[[ I can't remember if I ever posted this? I'm going through some old WIPs and wanted to pick something to share, since I haven't posted anything in a long time. Happy holidays everyone! ]]
“Claaaaarrrrrke,” Raven whines, throwing a piece of popcorn from where she sits cross-legged on the couch. She misses her target - Clarke’s head - and the piece of popcorn collides with freshly painted canvas, sticking in the thick stroke of paint Clarke has just applied.
Clarke grinds her teeth so hard that she says a silent prayer for the caps on her back molars. She reaches up and gingerly picks the popcorn off her canvas and smoothes out the indentation it had left before the rest of the paint has time to dry. Having narrowly avoided disaster, she sets her brush down and turns to Raven with an exasperated sigh. “I don’t get why you can’t find literally anyone else to go with you. Wick would probably be so excited he’d pee his pants if you asked him.”
Raven perks up at Clarke’s comment, sensing an opportunity to attempt to win her over. She’d been poking and prodding at Clarke to try and get her to be her plus one to some ritzy gala for architects and engineers for weeks, and the day was fast approaching. As in, tomorrow. Raven had stubbornly refused to invite anyone else, preferring instead to focus her energy on wearing Clarke down. “I could ask someone else, but I don’t need someone else,” Raven clarifies. “I need you. I need to make a good impression, and you’re the only person I trust. You’re all charming and shit. A social butterfly. And not to mention, a total babe.”
There was no hard-set, particular reason Clarke didn’t want to go. It just…wasn’t her scene. As a struggling young artist she had no desire to spend several hours in uncomfortable heels making pointless small talk with a bunch of rich, stuck-up strangers who talked about things she didn’t understand in the slightest. She chews on the inside of her cheek in contemplation and makes the mistake of looking up at Raven, who hits her with the biggest, saddest puppy-dog eyes known to mankind, lower lip jutting out in a pathetic pout.
“Please, Clarke? Don’t make me go alone. I’ll owe you one. Anything you want. You name it.” Her eyelashes flutter with the ask. She’s laying it on so thick that Clarke thinks, for a second, that she might actually start crying.
Clarke sighs in defeat, shoulders sagging. “Fine. Fine, I’ll go,” she relents at last. Raven leaps off the couch and skids down to the floor where Clarke is sitting as she paints, arms flying around her neck and shoulders to constrict her in a hug. “You’re a pain in my fucking ass,” Clarke grumbles, but she leans her head against Raven’s and puts a hand over her bicep which was tucked under her chin.
“Gods, I could kiss you.”
“Speaking of kissing though,” Raven says as she releases her death grip on Clarke’s upper body. “You totally have to pretend to be my girlfriend.”
“I can’t show up with a charismatic smoke show and not have that shit already locked down. It would ruin my reputation,” Raven explains, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“What’s your reputation, exactly?” Clarke asks, still unconvinced.
Ignoring the question, Raven continues. “Come on, it’ll be just like 7th grade. You liked being my girlfriend just fine back then.”
“I don’t know,” Clarke sighs. “Schmooze me again.”
“You’re funny, and smart, and charismatic. And your ass is going to look so. good. in those strappy heels and black dress you wore to Harper and Monty’s wedding last summer. All you have to do is hang off my arm and let a bunch of rich people fawn all over you.”
Clarke rolls her eyes and picks up her paintbrush again. “You’re a pain in my fucking ass,” she repeats. “I’ll be your date, take it or leave it.”
Clarke stares out the window of the cab, watching the people on the sidewalk pass them as they sit stuck in traffic. Raven’s apartment was within walking distance of the building hosting the gala, if it hadn’t been January and if they weren’t both wearing 3-inch heels. Clarke is wearing a floor-length, 1 shoulder dress with one long sleeve and a slit up her left leg to just above her knee. Raven’s dress is a shimmering gold color with a swooping neckline that makes her look like she’s ready to step onto a Vogue runway. Neither of their getups are appropriate for walking 10 blocks in wintertime.
As she sits there, bored, Clarke has a realization. “Hm, Rave? I think we overlooked something.”
“Mmm?” Raven hums, eyes flicking up from her phone for only a second.
“I have no idea what you actually do. How am I supposed to talk to these people?”
“Most of them are middle-aged men with more money than they know what to do with. I’d be more concerned about being able to get a word in than having to fill silence,” Raven explains, rolling her eyes. “Plus, you’re a hot, young, blonde artist. They’ll eat up whatever you say regardless.”
