Chapter Text
POV Lexa
The apartment felt busy, even though Lexa was there alone. A lively mood playlist played in the background — no lyrics, so it wouldn’t snag her thoughts — and the air smelled of sweet baking and potato casserole. Lexa darted around the place as if the space had suddenly shrunk.
The cookies were done — neatly transferred into a glass container, still warm, their edges slightly uneven. She’d baked them almost on impulse, right when the waiting became too noticeable and her hands demanded something to do. Gift bags waited patiently by the front door. The dress hung in its garment bag on the bedroom door, waiting.
Happy sat on the windowsill, lazily watching her with a tired expression, as if all this daytime fuss had thoroughly worn her out.
“Sorry,” Lexa said, stopping and looking at her. “Not tonight.”
Happy blinked slowly. The judgment was silent, but eloquent.
Lexa went back to the kitchen and opened the oven. Heat and a dense, cozy scent of spices washed over her face. The casserole had reached the exact point she needed — done, but not dried out yet. She turned off the oven, sprinkled cheese on top, and closed the door.
“Five minutes,” she muttered, glancing at the clock. “And that’s it.”
Her phone buzzed on the countertop. Echo.
“Are you leaving yet?” Echo’s voice sounded suspiciously cheerful.
“I’m currently in the stage of ‘cookies versus existential crisis,’” Lexa replied. “The casserole’s almost done. It didn’t burn and it looks perfect, so I’m officially declaring this evening a success.”
“Of course it has karmic protection,” Echo said with full confidence. “It’s my casserole.”
Lexa smirked, shifted the tray, and dried her hands on a towel.
“No, darling. It’s already been claimed.”
“I’m not even going to ask by whom,” Echo chuckled.
“Why are you calling?”
“First, to make sure you’re alive. Second, to warn you: I have a surprise.”
Lexa froze for a second.
“What kind of surprise?”
“Nope,” Echo drawled, pleased with herself. “I’ve already said too much. That’s it. I’m shutting up.”
“Echo.”
“That’s it, Lexa. Just trust me. It’s literally a day of trust, in case you haven’t noticed.”
The call ended before Lexa could respond. She stared at her phone screen and snorted.
“Wonderful,” she said into the empty kitchen.
The casserole cooled just enough to be transferred. Lexa packed the container carefully, loaded everything into her bag, and ran through the list — not on paper, in her head. Everything was there.
In the bedroom she took out the dress and changed quickly, without hesitation. Hair down, minimal makeup. Tonight she wanted, more than anything, to be herself.
Before leaving, Lexa shrugged into her coat, adjusted the collar a little too sharply, paused in the entryway, and automatically slipped her hand into her pocket.
“Still there,” she said out loud to herself.
Happy watched her all the way to the door.
“I’ll be back late,” Lexa promised. “Be good.”
The cat turned away demonstratively.
Lexa closed the door and headed down the stairs already breathing differently. Her car was waiting downstairs, and ahead was the drive to Clarke.
So far, the day was shaping up pretty well.
POV Clarke
Clarke woke up while it was still dark — her brain had decided that sleep was a luxury today, and what she really needed was clarity. And, as if on purpose, clarity didn’t come. Instead, the same thought kept circling inside her head: I actually did this. I really wrote “coffee tomorrow” — and now it’s dinner “today.”
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe through its pipes and radiators. At some point she gave up, got up, and went to the kitchen, even though it still felt like night. The kettle sounded far too energetic, as if it were mocking her on purpose.
Then the fuss began. Sharp, restless, full of unnecessary movements — fingers catching on everything. Clarke cleared the table, wiped the surface, moved a mug, put it back, and finally caught herself mid-kitchen and stopped.
The bedroom was worse.
Clothes lay on the bed as if they’d simply been dumped there straight from the closet: a dress she’d worn once and then regretted; a dark turtleneck; a light blouse; a blazer; something too dressed-up for a “home dinner” and something far too casual for “seeing someone you only know through letters for the second time.” Clarke stared at the chaos with grim resignation.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said out loud and closed her eyes.
