Chapter Text
Making a left where she should have made a right, Lexa drives without seeing where she’s going, stopping for red lights and pressing the gas pedal a little too heavily when they turn green, ending up ten blocks farther away from her apartment before she even notices it.
She’s still not ready to go home.
Because it’s not home , it’s never been home for her.
Home is the two bedroom house with a wrap around porch that put a dent into their savings account, with a backyard too big for the two of them, but just the right size for a dog and a toddler to play around. Home is waking up tangled in bedsheets, an arm resting heavy on her stomach, tight curls getting in her face first thing in the morning. Home is reading while her wife goofed around on her laptop beside her, interrupting her every now and then to show her some cat video that had made her laugh.
Home is the warmth her wife brought to her chest with a single smile.
That apartment, with an industrial look to it, exposed beams and exposed brick, the furthest thing from where she used to live, isn’t home. It can never be home.
Home is wherever Costia is - which now happens to be the Auburn Hill Cemetery, under an oak tree.
It’s been three years since she stopped being a wife and became a widow . Three years since her wife’s car got caught in a T-bone crash by a truck driver who hadn’t checked their brakes in a long time. Three years since Lexa watched them prying the door open with huge plyers, her eyes skipping from her wife’s lifeless frame to the flowers on the passenger seat, still wrapped in kraft paper beside the take out containers that were supposed to be their dinner.
Three years to the fucking day.
Lexa parks her car in the first spot she finds, turning the engine off and praying to whatever gods are listening that she wakes up tomorrow to find her wife safe and sound beside her. Her hands are shaking as she unbuckles her seatbelt and pinches her nose to fight the tears that insist on coming.
She’s sick and tired of missing her. She’s angry at the world and she’s fucking exhausted of missing her wife so much.
She’s sick of feeling .
Closing the door with more force than she needs to as she climbs out the car, Lexa forces herself to take a deep breath. The air is far from fresh this far into the city, but she takes two more deep breaths and rolls her shoulders back, tipping her chin up as she falls into step with the thinning crowd making their way home or somewhere else on the sidewalk.
Before she realizes where her feet are taking her, too focused on keeping her tears from pooling in her eyes to pay attention, Lexa finds herself in front of a dive bar. The sign hanging precariously above the door says something, probably the name of the bar, in a red so faded she can’t make out what it says, and one look inside tells her she’d stand out like a sore thumb if she ever walking in there in her pencil skirt and silk blouse.
But when someone bumps into her shoulder and curses at her for standing in the middle of the way, Lexa swings the door open and walks inside.
No better way to spend her wife’s death anniversary than getting drunk enough to forget how her lips tasted - to forget that taste is slowly fading from her memory, no matter how much she tries to cling to it.
It takes her aback for a moment, how crowded the bar is. Considering it’s almost nine on a Tuesday night, Lexa figured she’d barely be able to make it in time for last call. But the place is swarming with college kids, either discussing something too loudly for her to make sense or yelling at someone to chug their beer. Something tells Lexa they don’t really ID people in here.
A few people look at her, some in passing, some ogling, all of them wondering what the hell someone like her is doing in a place like this. She’s wondering that herself as she plops herself on an empty stool at the end of the bar, all grace she usually exudes in the office forgotten at the door.
“Hey,” a hunky guy with a sweet smile that overpowered all the muscles he had under the tight shirt leans over the counter near her, mopping up a spill another patron left, “What can I get you?”
Lexa hadn’t even thought this far ahead, “What’s the strongest thing you have?”
He chuckles, warm and welcoming, and it disarms Lexa a bit. “I have absinthe, but I’m guessing you’re not here for one drink only?” Lexa nods, because it’s the truth, and he grabs a glass from a rack underneath the counter, “Whiskey okay? On the rocks?”
Nodding again, Lexa watches as he puts a few ice cubes in the glass before setting it in front of her, pouring a golden brown liquid until most of the ice is covered and pushing it towards her. She takes a sip, the rich liquor burning her tongue, and slips a few bills to him - it should be enough for four, maybe five more drinks, and she has the feeling she’ll need them, “Keep them coming.”
The guy - bartender? bar owner? Lexa doesn’t have the energy to ask or even wonder - clicks his tongue in a “ you got it ” way and walks away to see to other patrons, leaving her to nurse her drink alone with her thoughts.
It’s been a long day.
Today started as ordinary as a day could be. She woke up before the sun, meditated for almost a full hour, started working on her soy latte - same as any other morning. Then she turned her phone on to check what she had planned for today and saw the date.
That’s when her world started cracking at the edges.
Because she had forgotten it was coming, because it took her completely by surprise.
For the past two years, Lexa had managed to get her emotions under wraps around this time of the year. She’d take a few days to mourn her dead wife, allow herself to grieve everything they could never be. She’d spread the hurt over a week of cemetery visits and half days at work, letting it wash over her in small waves that she could control.
But this year, it felt like an avalanche that came crashing down on her, knocking the wind out of her as she tumbled away from any resemblance of rationality.
Suddenly, everything felt too much, more than she could handle. Suddenly, she didn’t care about her job, her seamless morning routine, her emotional health - she had forgotten her wife’s death anniversary.
Guilt rippled through her ever so often, making sure she never went too long without hating herself for it, but all that accomplished was turning her mood more and more sour by the minute and leaving her to snap at every single person who works under her.
It’s been a long day and she knows she made more than a few interns cry in the morning alone, she knows she shouldn’t have let her emotions get the best of her like it did. But still, she can’t quite get herself to wash away the bitter taste shame left in the back of her throat - because she couldn’t go visit her wife’s grave in her death anniversary, like she promised herself she would.
Tossing the rest of her whiskey back in a futile attempt to get rid of that bitterness and half heartedly waving at the muscular guy, Lexa makes a mental note to drop by her favorite bakery tomorrow before work and bring muffins as a blanket apology for being such a complete asshole.
It’s not that she’s usually a fun boss. Lexa knows she’s not - after all, she didn’t earn a nickname as strong as commander by being lovely and easy going. She’s stern and demands to see results no matter what excuse she gets. But there’s a line between being an unrelenting boss and a bitch to everyone who crossed her path.
Grabbing her new drink as the hunky bartender takes her empty glass away, Lexa settles a bit more easily on her stool, her posture relaxing just a smidge with the alcohol flowing in her veins. It’s not enough for her to forget why she came here, not nearly enough for her mind to go quiet, but Lexa finds herself looking around and taking in her surroundings, distracting herself by watching the other patrons.
Most of them are college kids, that’s pretty obvious, and while Lexa has no interest in talking to any of them, they can be pretty entertaining to watch.