“Delightful,” Clarke sighs. “Remind me again why we’re going to this in the first place?”
“Networking,” Raven says, finally clicking her phone off as they draw nearer to their destination. “I’m good at what I do. Like, really fucking good. But that’s worth shit if you don’t know the right people. If you want the big jobs, at least.”
Clarke nods, understanding. She was past the point of complaining, anyway. She’s already resigned to her fate for the evening, and she figures there least will be good food and drinks. If she’s lucky, maybe she’ll be able to chat up someone looking for a mural for their nursery in a penthouse apartment. There were, realistically, worse ways she could spend a Saturday night.
After unloading out of the cab they take a few seconds to primp each other, smoothing out hair and straightening fabric. “Let’s get 'em, Tiger,” Clarke says, slipping her hand into the crook of Raven’s elbow. “There’s no way they won’t love you.” Raven is anything but shy, but Clarke knew how important this night is to her. She’s happy to bolster her confidence when she needs it.
After an elevator ride to the correct floor, Clarke and Raven enter the gala, checking their coats at the door. Hanging off of Raven’s arm exactly as she’d been asked to do, Clarke experiences some minor sensory overload as they truly make their way into the space. The ceilings are very high considering that they are on the 8th floor of the building. The empty space overhead drew the eye upward towards the exposed wooden beams that traversed the width of the room elegantly, connecting with several larger support beams scattered throughout. The wall of the far side of the room is entirely windows, floor to ceiling, showing off a breathtaking view of the city outside at night, lights twinkling as far as the eye could see. And then there are the people. It feels far from crowded in the large space, but Clarke can’t look anywhere without getting an eyeful of Chanel, Balenciaga, Hermes, Dior.
Swanky. The people are swanky, the space is swanky, everything is swanky, and Clarke feels undeniably out of place, even in her best dress and most expensive jewelry. “Whoah,” she says, vocalizing her surprise. Raven had told her that this gala drew in a ritzy crowd; not only top architects and engineers but their plus-ones, who were often political figures or celebrities in one way or another.
“Yeah,” Raven agrees, though she seems much less impacted. Which is fair, seeing as she works with at least some of these people if she got the invite, even if she was far enough down on the ladder that none of them actually knew her name. “Do you smell that?” she asks, scenting the air. “That’s the smell of old money.” A pause. “And also enough cologne to mask the scent of a decomposing corpse. Which is what some of these old geezers look like, honestly.”
Clarke pinches her side, tsking. A server walks by with a tray of some of the biggest shrimp Clarke has ever seen, immediately capturing her attention and reminding her that she’d hardly eaten all day, saving room for free, expensive food like the classy woman she was. “Come on, I’m starving,” she alerts Raven, tugging her forward to follow after the server.
“Yes, food, great idea,” Raven agrees, clueing in easily. They passed a tray of glasses of champagne on their way, and Raven snags 2 of them, handing one to Clarke. “I think we could both use one of these, too.”
“Do you think that went well?” Raven asks. Then, before Clarke can answer, says, “I think it went well.”
Inserting herself into conversations was not an easy thing for Raven to do. At the gala, that is - under normal circumstances, she had developed that skill very well. But at the gala, she needed to walk the line between trying to make a good impression to get her name out there and sounding like she was either too full of herself or a charity case. She’d managed to successfully talk to and pass her information along to 2 COOs of prestigious engineering firms, and the man they had just talked to had told her to reach out to his HR department about an application come Monday. So yeah, Clarke thought it had gone well.
“Um, he loved you. I have no idea what you guys were talking about but it ended with the possibility of an interview so yeah, I’d say it went well.”
“Good, good,” Raven nods, letting out a long breath that she’d probably been holding up until then. Clarke isn’t used to seeing this nervous side of Raven. Having known each other for nearly 15 years at this point and given how close they’d been for the entirety of those years, it certainly wasn’t her first time witnessing that Raven does, in fact, have nerves. But the display of uncharacteristic vulnerability tugs at Clarke’s heartstrings and fills her with the desire to soothe. She reaches up and fusses with some of Raven’s meticulously crafted beachy waves, tucking stray hairs back into place, and then takes a step back to assess her work.