She went through the options twice in a loop, and then — as always — chose the simplest and the most hers. A white cashmere sweater: soft, comfortable, with no attempt to be anyone else. And the classic trousers she loved but rarely wore, because in everyday life it was “scrubs, scrubs, scrubs, and more scrubs.” It felt good to be in something that wasn’t work fabric, didn’t smell of antiseptic, and didn’t remind her of the clinic.
She got dressed, fastened the button, adjusted the cuff — and for the first time that morning, exhaled without that sharp click in her chest.
Clarke set her bag on the chair and went through everything point by point, like a checklist. Keys. Wallet. Phone. Charger. And a small envelope — thin, smooth, tucked away so it couldn’t be lost by accident. She touched it with her fingers, made sure it was there, and exhaled again, a little calmer.
She stepped up to the mirror and adjusted her hair, though it already lay fine. Curled a couple of strands, tucked one behind her ear, let it fall again. Her makeup was neat: nothing dramatic, just even skin, mascara, a hint of color on her lips.
“You’re not going to court,” she told herself. “You’re going to… dinner. People do that.”
The words sounded confident. Inside, something still trembled.
On the kitchen table stood two bottles of wine with red ribbons. They looked so… right that Clarke felt a little ridiculous. She’d bought them that morning — with a consultant who seemed far too delighted that someone wasn’t just grabbing “the cheapest one that’ll do,” but was genuinely nervous about choosing. Clarke had nodded along as if she were being taught a complicated formula. She picked something “universal.” Two bottles. Just in case.
Buying gifts for people you don’t really know on Christmas Eve, when the decision had been made barely fifteen hours earlier — that was, of course, peak organization. Funny. Very much her style: say “yes” first, then urgently launch a small logistical operation.
She went to the window. Outside it was gray, festive, and cold — that uniquely December mix, when the lights are on but the sun pretends it’s never met you. Clarke watched passersby hurry along, someone lugging a bag bigger than themselves, and thought that she’d soon be that person too.
Her phone rang sharply, and Clarke flinched.
Octavia. She glanced at the screen, grimaced, but answered.
“Where are you?” No greeting. “What did you pull this morning? Do you realize what I saw on the schedule?”
Clarke closed her eyes.
“Hi to you too.”
“Clarke! You swapped shifts on Christmas? Last-minute.” Octavia sounded incredulous — and a little alarmed. “Are you okay?”
Clarke pulled herself together, trying not to sound like she’d been caught committing a crime.
“It was… spontaneous.”
“Interesting,” Octavia hummed. “And for what?”
Clarke was quiet for a second. Too many words would be unnecessary; too few wouldn’t be honest.
“Do you remember… that woman?” she said finally. “With the scandalous cat.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then Octavia exhaled, as if someone had just handed her a TV series script.
“…Wait. The anxious cat lady?”
Clarke squeezed her eyes shut.
“Yes.”
“Clarke.”
“Octavia, don’t start.”
“I already have,” Octavia’s voice jumped up, bright and excited. “Are you telling me… with her? How did that even happen?”
Answering this call at all was clearly a mistake. Clarke took a heavy breath, braced herself, and almost whispered into the phone.
“She’s the same ‘elderly lady’ you saw me texting.”
The silence on the other end was nearly ringing.
“And you… you’re going somewhere tonight?”
Clarke rested her forehead against the cool glass.
“Yes.”
“Oh my God,” Octavia almost squealed. “OH MY GOD. I knew it. I knew you’d have a normal life, you were just resisting! And you didn’t tell me?!”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Clarke said quickly. “Or the day after. Really. I just… didn’t have time.”
“Fine, but this will be an interrogation,” Octavia said, clearly not joking. “Listen: if you still have the energy, come by with her. To me and Link. Seriously. We’ll be home.”
Clarke reflexively raised her hand, as if the gesture could stop the suggestion.
“Octavia, that would be too much.”