There’s a girl in a booth across from the bar who’s crying into a tall drink, eyeliner smudged and hair tied in a messy not as she reads through texts that seem to be too long to be good news. A couple sits a few stools from her, their hands intertwined on the boy’s lap, and they look a little too eager to finish their drinks and go hook up somewhere. It makes Lexa almost uncomfortable to be near such raw sexual tension that she’s pretty sure only people in their early twenties can muster.
A few booths down, there’s a group of frat boys loudly discussing an upcoming party that go quiet as soon as one of their buddies come back with a fruity drink instead of a beer, a single “ dude, the fuck ?” breaking the silence.
Lexa sips her whiskey, slightly too amused as she watches the fruity drink making rounds among the guys before they agree that it’s better than beer and everyone orders one. She’s so distracted that she almost misses the girl - no, the woman ; she doesn’t seem to be much older than the college kids she’s been watching, but calling her girl sounds too odd - that walks inside and leans on the counter.
“Hey, Lincoln,” the woman calls, her blonde curls bouncing as she gets on her tiptoes to greet the bartender with a kiss on the cheek, “Is Octavia in tonight? I might need help to hide a body.”
Lexa frowns at the casual tone and turns to watch the interaction, frat boys forgotten for the moment. Only when the guy, Lincoln , lets out a warm laughter and fills a mug with beer from a tap before handing it back to her, is that Lexa realizes it was a joke.
“What did Raven do now?” Lincoln says, sliding the mug that seems way too big for one single drink across the counter. They’re close enough that Lexa can hear everything without being too obvious about it, and she finds herself maybe too interested in that this Raven girl did to the pretty woman sitting two stools down from her.
The blonde takes a healthy gulp, then three more, and sets it down again. “She locked me out the apartment to go fuck her girlfriend halfway across town and won’t return my calls,” she says in a very annoyed voice. “I texted her this morning that I didn’t have my keys, but the fucker goes and doesn’t even bother leaving it in the reception. So she’s dead meat. And I need Octavia’s muscles to drag her body to the river.”
Lincoln laughs again, his body shaking as he throws his head back, and it calms Lexa down a bit - even if she can’t tell if it’s his laughter, realizing it’s all an inside joke between them, or the way the blonde smiles.
“Oh my god, Clarke.” Clarke . Lexa looks at the blonde, trying to be casual as she takes a sip from her whiskey again, a bit bigger than the one before. It fits her, she decides. Lincoln throws the dish towel he’s been holding over his shoulder as his laughter dies down, “I think I have your spare key somewhere in the back, if it helps you avoid murder.”
The woman, Clarke, cries out in relief, “Have I ever told you you’re an angel, Linc?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the beer talking,” Lincoln shakes his head at her, waving at the other bartender a little ways down the bar to signal he’ll be right back before he walks away.
“Not yet!” Clarke yells after him, looking at her beer. The mug is probably bigger than her face and she’s only made her way through maybe a fifth of it so far, but she shrugs to herself and takes another big swig from it.
Lexa watches her own drink for a moment, the amber liquid all but gone now, only a shadow remaining among the ice cubes. It hits her that she hasn’t eaten anything since her lunch made her sick to her stomach - she ordered an arugula and mango salad without realizing it was one of Costia’s favorite - and the whiskey has nothing to cushion its landing.
So, she’ll get blackout drunk with less alcohol. It works fine for her.
Lifting her eyes while trying - and probably failing - to be discreet, Lexa takes in the woman beside her. Her Converse sneakers and light wash jeans are stained with paints varying from light grey to a few shades of blue, her oversized tee is tied around her waist and, if Lexa squint, she can be pretty sure there’s some paint on her blonde hair as well.
She takes one last sip from her drink before only the ice remains and stares at the woman a little longer, her brain just foggy enough for her to forget it’s not exactly proper to do that, for her to not be ashamed of looking at a beautiful woman and telling herself it’s okay to find someone else attractive.
It’s been three years. Her heart still pulls at the thought of touching someone that isn’t Costia, but she ignores it, tells herself looking isn’t touching.
Clarke catches her staring and her reflexes are slowing down, so instead of looking away, Lexa forces herself to tilt her chin up, meet the woman’s gaze - her eyes are blue, in a shade that isn’t among the array of blues staining her jeans.
Grabbing her beer and walking the short distance between them, Clarke leans against the stool beside Lexa, their eyes never leaving each other. “Hey,” Clarke says in greeting, her voice deeper than the one she used with Lincoln. Then she takes Lexa in, her eyes very slowly dragging her gaze down her figure. Lexa could swear she sees the blue in them getting a little darker before her eyes linger on her finger — her wedding ring is still in the same place Costia put it. “Oh, you’re married.”
Her voice goes up a little, the lilt turning it into an almost question — it contrasts to the way Clarke herself deflates. Lexa looks at the golden band hugging her finger.
In the morning, Lexa would look back at this moment and kick herself for not taking an out when she should, when she could have. It’d be easy to say that yes, she is very much married, and get up, get a cab, get home, cry until sleep overcame her. Because she knows what a stare like Clarke’s means, knows herself well enough to be aware she won’t go back.
“Not anymore,” Lexa says, taking a gulp from her whiskey, letting it burn down her throat. It’s vague enough that Clarke might not know what she means. What’s sadder, Lexa wonders, to be a widow or a divorcée when she still has her entire life ahead of her.
As it turns out, Clarke isn’t too interested in her lost lover, “Can I buy you a drink?”
Lexa gives her a once over, as if she’s considering the proposal, as if she hasn’t been staring at her for the past few minutes. Ignoring the lump in her throat and the wrongness that stings her chest, Lexa shrugs, “Sure.”
Humming her approval and smirking at her, Clarke takes a look at her empty glass, “What you having?”
“Whiskey,” Lexa answers simply, and she can barely get the word out, but she can’t tell if it’s because the alcohol in her system is starting to mess with her senses or because Clarke is standing dangerously close to her.
Nonetheless, the answer seems to impress Clarke, “You like it or you’re trying to drown something?”
A bitter laughter rises from Lexa’s chest before she can muffle it. Being a female CEO in a male dominated field has forced her to develop a taste for whiskey, but she’s used to more expensive liquor, she’s used to barely sipping at it before throwing the rest out. “A bit of both, I guess.”
“Got it,” Clarke nods, like she really does get it, and presses herself slightly against Lexa before circling the counter, going behind the bar.
