depth

vi

It's the little moments.

Big moments can't happen yet, no; not while she's uncertain whether Lexa feels the same, and certainly not while Finn is in close proximity. But those moments are yet to come, and she's looking forward to them.

The little moments, though? Clarke loves those.

Two-beer-Clarke is less subtle with her looks than her former sober self. Two-beer-Clarke doesn't care as much about who knows, as long as it's not Finn – but God knows everyone else has noticed. She's 98% certain Lincoln and Lexa had another one of their silent conversations on the way home from the field. Both of them holding other people up, yet still looking up at Clarke like they were the only people present. It was almost rude.

She's 98% certain because, well, she was there. She was the person on Lexa's back. (Lexa is easily persuaded, might she add.) Maybe not paying full attention, but she definitely glimpsed their looks to her and it's enough for her to be almost certain of the conversation topic.

She's getting tired of almosts.

Octavia, on Lincoln's back, had front-row tickets to the spectacle of two-beer-Clarke, the Clarke more confident to show how astounded she was by the pealing laugh of the girl beneath her. (Her black-haired best friend was just as subtle as Raven earlier, earning herself a nice little scowl from the blonde.)

So, yes, two-beer-Clarke is not subtle when it comes to her love, and she is wholly appreciative of the little moments. The journey home counts as one of them.

Being treated to a piggyback by her best friend, she'd been dragged away from social interaction by the sight of the nape of Lexa's neck. Sweat glistening in the summer sun, curled little hairs dressing the skin as if cotton. All of this composition, tiny little brushstrokes to make up a mortal masterpiece. Every piece invaluable, nothing without the other. And, Christ, this was only one small part of Lexa's body; Clarke was close to speaking in tongues from the sight of it. To say she appreciated it would be to disappoint the depth of the little moment.

Like adjusting the exposure – that seemed truer than ever. Now she wanted more: more light, more everything. She wanted to embrace it.

She'd disguised that want with exhaustion and let out a long sigh – an always-exhalation propelled, unusually, by untruthfulness. She'd rested her head against Lexa's. Even with the bouncing of the brunette's feet on the trek home, there was still comfort to be had.

The brunette had turned her head so it leaned into Clarke's, gifted to the blonde that soft smile reserved for the few but loved by the many.

Two-drink-Lexa smiles more. Clarke loves it.

Even softer were her words. "Nearly home now. Stay with me and we'll get there, okay?"

Clarke's had that memory wrapped around every single one of her movements since. Returning with a baseball bat and no baseball – Bell had rocketed that into the school grounds – she's attempted to claw that memory out of her head. Not because she wants to – God, no – but because she has to.

Soft skin, arms braced around Clarke's thighs. Hair swept to the side and undulating down one shoulder – little meanders and leaner waves. The cut of her jacket, its pliable form, the contrast between skin and denim.

And the softness of both. The softness of it all. Soothing words and a soothing tone, meted out from lungs ready to work for the two of them. Breathing in sync and, even through Clarke's dishonesty, the soft intentions behind their thoughts.

It's damn hard to forget a little thing like that.

She knows she must be the doting girlfriend – if not for Finn, then for her friends. Pretences must be Clarke's forte today; the pretences that she loves Finn instead of Lexa. The inaccuracy of the whole situation is nearly breaking her, but she retains a smile through the whole of it.