“I want to see that woman again. Purely professional interest,” Octavia cut in. “And anyway, I want to see you alive and not in uniform.”
“You’re impossible,” Clarke said, smiling now.
“Yes, thank you,” Octavia said proudly. “Alright, go. And Clarke…” Her tone softened. “I’m happy for you. Even if you’re panicking right now and pretending you’re not.”
Clarke was quiet for a second.
“I… yeah. Okay. Bye.”
“Bye. And text me tomorrow. Otherwise I’ll come to the clinic and ask questions in front of everyone.”
The call ended.
Clarke stood in silence for a few seconds, then checked the time, and everything inside her snapped into one clear impulse: Lexa had probably already arrived.
She hurried into her coat, grabbed her bag, then went back for the wine, then went back again because she’d forgotten her keys, then finally stopped by the entryway mirror — already dressed for outside, cheeks slightly flushed.
Clarke lifted the bags, adjusted her grip, and stepped out of the apartment.
She took the stairs quickly, almost running, and on the last flight caught herself smiling.
The cold air hit her face outside, and that was actually good — it pulled her together.
Lexa’s car warmed up quickly — the cabin was already cozy by the time Clarke managed to settle the bags on the back seat. Outside, the street lived by its own rhythm. Inside, there was soft half-light, quiet wordless music, and Lexa’s steady, familiar control of the road.
Clarke buckled her seatbelt, adjusted the strap a little awkwardly, as if it weren’t just a routine detail but another way to make sure all of this was actually real. Lexa caught it in her peripheral vision but didn’t comment, simply pulling out smoothly, without any sharp movements.
“Hi,” Clarke said at last. “How… how was the drive?”
“I— fast,” Lexa smiled, and there was an I’m running on adrenaline in that smile, just without the confession. “Honestly, I spent half the time staring at the clock like it might decide to move faster.”
She shifted gears, and for a moment the pause between them felt easy instead of tense.
“You look wonderful,” Lexa said calmly, as if it were the most ordinary thing she told people every day.
Clarke turned toward her — gently — but her gaze lingered a beat longer than a simple thank you required. Lexa felt it even without direct eye contact, the way you feel warmth nearby. The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Thank you,” Clarke replied, her voice softer. “I spent a long time… choosing. It sounds silly, but my bedroom was basically a small clothing apocalypse.”
“I can imagine,” Lexa smiled. “You look like the apocalypse lost.”
Clarke gave a quiet snort.
“I hope so,” she said, then added more honestly, “I’m nervous.”
“Me too,” Lexa didn’t dramatize it. “That’s… a normal reaction.”
Clarke nodded slightly toward the back seat, where the bags lay.
“I bought… gifts. Wine. It even has ribbons,” she said, like she was confessing a strange habit. “And now I’m worried I’ll offend someone. What if it’s not appropriate, or not what they like, or not allowed at all.”
Lexa laughed briefly.
“You won’t offend anyone,” she said with confidence. “Echo can make it feel like the world runs on her rules, but her parents are… wonderful. It’ll be fine.”
“You said ‘Echo’ like she’s a separate natural phenomenon,” Clarke smiled.
“She is a separate natural phenomenon,” Lexa admitted. “I should warn you… she can be eccentric. And she will almost definitely try to put us in an awkward situation. Even though she promised she wouldn’t.”
“She promised?” Clarke narrowed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“And you believed her?”
Lexa shot her a quick glance and, for the first time during the drive, smiled openly.
“No,” she said. “But I wanted to. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Clarke relaxed back into the seat. “If we’ve made it this far, we can just… accept it.”
Lexa raised an eyebrow.
“Accept it?”
“Yes. Everything fate has prepared for us,” Clarke said half-jokingly, trying not to make it too serious — though there was still a clear I feel it too in her voice.
“Oh no,” Lexa laughed. “You sound like Echo now.”
“I’m just temporarily renting her confidence,” Clarke said innocently.
The music shifted to something warmer, and the conversation flowed on its own — about work, about how people get more anxious in December, like the string lights switch on collective worry along with themselves, about how Clarke knew nothing about wine and always fell for pretty packaging, then regretted it.