The casual touch is enough to leave Lexa disoriented - she’s touch starved and craving attention, she knows that much, but it’s still embarrassing the way her heart pounds against her ribcage. She blinks it away, watching Clarke get a new glass and pour ice inside, “Are you allowed to do that?”
“I’m friends with the owners, I guess I’ll be fine,” she shrugs and Lexa hums, pretty sure the hunky guy won’t throw either of them out. Lexa makes a mental note to tell Lincoln about the extra drink when she’s paying, but it almost slips through her mind as she watches Clarke pouring the whiskey and looking at her through her eyelashes, “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
Laughter bubbles in Lexa’s chest and it’s as odd as it is welcomed. She tampers it down to a smirk, her body not used to laughing anymore, and raises an eyebrow at the woman that slides her new drink towards her, “Are you seriously giving me the ‘ do you come here often? ’ line?”
“Oh come on, sometimes it works,” Clarke laughs it off as she circles the counter again, sitting on the stool beside Lexa, close enough for her knees to gently touch her thigh, “But no. It’s just that I’d remember your face. I would have definitely flirted with you before tonight.”
It takes a moment for the words to sink in and when they do, Lexa is glad she isn’t holding her drink, “ Oh .”
“Yeah,” Clarke smirks, apparently amused at Lexa for thinking someone as attractive as the blonde with tight jeans and beautiful blue eyes could never flirt with her, “I’m Clarke, by the way.”
Lexa takes the hand Clarke offers her, shaking it softly. She usually makes a point of shaking everyone’s hand as firmly as she can, but even her buzzed mind can see through this - it’s just a way of touching each other casually, just establishing that first contact, “Lexa.”
Lincoln comes back and tosses Clarke her spare keys, giving them both a look. Lexa wraps her palms around her drink, keeping her attention focused on the way the liquid turns gold against the light and pretending she’s not eavesdropping. They talk a little bit more about that Raven girl and Lincoln offers her - them , she supposes - fries, but Clarke says they’re fine for now.
With one last glance to them, Lincoln squeezes Clarke’s hand and goes to the other side of the bar, giving them some sense of privacy. “So,” Clarke turns to her again, “What’s someone like you doing in a place like this?”
“Someone like me?” Lexa echoes back to her, tasting the words and trying to figure out what they mean.
“Come on,” Clarke lets out a chuckle and takes another swig from her beer, running her tongue over her top lip to catch the foam. If it makes Lexa’s stomach sink, she only grips her drink a little harder, “Pencil skirt, high heels that have clearly never seen a bar this dirty, a vibe that lets everyone know you’re better than them. You don’t exactly blend in.”
“What-” Her sincerity takes Lexa aback. She knows she doesn’t really blend in with a crowd like this and she knows she’s been out of the whole flirting at bars scene, but that’s hardly a good pick up line, “Why do you think I give off that vibe?”
“Maybe it’s your posture, how you hold yourself,” Clarke tries, giving her a once over that makes the fine hair of her neck stand up, “I don’t know. Not yet anyway. You just do. Why do you think I came over?”
Lexa sips at her drink, letting the liquor burn her tongue before swallowing, giving herself time to think over Clarke’s words. “You came to talk to me because… I think I’m better than everyone else?”
Chuckling at how off her guess is, Clarke leans in slightly, shifting her body so she can press her palm against Lexa’s thigh, “No. I came to talk to you because you are better than anyone who’s ever stepped in this bar.”
Her words combined with the warmth from her palm makes it hard for Lexa to get any words out - not that she’d know what to say to that anyway. Instead, she pauses, lets the words fall in between them, taking another sip from her whiskey, “And what brings you here?”
“Shitty roommate,” Clarke states simply, jingling her keys to prove her point before pocketing them, “But I’m here pretty much every day. You still haven’t answered me.”
Lexa plays with her glass for a moment, twirling it on the counter as she studies the woman in front of her. She’s beautiful, that goes almost without saying - and she knows it too, if the way her thumb brushes over Lexa’s thigh is anything to go by. After a moment, Lexa wraps her fingers around her glass and takes another sip from her drink, “I barely know you.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Clarke points her beer at her before taking another healthy gulp, clearly very fond of the awful taste of it, then she leans in, speaking in a stage whisper, “Sober you can’t blame drunk you for oversharing.”
Once again, Lexa feels laughter bubbling in her chest. It’s an odd feeling. “I don’t have nearly enough alcohol in me for that.”
“Oh, if that’s all it takes,” Clarke sets her beer down and shamelessly winks at Lexa as she walks a few steps to the side and leans over the counter, grabbing four tall shot glasses and a half bottle of tequila. She looks towards Lincoln, who’s too busy making a cocktail to pay attention to her stealing , and nods for Lexa to follow her, “Come on.”
“What are you doing?” Lexa asks, out of shock more than anything else, and grips her drink a little tighter.
“Come on ,” Clarke insists, looking over her shoulder for a moment before giving Lexa a pointed look, “Bring your whiskey. And my beer.”
With a deep breath, Lexa lets go of whatever is holding her back - either guilt for being an accomplice in theft or guilt for enjoying the company of someone who isn’t her wife, but guilt is definitely the feeling brewing in her chest. She grabs the handle in the beer, surprised at how heavy it is, and climbs down from her stool. Because why not?
Following Clarke to a booth in the front corner of the bar, Lexa sits down with her back ramrod straight and her hands folded on her lap, watches Clarke pouring half shots in all the glasses, has to keep herself from wondering if those glasses are clean at all.
“We’ll take turns answering something about ourselves,” Clarke explains, sliding two shot glasses towards Lexa and placing the bottle in between them. They’re sitting across from each other and it feels like they’re too far away after sitting so close at the counter. “If we don’t want to, we take a shot. Deal?”
Lexa eyes the amber liquid sloshing slightly inside the glasses before it settles, trying to remember the last time she did a shot. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“For starters,” Clarke purrs in a low voice and it’s unabashedly flirty, almost too blatant for Lexa to keep her eyes on hers, dropping them to her lips. She follows the movement when Clarke takes another swig from her beer, and something lights up in her stomach. “So, why are you in a dive bar and not… I don’t know, somewhere fancier?”
Lexa considers the question, considers answering it. But it’s not the kind of thing to bring up in a bar to someone she knows for less than twenty minutes, hell , it’s not something she’d tell people she’s known for years. It’s a can of worms meant to be opened in therapy sessions and nowhere else.
Instead of going for a half truth, Lexa picks up one of the shot glasses in front of her and holds her breath before tossing it back, feeling it burning uncomfortably on the way down. She gives herself a moment to swallow past the new ache in her throat, then quirks an eyebrow. “It’s my turn, I guess?” Clarke nods slowly, as if she’s taken aback that Lexa has thrown in the towel so early in their game, and Lexa leans in closer, “Why are you covered in paint?”