And backs straight up into someone, elbow connecting with glass as she sends a drink sailing out of her unsuspecting victim’s hand and onto the floor. The sound of glass shattering precedes Clarke turning around in a whirl, exclaiming her apology before she knows whose night she may have just ruined. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”
Having been expecting a server or an older gentleman, Clarke is wholly unprepared for the woman standing in front of her. She is young, probably close to Clarke and Raven’s age, and very pretty. Extremely pretty, in a 3 piece suit that probably cost more than the last 3 paintings Clarke sold combined. The woman’s piercing green eyes nearly accost Clarke when they meet her own and for a second she forgets why she had even turned around at all.
“It’s okay,” the woman tells her. “Are you alright?” She reaches out and places careful, gentle fingers on Clarke’s arm, repositioning her slightly to take a look at where she had smashed into the glass. The skin hadn’t broken and Clarke was fine, save for the strange stutter of her heart.
“Oh, yes, I’m fine. Are you?”
“Perfect,” the woman answers, eyes fixated on Clarke’s. She looks curious, almost like she’s trying to place Clarke’s face or like Clarke had just said something very interesting, except they’d never met before and Clarke certainly hadn’t. Clarke couldn’t have looked away if she tried. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude. My name is Lexa,” the woman tells her, holding out her hand to shake both her hand and Raven’s as they introduced themselves. Clarke can sense intense energy rolling off of Raven, a combination of nerves and excitement, and wonders idly who exactly they are talking to.
A server approaches with a broom, dustpan, and paper towels to clean up the broken glass and spilled wine and Lexa, Clarke, and Raven move towards the tables lined up in a semi-circle around the front of the stage. Lexa sits down with them and servers bring her over a new glass of wine - and glasses for Clarke and Raven - without being asked, as well as a full-on charcuterie board. Raven and Lexa begin talking and Clarke zones out a little, honing in on cheese and sliced meats and fruits.
She’s popping a piece of Mimolette into her mouth when she hears her name and Raven kicks her ankle under the table. Kicking her right back, Clarke swallows her mouthful and says, “Hmm?” looking between her and Lexa.
“Are you an Arkadian engineer, too?” Lexa asks, sounding like she’s repeating the question. She doesn’t seem annoyed but Clarke feels mildly embarrassed for having been caught not listening. Whoops.
“Oh, I - no. Not an engineer,” she answers with a laugh as if the notion was absurd. It was, if you knew her. But Lexa doesn’t know her. “I’m an artist.”
Lexa’s eyebrows raise marginally, surprised. “What’s your medium?” she asks. Clarke pats herself on the back at the ask; it means she had gotten all of the paint out of her hair. There’d been an incident with a tube of green paint yesterday evening.
“I paint,” Clarke tells her. “Mostly surrealism.”
“That sounds lovely,” Lexa responds, sounding genuine. She raises her (new) glass of wine to take a sip and Clarke has to coach herself into not staring at the way her lips parted around the glass. Lexa is unfairly, stupidly attractive, and obviously successful to boot. She, a starving artist originally from Rhode Island with $150 dollars in her bank account, had no business developing even the thought of a crush on her. None at all. “I’ve always appreciated the fine arts. There’s some art involved with architecture work, too, but I’d be lost without all of my numbers and equations to make sense of everything.”
Clarke nods. “That’s what I love about painting. It doesn’t have to make sense. Or, it can make sense, but only to me.” She pauses. “As long as I can evoke a feeling, an emotion, how I got there doesn’t matter.”
“You sound very talented,” Lexa comments.
“She is,” Raven chimes in before Clarke could downplay her work. She kicks Raven underneath the table again.
Lexa glances over at Raven, politely but as if she had forgotten it wasn’t just the two of them at the table for a moment. Then she looks back at Clarke. “I’d love to see your work. Do you have an exhibit I could visit?”
Clarke is just about to open her mouth to tell Lexa that no, she doesn’t currently have any of her work in an exhibit because she’s been taking way too long to finish up her latest series when an official-looking man wearing a headset and holding a clipboard approaches them seemingly from out of nowhere. “Miss Woods, we’re ready for you,” he informs Lexa, and waits patiently for her to go with him.
“Forgive me, I have to go and make a quick speech,” Lexa tells them, excusing herself. She looks disappointed as she stands, chewing the inside of her lower lip thoughtfully. “It was a pleasure to meet you both,” she says, but her eyes were undoubtedly on Clarke. Clarke thinks she sees something akin to regret in shining green irises, but it’s gone in a flash. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” And with that, she turns away, followed closely by the suited man.
