, her voice nearing a whine.

Clarke grins, biting her lip, "You don't like building anticipation?"

Lexa's fingers twist in Clarke's hair, dragging Clarke towards her so that Lexa's lips finally meet her own. Lexa's lip is split and Clarke knows it must hurt, but Lexa doesn't seem to care, kissing Clarke harder until Clarke opens her mouth and feels Lexa's tongue against hers. Clarke's hands start to slide down Lexa's side, forgetting to be careful against the bruises and cuts along her skin, digging her fingers into Lexa's hips. One of Lexa's hands traces down Clarke's neck, brushes across her collarbone, and Clarke's skin shocks at the touch.

Clarke is so wrapped up in the feeling of Lexa against her, the taste of her mouth, and the smell of her skin, that she only dimly registers the sound of a door clicking open, or the sound of stomping feet. It's only when Lexa draws back and cocks her head at the door that Clarke's senses are able to register anything other than Lexa.

"Lexa?" a sharp voice calls from somewhere in the apartment, sounding rough and familiar.

Lexa's eyebrows shoot upward and Clarke would have been tempted to laugh at her expression if she wasn't in such a compromising position.

"Anya's home early," Lexa says, her face still flush, "Would you like to meet my sister?"