“Oh, shit. Really?” Clarke looks down at her own body to inspect how bad it is, zooming in on the largest patch in her jeans and picking at it. The way she says that shifts the air around them from heavy and flirty to something a little lighter, like the chuckle she lets out, “Uh, I’m an artist. I spent the whole day painting at a friend’s studio.”
Nodding once at that, accepting it as a good enough answer, Lexa settles back and waits for Clarke to ask her something. It’s definitely not what she thought she’d be doing when she left work with a fist curling around her heart, but she’s on the good side of tipsy right now and those gorgeous blue eyes leave little room for her to overthink this.
They go back and forth a few rounds. Clarke has the dirtiest questions, the ones that make Lexa grit her teeth and will herself not to blush as she forces herself to answer. But when she makes Clarke back down out of three questions in a row and throw back her shots, Lexa finds herself taking more pride in it that she probably should.
By their fifth shot, one they take together simply because they feel like it, no one losing any questions for it, Clarke has made her way to Lexa’s side of the booth. If the warmth she feels coming from the body pressed up against hers makes Lexa lick her lips and glance down at Clarke’s, she pretends it’s just the booze talking.
The beer is gone and her whiskey has been watered down to nothing, and both of them have a hazed look in their eyes, the world becoming softer with its blurred edges.
“How about two shots for a dare?” Clarke says, her breath hitting Lexa’s cheek with how close she is, and Lexa frowns as she tries to understand what she means. Her brain is far from sharp by now. “I’ll propose a dare, if you don’t want to do it, you take two shots.”
Lexa shrugs and nods, taking it upon herself to pour each of them another shot, getting ready to drink both of them because she is not about to dance on top of the table or go flirt with someone else - which she’s pretty sure is where Clarke is going with it.
But when Clarke decides on what she wants Lexa to do, it almost gives her whiplash with how sharp of a turn her brain has to make to keep up with it, “I dare you to kiss me.”
A beat.
Lexa turns her body until she’s facing Clarke, sparing one look at her lips before closing the distance between them, pressing their lips together. In her drunken haze, Lexa finds her hands moving on their own accord, sneaking up to sink into blonde hair, gripping a slim waist and pulling their bodies closer, closer, closer.
Her tongue drags across Clarke’s bottom lip, her fingers tighten around her hair, and she deepens the kiss. She feels more than hears the way Clarke moans softly against her and Lexa finds herself answering in kind, her own desires, overlooked for so long, coming up to the surface.
It’s shameful, how easily Lexa sinks into Clarke’s touch. But the way she tugs at her jaw to keep them close, the way her hand slides down to grip at her thigh, the way her tongue swipes on the roof of her mouth - it’s all too much.
They break the kiss a moment before it becomes uncomfortable for everyone else in the bar and Lexa stares at Clarke’s plump lips, still wet from her own lips.
“I live up the street,” Clarke murmurs, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, the invitation clear in the way she drops her hand to Lexa’s stomach.
It’s an easy decision. “Lead the way.”
Despite Clarke’s claims that she’d talk to Lincoln about the tequila bottle and get that settled, Lexa left a few twenties on the table to cover at least some of their heavy drinking before following the blonde outside. The liquor running through her veins makes Lexa just loose enough for her to let her eyes droop to Clarke’s backside, catch the small section of her midriff showing, take in the swell of her behind, swallow past the cotton in her throat.
There’s no point in even trying to mask what this is - they picked each other at a bar to fuck their frustrations away comforted by the knowledge that they’re from such different worlds that their paths won’t cross ever again after this night is over.
They walk the two blocks to Clarke’s building in a comfortable silence that only happens when two people are on the right side of drunk, buzzing with the anticipation of sex.
Clarke doesn’t try to hold hands - which Lexa will forever be thankful for, because she couldn’t, she can’t - or even make small talk, just leads her inside the elevator as she punches her floor. They’re not here to talk about what they do for a living, where they’re from, what their childhoods were like.
Lexa watches Clarke fumble with the locks, the only indication she’s inebriated at all, and step aside to let her in. Usually, Lexa would take her surroundings in and find something to compliment, because that’s the polite thing to do and that’s how she was raised to be.
But she can’t take her eyes off of Clarke.
Clarke tosses her keys in a bowl near the door and drops her bag to the floor, shoving her hands on her back pockets as she turns to Lexa, “Do you want a drink?”
“No.”
It takes a heartbeat for Lexa to close the distance between them and press their lips together once more, her hands coming up to cup her cheek, to sink into blonde curls, to grab something that can tether her to this moment. Clarke responds in kind, without any pause, wrapping her arm around Lexa’s waist as she pulls them further into her apartment and if Lexa all but tumbles her way forward, she tells herself it’s the booze, not her nerves.
Because she hasn’t done this in far too long. Lexa knows when she last kissed someone - three years to the day, although she can’t bring the exact kiss to the front of her mind, didn’t know it’d be their last one for it to be more than a simple goodbye kiss to make it memorable.
And she hasn’t done this ever - picking up a stranger at a bar and letting them take her to their bed without learning anything about them, opening her legs before she opened her heart. It should feel embarrassing, or at the very least odd, awkward, unnecessary.
But then Clarke opens her mouth against hers, giving her enough room to deepen the kiss, and Lexa’s mind grows too fuzzy for her to feed her self loathing any longer.
She’ll have time for that tomorrow.
For now, she gets lost in the feel of Clarke’s tongue sliding gently against her, in the way she mimics Lexa when she tilts her head, in how her touch grows bolder by the second.
They break apart once breathing becomes too hard and Lexa gasps for air, feeling like her head is finally, finally above water - after weeks, months craving this breath of fresh air. Her hands sink deeper within blonde curls, tangling it around her fingers as they turn into a fist when Clarke moves her mouth from hers to her jaw, her neck, the place where it meets her shoulder.
Fire simmer low in Lexa’s stomach and she tilts her head to the side, giving Clarke more room to swipe her tongue against her pulse point. She doesn’t have time to wonder if she’ll get a hickey, doesn’t have within her to get mad about it when Clarke bites the taut skin of her neck and soothes it with her tongue, her hand working Lexa’s blouse until it’s free from her skirt and out of her body.
The night air is cold against the warm skin of her stomach, but that’s not what makes goosebumps rise all over her - it’s the way Clarke looks at her, eyes hooded with desire, mapping every inch of her.