Clarke watches her go until she disappears in a throng of people and then turns to Raven, who grasps both of her arms and squeezes until Clarke complains. “That was Lexa Woods. She won the fucking Pritzker,” Raven hisses the second Lexa leaves them.
“What pretzel? Clarke asks, still distracted after their encounter with Lexa, wondering how much Raven had had to drink. It was probably in the fine print of her job description tonight to keep her from going overboard.
“The Pritzker, Clarke,” Raven repeats exasperatedly, as if that would ring a bell. At Clarke’s blank stare she elaborates, “The most prestigious architectural award in the country.”
“Oh, so she’s like…really good at architecturing,” Clarke muses, enjoying the way it clearly irks Raven. “Is she getting an award tonight?”
“‘Really good at architecturing’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. She designed this entire building when she was 23, Clarke. She’s a visionary. A legend,” Raven informs her. “And no, she’s not receiving an award. Some people will be recognized for their work this year but this is mostly just an end-of-the-year party. She throws it every year.”
“Kinda sounds like you have a crush on her,” Clarke teases.
“Who wouldn’t?” Raven asks. “And I was sitting right next to you while she was with us, babe, don’t even try to tell me you don’t.”
Clarke shrugs. Raven is right; Lexa was undeniably attractive, unerringly charming, absurdly successful. Who wouldn’t like her? “True,” she replies.
“She seemed into you,” Raven presses.
“Rae,” Clarke sighs, rolling her eyes. “She was just being friendly and probably wanted to sit for a few minutes.” Movement on the stage catches her eye then. Lexa catches her eye, as she approaches the microphone waiting for her.
Clarke watches - and this time, listens - with interest as Lexa speaks to the crowd. She doesn’t seem fazed by the public speaking at all, oozing confidence but never sounding arrogant. She discusses some of the notable works people in the room had completed throughout the year, highlighting the end of several years-long projects that would be sure to leave a mark on the city for decades to come. Raven whispers some cursory details to her throughout as if it would help Clarke make any sort of connection to the people and buildings Lexa was mentioning.
Towards the end of the speech, Lexa mentions that they were having a raffle to raise money for the local children’s hospital and then ends by saying, “To a year of triumph, a year of closure, and a year of new beginnings.” She raises the wine glass in her hand and turns her head slightly, making direct eye contact with Clarke, who flushes at being caught staring even though everyone was staring at Lexa as she spoke. “And to friends, old and new.” Mercifully, Lexa looks away then, before Clarke’s cheeks can burst into literal flames. “None of us would be here if not for the relationships we’ve built amongst one another. Cheers to us,” she says, and the crowd whoops and hollers as she exits the stage.
“Did she - she looked at me, didn’t she?” Clarke asks Raven in a whisper, only looking over at her friend once Lexa has disappeared from view.
Raven is leaning back in her chair, a smug grin on her face, and she nods. “She totally did. Maybe she was just being friendly.”
Raven is going to have a bruise on her ankle by the end of the night if she keeps it up.
Decidedly worse than giving her a bruised ankle, Clarke is going to kill Raven when they get home. Lexa’s speech seems to have marked a turning point of the evening, after which ties are loosened and drinks are poured a little stronger. Polite and professional networking earlier in the evening is giving way to more personal, provocative conversations, which are Raven’s forte. She’s much better at being open and honest and startlingly brilliant in her own crass way, and while Clarke admires these things about her best friend, she isn’t thrilled to be seated at a table full of rich white men who realistically only sat down with them because they are pretty young women. Raven has managed to pique their interest and make an impression for herself, but Clarke hates the way they look at her when she explains that she isn’t an engineer or an architect. Like she is lesser than them, but pretty enough that she can stay.
When one of the younger of the men at the table - who still had to be at least 10 years older than her - asks her to dance, Clarke answers with a begrudging yes, bored to death with the conversation happening around the table. Clarke and the guy - Alec - find some space amongst the other people dancing and it turns out to not be the worst time she’s ever had. He’s nice enough, if not a little arrogant, and keeps his hands respectfully on her waist and his eyes on her face. He asks well-meaning questions about her painting even if they are a touch condescending, and follows up with anecdotes about his own personal experiences that just don’t quite bridge the gap.
Clarke is listening to him talk about his summer cottage on Lake George when she sees him look over her shoulder and then hears a quiet but assertive, “Mind if I cut in?”
She may not have ever heard that voice prior to that evening, but Clarke knows immediately it is Lexa Woods.