Lexa listened, adding short comments — precise, calm. And Clarke caught herself realizing something strange: next to Lexa, she didn’t feel the urge to justify herself or to be better than she was. She could just talk.
“I feel… incredibly comfortable with you,” Clarke said suddenly, looking through the windshield as if it made the confession easier. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“I understand,” Lexa replied, her tone making it clear Clarke didn’t need to add I don’t mean… or this isn’t pressure. “It’s mutual.”
They turned into a neighborhood where houses stood farther apart, where the lights in the windows weren’t just decorative but real — family lights, with curtains and lamps turned on not for effect, but because someone was home.
“Almost there,” Lexa said.
Clarke nodded, glanced at the bags again, as if checking they hadn’t vanished along the way.
Echo’s house was visible from the street. It was decorated the way people decorate when they genuinely love it: lights outlining the roof, a wreath on the door, soft glow in the windows, like laughter and arguments about who would cut the pie were already happening inside. Something inside Clarke twitched — not painfully, just unexpectedly.
Lexa parked, stepped out first, then walked around the car and opened Clarke’s door. The gesture was simple, but it knocked Clarke’s breath off for a second — not because it was like in the movies, but because it felt normal.
“Thank you,” Clarke said.
“You’re welcome,” Lexa replied, taking some of the bags. “Come on. And… don’t worry.”
Clarke stepped out, inhaled the cold air, and paused on the terrace, not rushing to the door. The snow wasn’t falling as heavily as yesterday, but it lay smooth, softened by the glow of the lights. She stood there quietly, and into that silence crept a feeling she hadn’t expected — not anxiety, not I don’t belong, but simply… warmth.
Lexa noticed her pause and didn’t rush her. She stepped closer. Their shoulders nearly touched.
“It’s so beautiful and cozy here,” Clarke said softly. “It really feels like… a holiday.”
The words came without armor, without her usual irony.
Lexa turned her head, looked at her, and smiled — vividly, warmly.
“Well then,” she said gently, “has the Grinch fallen in love with Christmas?”
Clarke immediately dropped her gaze, like she’d been caught at something too personal.
“I’m not—” she started, unconvincingly. “It’s just… nice.”
“Mhm,” Lexa nodded, as if ticking a box on an invisible list. “Good.”
Clarke snorted, but smiled — and that smile was real.
Lexa leaned in slightly.
“We should go inside,” she said. “If Echo spots us standing here, the greeting will be very loud. And very comment-heavy.”
Clarke nodded… then stopped. As if a thought had finally ripened, and if she didn’t say it now, it would stay inside and press on her all evening.
She set the bags down.
Lexa turned to her immediately, with attention that didn’t push but fully held.
“What is it?” she asked quietly.
Clarke swallowed. Her heart beat harder. Her voice stayed steady.
“You know… on December second I woke up with a terrible cold,” she said. “And I had no plans. None at all. Not even for the end of the day. I was just… existing. And then I accidentally saw your letter in a forgotten inbox. I don’t even know why it was there, but it was. And from that moment, the letters became… a ritual.”
Lexa stood very still. The bags in her hands didn’t move.
“At first it was strange,” Clarke continued, her voice trembling slightly on strange, like an admission of weakness. “A little unclear. Then… I started waiting. Not as an obligation. As a part of the day. And neither of us ever expected it to turn into this.”
She took a short breath.
“Maybe coincidences really aren’t accidental,” she said, the tremor stronger now, but she didn’t retreat. “I’m glad it happened this way. And I’m glad that you are… you.”
Lexa looked at her as if memorizing every second.
“And I didn’t want to break our ritual… the ‘24 letters until Christmas,’” Clarke smiled with one corner of her mouth, because even to her it sounded a little mad. “So…”
She took a small envelope from her bag. Plain, paper. She offered it with both hands, like something fragile and important.