Before Lexa can get self conscious under the stare, Clarke’s hands are on her a moment after, dragging lazily down her stomach, over to the side, up her back and down again. It takes her a moment to get a grip on herself, because she’s been so deeply touch starved for so goddamn long she barely manages to keep breathing as Clarke traces the underside of her breasts, scrapes her nails gently down the spanse of her stomach, keeps staring at her like she’s never seen someone this gorgeous.
It’s an ego boost, to say the least, and it’s enough to give Lexa the confidence she needs to reach out for Clarke’s waist and undo the knot holding her oversized tee, pull it over her head, toss it aside. Lexa allows herself a second to take in the full breasts in front of her, begging for a mouth to kiss them, before she reaches for her jeans.
There will be time for gazing and kissing every inch of Clarke when they’re both clad in a lot less clothes.
She fumbles with the button and zipper, her body buzzing with electric energy and making it harder for her to focus, and pulls the jeans down Clarke’s thighs. Clarke steps back to take her shoes off, hopping on one foot so she can pry her sneakers from the other, and it’s nothing short of incredible how that silly sight makes Lexa wet her lips and take a deeper breath in.
Lexa steps down from her heels as well, reaching to her back so she can open her skirt and slide it down her legs, leaving it almost neatly beside her shoes as she watches Clarke all but throw her jeans across the room.
Something inside Lexa aches at the sight of Clarke under soft moon light, it twists and rattles painfully, a voice inside her head telling her that this is wrong, this is cheating , that she should grab her things, go home and never look back.
But Clarke kisses it away, her lips melting against Lexa’s in a synchrony she thought she’s never know again. As the feeling of guilt disappears, Lexa loses herself in Clarke’s touches instead. She lets herself sink in the way their mouths move together, sigh with the light tug Clarke gives to the fine hair of her neck as she presses them closer, skin touching skin.
In a way that is as sudden as long coming, these touches don’t feel enough anymore.
Lexa wraps her arm around Clarke’s waist and backs her to what she hopes is the bedroom. She hadn’t really taken the whole apartment in, can only guess where anything is, and they’re both too caught up on their kiss, on the way each other feel to break apart long enough to make their way to a bed. Their steps are messy and Clarke steers them clear from furniture as best as she can, but they still bump into a couch, a lamp that barely stays upright, a desk that Lexa is pretty sure left a dent on her hip.
By the time Clarke backs up against something, it feels more like she’s pulling Lexa than being guided by her.
Breaking the kiss just long enough to spare a look around and realize they are not in a bedroom, Lexa kisses her way down Clarke’s jaw, moves her mouth to the pulse point on her neck, suck her way down her collarbone. As she reaches out to hold onto the wall to keep her balance, her hand finds glass instead of a brick wall - she’s pressing Clarke against the floor to ceiling windows, the light filtering from the street bright enough to know they could be seen at any time, by a dozen of across-the-street neighbors.
It’s 11pm on a Tuesday and they’re both half naked, but Lexa can’t find within her to care.
She reaches around Clarke and unhooks her bra, taking in the full breasts once the thin fabric covering them is tossed aside. Her breath catches in her throat as she weighs them on her hands, gently and softly, watching the nipples turn into taut peaks, and she picks up where she left off, kissing her way down from her collarbone.
The sounds coming from Clarke are enough to spur Lexa on - gasps and moans and groans that are low enough to shoot heat straight to her stomach. But there’s something primal in the way Clarke sinks her fingers in dark curls, tightening her grip into a fist, keeping her in place for as long as she needs before letting Lexa move on to another spot.
She kisses the soft skin above her breasts, nibbles the valley in between them, drags her tongue lazily around a stiff nipple. It’s enough for Clarke to throw her head back, making the glass rattle behind her, and Lexa moves one hand up to run her thumb over the neglected nipple, drags another down the swell of her stomach, down her inner thighs, up again, pausing at the edge of her panties.
Pausing everything she’s doing, Lexa tilts back and looks up at Clarke, raises one eyebrow in a silent question to know she’s okay with going forward. Clarke all but laughs at her, shimmying out of her panties instead of giving her answer out loud. She leans heavily against the window, spreading her knees, pressing Lexa’s palm to the top of her mound.
Lexa locks her eyes with Clarke’s, watches the blue in them sparkle and turn darker as she slides her hand down. Both of their breaths catch in their throats as Lexa traces one finger up her slit, gathering moisture in it, enough to know Clarke is soaking wet - she’s probably not far from that as well, but it’s good for her ego.
Her touch is light at first, the warmth coming from Clarke enveloping her fingers as she touches her folds and entrance, never getting too close to where Clarke really needs her. It’s nothing if not a power trip to watch the way Clarke clings to her shoulders, shifting her hips to get Lexa closer, inside, anything .
When their lips meet again, Lexa finally gives in.
Clarke swipes her tongue hungrily against hers, composure and softness be damned as she moans and curses under her breath. Lexa lets her set the pace for the kiss as she circles her clit, presses two fingers on it, goes back to circling it - it’s a sharp contrast, the demanding kiss against the laziness of her touches.
Sharp breaths, shivering thighs, wetness dripping, blunt nails dragging up shoulder blades; Lexa feels it all and every new nuance that Clarke shows to her makes her feel more confident in her touches.
Right when Clarke begins to rock her hips in a frantic rhythm, trying to find the right angle to get to the release that seems just out of her reach, Lexa withdraws. Her fingers are coated in Clarke’s wetness and she drags them across sensitive skin, leaving a trail from her mound to her hip bone. It amuses her as much as it makes the heat pool lower in her stomach to see the way Clarke shivers under her touch, grips her arm and grits her teeth, eyes closed shut as she tethers on the edge of blissful, blinding pleasure.
Lexa chuckles against Clarke’s temple, placing a kiss to it when she hears a frustrated groan, and turns her around until Clarke’s breasts are pressed against the window, her own body pressed to her back.
It sends a rush down her spine when Clarke tilts her hips back and looks over her shoulder, biting her lip in a mix of desire and desperation.
Lexa takes her hands, pins them above her head, holds them in place with one hand as she drags the other down her spine. She maps each vertebrae, slowly making her way down, and kisses her shoulder blade, nibbles the skin, soothes it with her tongue.
Only when Clarke is all but trembling under her touch, hips rocking against nothing, her groans growing more and more frustrated by the second, is that Lexa runs her palm over the swell of her butt and adjusts her grip, enters her from the back, two digits at once.