“By all means,” Alec says. He steps away from Clarke and appears just shy of deferential as he tips his head to Lexa and heads back to the table. Clarke watches him leave and deliberately doesn’t make eye contact with Raven, even though she can feel her eyes on her as if they were laser beams.
“I hope this is alright,” Lexa says as she steps into the space where Alec had been. She holds out a hand to Clarke in offering and once Clarke accepts steps in even closer, placing her other hand on Clarke’s waist with a confidence that tells Clarke she does this often. Clarke mirrors her hand placement and allows Lexa to lead her with simple steps in tune with the music, ignoring the way her skin buzzes wherever Lexa touches her. “Alec is a fine man and a great business partner but… not the best conversationalist, in my opinion.”
“So you decided to save me?”
“Would it be presumptuous if I said I thought you might enjoy my company more?” Lexa counters, a playful lilt to her voice.
“No,” Clarke admits shyly.
“Good,” Lexa hums. “We were also in the middle of a conversation when I got pulled away before.” Clarke tilts her head; Lexa had left an impression when they had talked earlier, but she can’t recall exactly what it was they had been talking about when Lexa had to go to make her speech. “You were going to tell me about your exhibits,” Lexa fills in helpfully.
Clarke turns a bit bashful at that, glancing at the floor before she looks back up at Lexa. “Oh, yeah. That,” she sighs. “I’m not exhibiting any pieces right now. My last painting was sold a few months ago, and I’ve been working on a project but…” she shrugs. She realizes she wasn’t exactly making herself sound like a very successful or impressive artist, but she’s being honest. She makes enough money from her paintings to keep her bills paid and split the rent with Raven, but she hasn’t ‘taken off’ yet in the way she’d hoped she would when she first moved to the city. Like Raven, and thousands of other people, she’s still working on making a name for herself.
To her surprise, instead of looking like she was losing interest or was unimpressed, Lexa nods, a knowing and gentle look in her eyes. “I’m not an artist in the same way you are; in truth, the bulk of my work these days is managerial and project oversight.” Lexa’s voice takes on a wistful quality. “But I think as any type of creative there’s always a pressure to be just that; creative. We measure our success in what we’re able to churn out and how it’s perceived by those around us. We forget that the process that gets us there is just as beautiful and valuable as the product - even if it doesn’t go exactly how we think it should.”
Lexa holds Clarke’s gaze meaningfully as she speaks and Clarke is taken aback. ‘Who are you?’ she thinks but doesn’t ask out loud. Clarke didn’t realize she needed to hear that until Lexa said it, and how Lexa could possibly pick up on Clarke’s longstanding inner turmoil about her stalled-out project based on two short sentences and a shrug was beyond her. Maybe it was just luck, but Clarke gets the feeling it wasn’t.
“You’re right,” Clarke says. “Thanks. I needed that.”
Lexa looks pleased with herself, a gently sloping smile appearing on plush, crimson red lips. “You’re welcome, Clarke. I’m happy to help. And I hope to see some of your work someday.”
“Maybe when I finish it in 20 years,” Clarke jokes, adding some levity to their conversation that had grown unexpectedly insightful and meaningful.
“I have a feeling it would be well worth the wait.”
Clarke is just about to remind Lexa that she’a never seen her work and it could belong in a kindergarten classroom for all she knows when the music changea, going from slow and sentimental to lively and upbeat. Clarke recognizes the song immediately, and Lexa’s perceptiveness shows again when she quirks an eyebrow upwards curiously.
“Do you dance salsa?” she asks.
“I lived with Raven and her abuelita for an entire summer when my mom was away with Doctors without borders,” Clarke informs her. “I learned salsa before I learned how to drive.”
“You’re full of surprises, Miss Griffin,” Lexa says, amused. “Shall we, then? Care to put on a show?”
Clarke immediately wishes she hadn’t opened her mouth. Salsa dancing with Raven in her grandma’s kitchen and showing off at prom was an entirely different ball game than dancing with a Pritzker Prize winner she’d just met at a gala full of high society citizens. “It’s - I mean, I know how, but it’s been a while,” Clarke amends, realizing she might have sold her abilities too well.
“That’s fine; I’ll lead, you follow.”
Clarke bites her lip hesitantly, but Lexa’s entire face lights up with excitement as if the prospect of dancing with Clarke is the highlight of her night, taking her from hosting to actually having fun and enjoying herself. Clarke can’t bring herself to damper the spark present in her sage green eyes; the hopeful smile on Lexa’s lips might as well have been a pleading pout.