“So I wrote you the last letter. On paper. There’s a lot in it — things I wanted to say. You can read it later. Or now. Or… whenever it feels right. But I couldn’t not do it.”
Lexa took the envelope very carefully, as if it might break. And then… she laughed.
Quietly. Nervously. Not mockingly — more like someone overwhelmed, whose body found the only way to release something too big.
Clarke’s face changed instantly — a flash of I went too far crossed her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Lexa said at once, the laughter cutting off as sharply as it began. “I didn’t— it’s not about you.”
She stepped closer and, for the first time, took Clarke’s hand.
The contact was simple and overwhelming all at once. Clarke’s warm palm, soft skin, fingers that tensed for a second, then — as if deciding to trust — relaxed.
Lexa held her hand without squeezing too tightly.
“I really didn’t want you to think anything wrong,” she said quietly. “It’s just… this is incredible.”
Clarke nodded silently. There was a lump in her throat, and she didn’t pretend otherwise.
Lexa exhaled and pulled her own envelope from her coat pocket, handing it to Clarke.
“I don’t know how this works,” Lexa said, her voice both steady and amazed. “Fate, colliding universes, magic — I don’t know. But… it’s strange and very beautiful. The night I wrote my first letter, I was sure no one would reply. I didn’t even know why I was doing it. The email address just… appeared. So I wrote.”
Clarke looked at the envelope like proof she hadn’t imagined everything out of exhaustion.
“You’re an extraordinary person,” Lexa said, holding her gaze. “And I’m glad my pen pal turned out to be you. And yes… coincidences still scare me, honestly. Sometimes I think, this can’t possibly line up like this — and then it does. Again.”
She smiled nervously, but it was a smile of relief, not fear.
“And since we had a ritual…” Lexa lifted the envelope slightly, as if underlining the point. “I wrote you a letter too. On paper. I wanted… to leave a final touch. But I really hope this letter isn’t a finale for us. Just… a transition into another format.”
Clarke took the envelope. Her fingers trembled, and she hid it in motion, pressing the letter to her palm as if that made it easier to hold herself together.
Her eyes burned. She inhaled quickly and whispered:
“Oh God…”
Lexa heard her. Her hand still held Clarke’s — and now it felt less like support and more like we’re together.
“And…” Lexa added more softly. “I’m really glad, Clarke, that you’ll have Christmas this year. Even if it turns out a little awkward, a little loud, and full of Echo’s commentary. It’ll be real. Warm.”
Clarke couldn’t answer right away. They stood facing each other on the terrace, in cold air that somehow didn’t interfere. The silence lasted maybe a minute. Maybe less. Inside, it stretched into an eternity.
And then it happened so synchronously that neither had time to be afraid — they leaned toward each other at the same time.
Clarke whispered something — maybe yes, maybe me too — but the word dissolved as Lexa was already close.
The kiss was quiet. Gentle. Without any attempt to make it beautiful. Just confirmation that none of this had happened for nothing. Forehead to forehead, a smile into lips, a short breath — and the feeling that pulling away wasn’t desirable at all.
Almost at the same time, a little shy but smiling for real, they said:
“Merry Christmas.”
Clarke laughed softly now, without tension, and instinctively lifted her head when she heard movement inside the house — a rustle, footsteps near the door.
“This is definitely fate,” she said, disbelief and joy tangled in her voice.
Lexa looked up too — and spotted mistletoe hanging above the terrace. Neatly placed. Far too strategic to be accidental.
She laughed softly and shook her head.
“No,” she said. “That’s Echo. And now I understand what surprise she meant.”
Clarke exhaled, pressed the letters to her chest, and they both stepped back slightly — not because they had to, but because footsteps were clearly approaching.
Lexa picked up the bags, Clarke grabbed hers. They exchanged a quick, warm look and knocked.
The door opened, and their quiet was instantly washed away — voices, music, the smell of baking and citrus, warm light spilling from the hallway, and an overly cheerful:
“Finally!”
They stepped inside together. The door closed behind them — and Christmas stopped being a topic of letters and became reality.