Chapter Text
Sometimes the world moves like a film on fast forward, blurring by in smudges of color and vaguely identifiable shapes while Lexa stands still. It is an unreal sort of feeling, a floating sort of feeling, that makes her feel...
It makes her feel. That in and of itself is enough to make it uncomfortable.
The world is not meant to be a comfortable place, Lexa's mother would have said. The world is meant to be experienced.
Lexa is only twenty when she feels like she's experienced the entire weight of it, the whole world settling on the rigid line of her shoulders and the stoic arrangement of her face. What is there to feel from here?
There are no colors in the world today, only the harsh streaks of black as everyone shuffles away from the freshly dug graves they stand beside. There are consoling squeezes to her shoulder and hand, words of comfort murmured by strangers, but Lexa is not moved by them. She does not say much in response. She does not cry. She does not open the umbrella she clutches at her side like a sword to defend herself against the rain.
She simply stands, blank and staring, at the coffins that hold what remains of her parents.
Peter and Brooke Woods, both dead on impact when their plane crashed minutes after takeoff, barely anything left for their daughter to bury.
The headline had made every major news outlet from DC to the west coast, if not globally. Not for the tragedy of a small, private plane crashing and killing three people (including the pilot), but for the sheer power of the name involved. Peter Woods was known far and wide as the CEO of the Woods hotels and resorts, as well as several casinos. His enterprise was stretched worldwide, a stronghold in the hospitality industry.
The Woods are, to put it simply, some of the richest people in the world.
And everyone knows that all of that power, all of that responsibility, all of that money now belongs to the sole heir of the Woods name.
Lexa.
Lexa knows it too. She knows the weight of what she now carries and understands that the success of the company hinges on her ability to keep herself together. Any signs of weakness, and the sharks will circle and devour her (Nia Jadis already scents blood in the water).
It's a lot, but she can handle it. She is her father's daughter, after all.
(I swear, Lexa, if you turn up your nose any higher, you'll drown in the next rain, her mother would snort out, wrapping an arm around her daughter's stiff shoulders until she would soften and lean into her. Lexa would inhale her familiar perfume and sink into her hug, at home, always at home when her mother would hold her.
There's a lot of your father in you, she would murmur against Lexa's ear, but remember I'm in there too.
Lexa hurts. She hurts she hurts she hurts.)
//
//
The news is playing mutely on the television hanging from the ceiling of the hospital's waiting room. The subtitles flash across the screen, describing how 'hundreds of people showed up today for the funeral of Peter and Brooke Woods' and then continued with 'Lexa Woods, only twenty, is the sole benefactor of her parents' wills.' The girl herself is shown on camera, dressed all in black as she gets into a limo to leave the graveyard behind, her face serious but dry. No tears.
Clarke Griffin does not see the story, or the girl.
Her eyes are glued to the closed double doors, waiting, waiting. Beside her, her mother looks at the ground. The hand that holds Clarke's trembles in a way she's never known her mother to tremble. Their joint fear is tangible.
Jake Griffin can't die. He can't leave them.
He can't, he can't, he can't...
But he does.
Finally, finally, those door open. Dr. Jackson approaches, his surgical cap in his hands, his face set in sympathetic lines before he even reaches them. And Clarke knows. Watching him, she can see it already. She can all but hear the words he is no doubt rehearsing in his head, trying to decide on a way to tell a friend that her husband is dead.
Clarke is the daughter of a doctor, so she knows.
She must give some sign. A twitch, a squeeze of her fingers, a whimper, something. Something that alerts Abby, whose head snaps up quickly, her eyes focusing immediately on Jackson. And like Clarke, she knows. Unlike Clarke, she crumples. Before he can even reach them, she cries out and curls into herself and Clarke is there.
She's there, she's there, but it isn't enough. Not for either of them.
Clarke holds her mother and stares, but she is blind. Will she ever see again, without her father there to point out what is beautiful? He was the one who gave her the eyes of an artist. He was the one who made the world bright and vivid with detail. He was the one who encouraged Clarke to create.
He is dead.
Jake, why are we pulling over? Abby would ask.
Look at this! Look how amazing it is! Jake would say, jumping from the car. Kiddo, come here. Check this out.
Abby would roll her eyes, but Clarke would get out, and she'd move into the disgustingly filthy alley beside her father, and she would see the used condoms and broken glass and anatomically incorrect dicks spray painted onto the wall. But, like Jake, she would also see the way the sun was shining through the glass at just the right angle so that rainbows glittered on the ground. She would see the art in the signature of the artist for the hideous graffiti, more creative than the actual picture. She would smile.
And Jake would sling an arm around her shoulders, still grinning. Gotta see the beautiful through the bullshit, kiddo, he would say, and he would kiss the top of her head while Abby honked the horn to call them back to the car.
She cries, but later.
They are driving home when she cracks, the sob shaking her entire body with its intensity. Abby jerks the car over to the shoulder and reaches, pulling her in, holding her close. “We'll be okay, Clarke,” she whispers, stroking Clarke's hair.
Clarke shakes her head and clings to her mother's shirt. It won't. It won't be okay, not without him. Not without her father.
She can't see.