The hiccup that cuts Clarke’s moan halfway through makes Lexa feel an uncomfortable ache settling on the apex of her legs, but it’s the new gush of wetness coating her palm that makes her pick up her pace. She thrusts in and out and in again in the same cadence as Clarke’s moans, curls her fingers to drag it out, lets go of her hands and reaches over to touch her clit and-
Lexa feels Clarke’s walls clenching hard around her fingers, feels before she hears her moan that rumbles and stretches out, feels her body shivering under her embrace.
She keeps her fingers inside, still and waiting until Clarke rides out her orgasm, kissing a path down her neck, her shoulder, her back. It takes a moment for Clarke to catch her breath, her chest pressing against Lexa’s arm with each shallow inhale. With a gentle tug from Clarke on her wrist, Lexa lets go of her, dragging her fingers out, trailing it up her leg to her hip bone.
Clarke turns around, half leaning her weight against the window, half leaving it up to Lexa to keep her from collapsing on her floor as her legs go limp. With a chuckle that rattles past her lips and into Lexa’s core, Clarke whispers an amused ‘Jesus Christ ’ before wrapping her arms around her neck.
Lexa lets herself fall into the kiss for a moment, each lazy swirl of Clarke’s tongue against hers fueling the fire in between her legs - Clarke might be well and sated, but Lexa is still on the verge of bursting free from her own body if Clarke doesn’t touch her soon.
Before she can work through the knot in her throat and start to seriously consider begging , Clarke tugs at her arm and gestures to the bedroom, walking ahead. Lexa watches as she walks, hips swinging and shoulders relaxed, and follows her despite her legs locking under her, threatening to give up on her all at once.
Lexa can't really tell why her hands shaking - if it's nerves about the knowledge of what's about to happen, if it’s her desire grown to something more than she can handle. But she balls them into fists, willing them to be still as they cover the distance to the bedroom. The way Clarke glances back at her, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, her eyes filled with promises, isn't helping her at all.
She reaches back and fumbles with the hooks in her bra as Clarke turns the lights on, pulling them free after a few tries and tossing the piece to the side. It lands on a chair by the bedroom door and, for a moment, she tries to map her way back to her clothes, all scattered around the apartment.
Her thoughts only get so far.
Clarke turns around and kisses her, pulling her bottom lip in between her teeth, pulling her further into the bedroom. It knocks the air out of Lexa’s lungs, and she can’t do anything but follow as Clarke grasps her elbow for leverage, trailing her palm up until she finds her exposed breasts. Nifty fingers trace the underside, drawing patterns up and around it until Lexa is gasping for air, reaching up for Clarke’s waist to keep her balance and-
It's all too much. The gentle tugs on the stiff peaks combined with Clarke swiping her tongue over the roof of her mouth leaves Lexa aching, chasing her lips for more, pulling her closer against her.
There's a tug of war going on inside of her, two sides pulling at her until she can't decide who she wants to win. She wants this, she wants to lie in bed with Clarke and let her have her way with her, wants to wake up in a mess of tangled limbs and bed hair. But a small part of her still clings to her wife, still thinks this is somehow ruining her memory, tainting what they had together. And there's still time to go, still time to repent and go home.
But Clarke breaks the kiss with a soft moan, cups Lexa’s breast firmly and tilts her head to the side, kissing a path across her jawline. The sound brings memories from minutes ago, images of Clarke coming crashing down around her fingers floods her mind’s eye and it leaves Lexa drenched, any sorrow or guilt washing away when their lips meet again.
Their kiss grows rough and passionate, teeth clashing against teeth, hands clinging to warm flesh, wanting more and more. Lexa doesn't even realize they're moving until the back of her knees hit the bed and they part once more, both taking a moment to catch their breath. There's no going back, there never was going back - from the moment Lexa laid eyes on Clarke, she could never go back.
Clarke guides Lexa to bed wordlessly, commanding her with her eyes alone, nudging her gently until she’s resting on the pillows. It’s a new experience, being on her back, but Lexa can’t find within her to complain when she sees Clarke crawling to bed, looking like a lioness stalking her prey.
Feeling the weight of Clarke’s body on top of her erases any and all thoughts from her mind. Suddenly, it's all Clarke, and the way their thighs fit together, the feeling of their stomachs pressed against one another, the heaviness of her breasts, the rhythm of her heart, the ragged breath hitting her collarbone as she makes her way down the length of her.
It’s overwhelming and she can’t think straight, can't focus on anything but how Clarke’s mouth feels against her neck, soft lips mapping their way to her collarbone, tongue swirling over spots she didn’t even know could be sensitive. Her mind is a mess of desire and lingering guilt, and she needs to stop thinking .
Grounding herself with one hand clutching the sheets tightly, Lexa lowers her other hand and grabs a hold of Clarke’s hair, light enough that she knows it won’t hurt her, hard enough to tug at it and guide her down. But she feels Clarke smiling against her breasts, feels more than hears the way she clicks her tongue to say “not yet ”. Lexa grunts in answer, a grunt that becomes a soft moan when those same lips wrap around her nipple, sucking it and rolling it in between her teeth.
When she moves from one breast to the other, leaving a trail of love bites connecting both of her nipples, Lexa wants to say she’s not hers to mark, wants to find a commanding voice to say it in. But when she opens her mouth, a gasp comes out and her fingers wrap tighter on Clarke’s hair, spurring her on.
By the time Clarke deems like she’s had enough fun with her breasts and kisses her way down her belly, Lexa feels her whole body tensed, a taut string pulling at her every nerve. She watches Clarke dragging her tongue beside her navel, pressing a kiss to the fabric of her panties before pulling them down, and Lexa barely has it in her to lift her hips, to do anything at all.
It should be illegal to have eyes that blue, Lexa muses as Clarke gently grabs one of her legs, kissing the side of her knee, up her inner thigh, settles in the space in between without ever breaking eye contact.
Lexa holds her gaze for a moment longer, but shuts her eyes closed when Clarke swipes her tongue over her slit. Her hands turn into fists, clutching the sheets under her, pulling at them as Clarke works her tongue in her.
It’s been a while since Lexa had as much as touched another person. And Clarke knows what she’s doing.
Keeping her eyes closed and lips pressed shut, Lexa adjusts her legs until Clarke has enough room and lets her mind go blank as she focuses on the way Clarke laps at her entrance, licks her folds, finally gets to her clit. She presses her palms over her mound, pressing down and upwards - either to keep her in place or to put a strain in her sensitive nerves, Lexa can’t tell, but it’s working for both.
Clarke places her lips around her clit and sucks, lightly enough for it to make Lexa see fucking stars, then presses her tongue flat against it and- and Lexa is coming.
It washes over her too quickly for her to appreciate it.
