#cttc

That evening, she fretted to Lexa about it over FaceTime. A ball of stress and anxiety. On the verge of a panic attack. Pacing the carpet in the chain-hotel room the production company put her up in for the first couple of weeks. And Lexa had patiently listened to Clarke spiral until she ran out steam and flopped onto the bed with a heavy sigh, the mental and physical exhaustion of being on set for 14 hours finally taking its toll.

In a steady, soothing voice Lexa reminded her to breathe. Talked her down from the proverbial ledge. Told her that, even though Clarke would be the Meryl fucking Streep of superheroes and The CW would be lucky to have her on their roster, she deserved this, and she has nothing to prove to anyone. Clarke won this role because of her immense talent, charisma, drive and determination, and Lexa couldn’t be more proud. Proud and impressed and so much in love. She’d give anything to be there now and show Clarke.

And Clarke is like, eyebrow raised, “Oh yeah? What would you do if you were here with me?” 

Suffice to say, things soon took a decidedly raunchy turn and Clarke forgot all about her nerves.

The pep talk does get through, and Clarke’s confidence returns. She quickly becomes a standout, impressing all with her preparation, professionalism and work ethic (it turns out her stint in low-budget genre TV actually provided a good training ground for hitting her marks consistently, in a minimal number of takes). She steals every scene that she’s in, giving an electrifying performance, owning the soundstage. And the notes from the execs, direct from Indra herself, is that they want to give her character more prominence, give Clarke more to do, because this is lighting in a bottle.

Murphy’s top-billing turn as the male Svengali pulling the strings might be how the show was pitched initially, but it becomes clear that the messy, disintegrating relationships within the punk girl band that Clarke’s character fronts is the beating heart of the drama. And so there’s a pivot towards the season’s end, bringing them to the fore. Clarke’s image features prominently in the marketing collateral. When Raven excitedly sends her a snap of a billboard on Sunset with Clarke’s face on it, she knows her life is going to change irrevocably.

Then the advance reviews come out for the show - The Roxy - but Clarke can’t bring herself to look. Old theatre superstition. Never read your own notices. So Lexa reads for her. Clarke is singled out for praise among the ensemble by the Hollywood Reporter and Deadline, among other publications. It starts to snowball from there, her profile on the rise. She gets featured in a “ones to watch/30 under 30” list in Variety, and Roan is fielding calls all the time, Clarke heavily in-demand for interviews and the talk show circuit.

The premiere is a glitzy affair, the private screening held at a movie theatre. Lexa’s chest balloons with pride to witness Clarke’s shining moment from the sidelines, to see her posing for the photographers on the red carpet, that megawatt smile lighting up her face, looking drop dead gorgeous in a long navy blue gown with a plunging neckline, dripping in loaned diamonds. 

When they take their seats and the lights go down, Lexa reaches for Clarke’s hand. She’s nervous. Despite the glowing reviews in the press and the praise from the studio, Clarke had only seen bits and pieces of the rushes, so she doesn’t yet know how it all hangs together, and she never likes watching her performance back anyway. Always picking out the flaws, critiquing this line delivery or that facial expression.

There’s a graphic sex scene in the first ten minutes, to establish her character’s sexually-freewheeling, wild-woman of rock persona, and while it’s weird and a bit cringey for Clarke to see her tits on a big screen (the ‘B’ in HBO really does stand for ‘boobs’), beside her Lexa is restless for other reasons.

Normally, Lexa is cool as a cucumber, calm and collected on the surface, but she gets an uncomfy wiggle in her stomach watching Clarke getting hot and heavy with another woman. And this twinge of jealousy is new, disconcerting territory. Lexa has never been the type. She’s secure enough in herself and their relationship to rationalise that it’s just acting. Nothing to feel threatened by. 

But, even so.

It doesn’t help when Clarke leans close to be heard and whisper-reveals that it took four takes. Joking that, by the time they wrapped, her scene partner knew her cup size almost as intimately as she does.

Lexa smiles tightly, but says nothing.

Too busy staring at the screen, where Clarke’s counterpart currently has her hand working between the groupie’s legs in a way that’s made explicit more by suggestion than any gratuitous display of skin, by the way the girl’s breath hitches sharply, pretending like she’s being fucked hard enough against the wall to lift her whole body up an inch with every simulated thrust.

It makes Lexa flush all over. 

Kind of turned on, because it’s undeniably hot and she can’t help putting herself in that girl’s place. At the same time, watching this stranger attack Clarke’s mouth in a hungry kiss makes Lexa burn for different, more territorial reasons. Which is absurd, because it’s Not Real. Except, Clarke’s making those same low, throaty noises like she does when they’re together and it’s impossible for Lexa not to make that connection in her mind.

She’s so much in her own head about it all that she doesn’t immediately notice that Clarke’s gaze is boring into her cheek.

Because Clarke catches on quickly to what’s happening.