It leaves her boneless and frustrated, more wound up than she was before.
As her breathing slows down, Lexa throws one arm over her eyes, blocking the world for a moment. It’s embarrassing, to come this fucking quick and as mellow as she did. She can’t help but wonder if it’s a sign - from her body, from the universe, from the fucking beyond - that she shouldn’t have stepped in that bar to begin with. Maybe she should have gone home, drank alone and cried herself to sleep like the grown up she is, instead of trying to get rid of her ghosts by hooking up with a stranger like a horny college kid.
Before she finds the strength within herself to get up and find her clothes, the courage stare at Clarke after this knowing her face is ablaze, Lexa feels lips kissing her thigh, hair spilling her her waist as a head rests on her hip bone. Before she can put two and two together, Clarke touches her again - a single digit drawing circles around her entrance, collecting her wetness, not quite daring to go inside.
Lexa lets her arm fall and looks at Clarke, who seems all too focused on the apex of her legs to notice how much she’s blushing. “You don’t have to,” she says once she realizes what Clarke intends, half heartedly trying to shimmy away from her.
“I want to,” Clarke whispers against her hip bone as she presses a kiss on it, her voice low and hoarse, “After the way you made me come…” she lets her words hang in the air as she smiles, like the memory is still too vivid in her mind for her to speak about it, “I want you to feel just as good.”
For a moment, she stares at Clarke, tries to find the words to rebuke that argument, tries to lie and say she’s good as it is. But she feels a finger sliding inside of her, her walls pulsating around it for a last time. Then she slides a second one without any trouble and Lexa realizes she’s too wet to even try to be convincing.
Clarke presses the underside of her tongue against her clit and Lexa jolts her hips up, still too sensitive, begging for more of the same. Her fingers pump in and out of her, slowly at first and picking up speed, erasing any trace of her last orgasm, working her up steadily until her mouth is hanging open and her hips rock to meet her movements. Lexa gasps and whispers low curses as Clarke curls her fingers within her, brushes her thumb over her clit, brings her to the edge and keeps her there for longer than she can fathom.
It leaves Lexa speechless. Now, she feels it building up her back, a pressure that tightens her hips and makes her quiver, makes her legs shake, makes fire come to life in her lungs. Now, she does feel it reaching within her soul and plucking everything loose in its wake.
She doesn’t come down immediately, but Clarke keeps her fingers within her until she does, until her toes uncurl and the tingling in her whole body subdues.
Breathing out and letting her whole body melt into the sheets, Lexa lets a smile crawl to her lips. She does feel good now and it doesn’t matter that it took her two tries to get it.
Clarke kisses her way up to her lips, stealing a lazy kiss before lying down beside her. It takes a moment for Lexa to gather her wits once more, to find the strength to open her eyes - she feels exhausted, like she’s run a whole marathon and is only now resting. Her legs certainly feel like jello.
She doesn’t want to move, not yet, but she feels Clarke turning on her side, reaching up for to her waist for a half hug. It makes her stomach clench and the tension cling to her again. So before Clarke can find her and pull her close, Lexa wills herself to get up, no matter how unsteady her legs feel.
Lexa cannot do cuddling - not if she wants to stay sane.
“You don’t have to go,” Clarke says in a low, practiced voice, her hand resting where Lexa had been mere moments ago. The dim light hits her body in a beautiful way and if the circumstances weren’t these screwed up ones, Lexa wouldn’t think twice about curling up beside her. But she can’t.
She puts more distance in between them, walking to the feet of the bed and grabbing her panties, slipping them on before she looks up at Clarke - she has a hickey on her neck, and Lexa curses at herself, knowing she has matching one on her chest. “Yeah, I do. This was fun.”
It’s hardly the right thing to say, but Clarke smiles at her before turning on her back again, stretching her arms up above her head and letting out a low groan as her back cracks, “It was more than fun.”
Taking that as an end for their conversation, Lexa heads to the living room in search of her clothes. She puts them on as she finds them - her bra is hooked on a chair by the door, her blouse somehow ended up on the coffee table, her skirt in a heap by her heels. She knows she looks disheveled with her wrinkled blouse sticking out of her skirt and hair in knots, but at the very least, she can be sure she won’t run into anyone she knows in this neighborhood.
Right when she opens the door to leave, Lexa hears a noise and looks up, finds Clarke leaning against the bedroom door. She’s butt naked and very comfortable with it, her blonde hair looking insane and incredibly sexy at the same time. “Should I bother asking for your phone number?”
There’s a sense of finality to her tone, like she knows the answer and just needed to get her question out there. Lexa doesn’t bother to soften the blow, “No.”
She closes the door behind her and tries to work her stubborn curls into a braid as she waits in the curb for the cab she called to pick her up. It’s less a braid and more a tangled mess with a knot at the bottom when she dives into the back seat of the car, guilt threatening to swallow her whole.
Lexa keeps her mind busy, jumping from one item on her to-do list for tomorrow to another as she makes her way through unfamiliar streets until they become familiar again, making a game plan much more detailed than she normally would.
She has a meeting with her new head of finances first thing tomorrow morning - or rather, in a few hours - and makes a mental note to give her a tour, maybe ask Gustus to join, since he’s the one who’s organized the whole ordeal. Then she has to go to a law firm they have partnered with only a few months ago, to pretend she knows how to work out an issue that's the reason why they hired a financial analyst in the first place. She’ll answer emails during lunch and try to set aside the afternoon to read over the operation reports she’s been neglecting so she can both get ahead on that particular task and handle the hangover that is bound to happen.
All this insane step-by-step planning is what keeps her from spilling all the contents in her stomach, as the liquor swishes dangerously whenever the cab makes a turn, bile rising to her throat.
Regret makes her skin crawl, her stomach lurch, her eyes water.
Lexa makes it to her apartment with tears carving paths into her day old makeup, her eyeliner smudged with how much she’s tried to keep them from rolling down.
She’s unbuttoning her shirt the moment she walks in, kicking her shoes off by the door and throwing her keys on the console table. She grits her teeth as she walks by the mirror on the far wall - her reflection mocks her, the light giving focus to everything she wants to forget. Her shirt goes into the hamper along with her bra, and she peels her skirt and panties only to throw them in there as well. She’ll wash them, keep herself from burning them, stash them in a corner of her closet, never look at them again.
Her braid has started to untangle itself free, dark locks falling to her face as she turns on the shower head. She makes the water as hot as it’ll go.