She isn’t outwardly smug about it, but she does experience a little thrill. A tiny bolt of giddy pleasure that zips down her spine while Lexa stews in her unease. Tension rolling off her. Evident in how rigidly she’s sitting. Free hand clenched into a fist on her thigh, the other squeezing Clarke’s. Jaw clenched so tight she might give herself a muscle strain.

There’s a fervent urgency to Lexa’s touch when they get home in the early hours, having made appearances at the afterparty (and the even more exclusive after-afterparty). Kisses fierce and unrelenting. All the brooding reserve Lexa exhibited at the parties is long gone. Clarke comes twice before they even make it to the bed. Barely gets a wink of sleep because Lexa seems intent on claiming her over and over.

During breakfast, Clarke prods at Lexa’s lingering reticence, gently teasing, until Lexa sighs and admits her discomfort. Not about Clarke, but Lexa’s own baseless feelings of jealousy and her failure to process them in a healthy way by communicating with her girlfriend. And Clarke melts a little. Situates herself in Lexa’s lap, and tells her she’d be more concerned if Lexa hadn’t been fazed at all. But she explains that part of the job is treating it like an action scene. Every beat is choreographed. An intimacy coordinator is present at all times and the blocking is discussed in clinical detail so that both parties are fully comfortable and aware of boundaries. It’s not remotely arousing; Clarke was mentally considering what to have from craft services at lunch when that girl’s tongue was in her mouth.

With a small, faint, but palpably relieved smile, Lexa says, “always thinking with your stomach.”

And Clarke is like, “well, duh. I’ve been on this awful diet for months. At any given moment I’m daydreaming about fish tacos.”

Then she spots the impish twinkle in Lexa’s eye and Clarke swats at her shoulder. “Mind out of the gutter, Woods.” A pause. “Okay, yeah, that too. But only yours, for the record.”

Lexa brushes the tips of their noses together.

Lexa goes to the set to watch the filming of Clarke's show. She's met at the security desk by an assistant (Maya?)

The set: a dingy basement club, the brick walls covered in overlapping tour posters and fliers: The Stooges, New York Dolls, The Velvet Underground, Iggy Pop. A small stage at the back of the bar, lit by a couple of spotlights. Tables and chairs scattered around. A neon lit bar runs the length of one wall.

Clarke's costume: smoky eye makeup and faux fur hanging off one bare shoulder. All in black. An alluring stare directed at the camera

Lexa gets to watch Clarke in action, tearing up the stage. It blows Lexa's mind. Impressed by it all and wholly infatuated by Clarke's performance, this charge of headstrong rock, the bluesy swagger of her vocals, full of crags and cracks, and the sneer on her lips. Parading around with so much attitude. Clarke glances at Lexa while she sings in a sandpapery alto, holding Lexa's gaze for a long second and it gives her chills

Lexa gets an insight into what acting for television is really like. Each scene is shot multiple times from multiple angles, with different sets of blocking. It takes hours to shoot a single minute-long scene. Resetting the position of the cameras. Adjusting the lighting. Makeup and hair retouches. Running the same lines 20 times over, at varying cadences; faster, slower, and the widest range of emotional temperatures. Heightened or naturalistic. Intense preparation and a flurry of activity followed by a lot of waiting around

There's no privacy either. People knock on the trailer door every five minutes or you could be sitting around for hours

Clarke's process for memorising lines: she has a working script where she writes out the lines from the whole scene and blanks out her own, leaving only the prepositions as a memory aide

Lexa watches Clarke chat with the crew a little, the gaffers and grips. Jokes as a hem is adjusted or a hair is teased back into place. Sees how at ease and natural Clarke is with the crew, no ego. She's super nice and polite to the production assistants when they bring her water between takes

Murphy is the opposite. He takes a method approach. He doesn't talk to anyone or make eye contact except with the director or producers during downtime to stay focused, stay in character. Withdraws to his trailer. Even maintains a flawless English accent throughout (thick Brummie like Ozzy Osbourne? for the lols)

At the break, Lexa tells Clarke how badly she wants to kiss her. And Clarke is like, "Uh, I'm not gonna incur the wrath of the hair and makeup ladies by letting you mess up my look, buster."

But she walks her fingers up Lexa's bicep, following the trunk of the tattoo, then slips her hand around to grip the back of Lexa's neck. "Fuck. Kinda really want to though. But, hey, come discover the joy of craft services."

They hang out with the extras at lunch, and Lexa falls a little deeper as she observes Clarke interacting with people, remembering small details about their lives and showing a genuine interest in them

The AD asks Lexa if she'd like to be an extra in the scene and she leaps at the chance - can't wait to boast to her pals at the salon. Tris, in particular, is gonna flip her shit when she hears

At the denouement of the scene, Clarke goes off script, wades into the crowd, through the press of bodies and up to Lexa. Tells Lexa under her breath to follow her lead and pulls her into a hungry kiss. Lexa's dazed reaction is genuine and she sways forward as Clarke retreats