Lexa takes a moment to look at her reflection on the bathroom mirror, stares at it until the mirror clouds over with the water steam. She sees the hickey on her collarbone, a matching one on her stomach, the insides of her thighs covered in little bites that she surely enjoyed less than an hour ago. Her lips are swollen and sensitive, bruised by kisses that went from passionate to soft and more gentle then it had the right to be.
She can still taste Clarke.
Grabbing her toothbrush and putting as much toothpaste on it as it can handle, Lexa brushes her teeth. She keeps brushing until minty foam is dripping down her chin, burning her cheeks, making her eyes water with how fucking fresh it is. She spits it out, brushes her tongue until she dry heaves, takes a gulp of mouthwash and swishes it, gargles it for long enough to make sure she won’t be able to taste anything for a whole day.
She can still fucking taste Clarke.
Lexa gets in the shower, the hot water burning her shoulders, but she doesn’t dare making it any colder. She needs the hot water, needs it to soak in and open her pores so she can scrub herself raw. But when she pours soap on her loofah and runs it forcefully through every inch of her body, all it does is remind her of where she’s been kissed, where she’s been touched by someone who isn’t her wife for the first time in over a decade.
When a sob comes up her chest and scratches at her throat, Lexa lets herself sink to the floor.
It takes her more time than she wants to admit to peel herself up. But eventually, she steps out of the shower with her hair squeaky clean, her whole body burning after being scrubbed so thoroughly, and her eyes stinging, the salt in her tears mixing with exhaustion and emotional turmoil.
She forces herself to drink a glass of water and some aspirin, even though she knows fully well it’s not going to be nearly enough to make herself feel half decent in the morning, and falls into bed over the covers, naked and aching with something that feels bigger than herself.
Her alarm wakes her up a few hours later and each ring feels like a new dagger plunging itself into her brain. Lexa rolls out of bed when sitting up feels like a herculean task and drags herself to her closet, grabbing the first pantsuit she can find. If she can bend down to slip her pants on without passing out, she’s pretty confident she can make it through the day.
Regret about sleeping with someone she met at a bar when her wedding band still rests comfortably on her ring finger has morphed into a monster she can’t control.
She goes through the motions of getting ready in a painstakingly slow pace. Her hair is tangled after sleeping wet and unbrushed, and Lexa can’t do much more than roll it into a neat and tight bun on the base of her head. But doing that leaves her face open and clear for every person she runs into to know she had cried herself to sleep like a weakling.
After forty five minutes of applying concealers and contouring her face, Lexa takes a step back to admire her handiwork. It’s three times longer than she usually bothers to spend on makeup, but she looks like she had a restful and long night of sleep, even if she doesn’t feel it at all.
Grabbing a water bottle from the fridge and her sunglasses, Lexa bolts out the door.
She had plans . She would get mini muffins to apologize for being a bitch yesterday - and today, because her temper is short even with herself, let alone others - and get to office early. She would review her new employee’s resumé along with notes Gustus left her during breakfast, be presentable and ready for the meeting. Now she’d be lucky to make it to the meeting on time.
Forcing herself to take steady sips from her water despite how it makes her stomach burn, Lexa ignores the glare the cab driver shoots at her when she asks him to stop by Starbucks before heading to their destination. It’ll make her extra late. Great.
If only she had gotten drunk at home, like a responsible adult… Then she wouldn’t have slept with anyone, and her car wouldn’t have been halfway across the city, and she wouldn’t be late.
She orders a caramel macchiato with triple shot and all their muffins. Her coffee does wake her up considerably and puts a damper on her headache - it still hurts by the time she makes it to the building, but at least it’s a constant ache, not throbbing.
“Morning, Gaia,” Lexa mumbles half heartedly as she crosses the hallway and stops by her secretary’s desk, perching the oversized box on a corner, “Could you take these down to the lounge? Apology muffins for being a bitch yesterday, and possibly today.” Then she settles a small bag on the side, “Blueberry scone for you,” she nudges it towards Gaia, almost proud of herself of having remembered this is her favorite, “Because God knows you took the brunt of it.”
“Good morning, Ms. Woods. Will do,” Gaia says, and the pronoun still stings - she wasn’t meant to be Ms . ever again. Then she turns away from the pastries, dutifully grabbing a handful of sticky notes from a corner and handing them to her. “These are your messages. You have a few emails to answer, all in the legal folder. And, Ms. Griffin is waiting for you inside.”
Checking her watch, Lexa sighs. She’s twenty minutes late.
Lexa asks for some coffee for them and thanks Gaia, making a point to be polite with her secretary. No matter how annoyed she was with herself and how even the way the notes stuck to the back of her phone now made her want to rips it all in tiny pieces, Gaia didn’t deserve to go through the same thing she had gone yesterday.
Opening the door to her office, Lexa steps inside with apologies falling from her lips. “Ms. Griffin, I’m really sorry for keeping you waiting. I had some hiccups in my morning, I’m usually much more punctual than this.”
The woman settles her phone down and straightens up, lengthening her spine before getting up. All Lexa see is blonde hair neatly combed falling over one shoulder, and she looks away for a moment, quickly putting her bag and planner away on a table by the entryway before meeting her new head of finances.
“There’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure you had a difficult morning,” the words find Lexa before she looks up and her blood turning into ice, little crystals keeping her heart from beating.
That voice.
Lexa knows that voice.
She’s heard that voice claim for a higher power as she made her come up against a window.
Lexa blinks, willing herself to look at the woman, a small part of her believing her hungover brain is making up things that shouldn’t be, that couldn’t possibly be. But when she looks up, she sees the same bright blue eyes staring at her, with the same amused glint that they had yesterday when they were doing shots at a bar.
It can’t be. But somehow, it is.
Taking a sharp breath in to keep herself from collapsing, Lexa watches Clarke for a moment, as if to make sure it really is her. Her sneakers have given way to sensible heels that elongate her legs, the same legs Lexa clawed at and pulled impossibly closer to her less than ten hours ago. Her paint stained jeans are gone as is her oversized tee, replaced by a silky blouse and a pencil skirt much like the one Lexa had on last night, the one that Clarke had made fun of.
Lexa would never have guessed they were the same person, because the Clarke she met at the bar looked as far away from a finance specialist as one could be.
She wouldn’t have believed her own eyes if it weren’t for the dark red patch on her neck, barely concealed under makeup, in the exact same spot Lexa had left a hickey on.
“Clarke Griffin ,” Clarke says, crossing the office until she’s only two feet away from Lexa, and reaches out her hand for her to take - which Lexa does, and prays to whatever god listening that Clarke can’t feel the tremble in her hand. “I look forward to working under you,” she adds, with a smirk that leaves no room for interpretation.