There are several other pairs of people dancing in the open space in the center of the room, but as soon as Lexa begins leading they make space for them to dance unobstructed. One of Lexa’s hands holds Clarke’s and the other cups the back of her shoulder as she leads with effortless steps that give Clarke the impression she’s either done this a lot or has had some professional training at some point. Despite being on the back foot as far as skill and finesse went, Clarke falls into rhythm with Lexa easily and she finds herself actually having fun.
Lexa turns her effortlessly in each direction and switches their positions occasionally, taking any chance she can to showcase Clarke with exaggerated hand gestures, making them both laugh. Clarke is so caught up in Lexa’s energy, her vibrant eyes staring back at her, and the way her fingers splay across the bare skin of her shoulder blade, that she doesn’t notice everyone is watching them until the song came to an end and there was an eruption of clapping. Raven’s wolf whistle was unmistakable and Clarke flushes when she turns to face their audience, waving awkwardly because bowing feels like a conceited thing to do.
“That was amazing,” Lexa says beside her, not at all awkward. She sounds and looks exhilarated, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she catches her breath, cheeks tinged a pretty pink. Clarke is captivated, once again absorbing her energy, borrowing confidence from Lexa as she preens under the attention and approval of her peers. As the rest of the guests go back to whatever they had been doing before the impromptu performance, Lexa smiles that beaming smile at Clarke. “You’re an excellent dance partner. Raven is a lucky woman.”
“Oh, she’s not - we’re not, I mean - together. We aren’t together.” It has been a long time since someone had made Clarke as tongue-tied as Lexa seemed to.
“I didn’t mean to imply that I thought you were.” There’s a knowing confidence in her tone, and Clarke might otherwise be irritated by it if not for the coy look in Lexa’s eyes.
“Oh,” Clarke says dumbly, and feels her cheeks growing hot once again.
But Lexa moves on quickly, either not noticing Clarke’s floundering or purposely changing the subject on her behalf. “I know I’ve taken up a lot of your time already this evening, but I’d love to show you something if you have a moment,” Lexa says. “I think it might help you.”
With her interest piqued and without a desire to say goodbye to Lexa for what would probably be forever just yet, Clarke is sold on the idea easily. “I have time.”
Clarke catches Raven’s eye as they head out of the main room, giving her a quick and hopefully subtle thumbs up to let her know she isn’t being kidnapped. Her phone sits in her crossbody purse which is hanging on the back of the chair she’d been sitting in, and she didn’t want to just disappear on her without a trace.
In the elevator, Clarke watches curiously as Lexa swipes a fob and punches the button for the top roof. “So do I get to know what you’re showing me?”
Lexa steps back from the number pad and leans back against the sidewall of the elevator, hands resting on the metal railing there. She meets Clarke’s eyes and bites her lip, looking adorably nervous. It’s the first time all night that Clarke has seen her anything but 100% confident and she finds the dichotomy endearing. “You’ll see in just a moment. It’s not really something I can describe.”
“Okay,” Clarke answers easily, not bothered by the non-answer. They are already nearly to the top floor as it was, and Lexa’s eyes look different in the light of the elevator, less green and more grey under the harsh white glow. She can pick out these details because Lexa holds her gaze as the elevator continues its way up several more floors. Clarke feels no desire to look away. She doesn’t know Lexa at all, not really, and somehow it feels like they are connecting on a deeper level than she has with anyone before without saying a word.
With that thought, Clarke swallows and forces herself to look away. She is Lexa’s guest; Lexa is just being a gracious host. Clarke is sure anyone given prolonged attention by Lexa is likely to swoon and she tries to temper her rapidly growing crush with that reminder.
Though Clarke has cut the tension between them by looking away Lexa doesn’t seem perturbed. Only seconds later they reach their floor and she gestures for Clarke to exit first, fingers brushing the small of Clarke’s back as she follows and directs her towards a door at the end of the hallway that leads to a small flight of stairs.
The door opens to the roof of the building, and Lexa lets Clarke pass through first, following a few steps behind as Clarke beelines towards the edge for a better look. The view is breathtaking. Clarke has been on rooftops in the city before, but never one with a 360 view like this. Looking in one direction granted views of the park where green grass was still clinging to life in the cold, and the other, twinkling city lights and brutally artistic buildings as far as the eye could see.
Lexa is right, it’s inspiring. Clarke realizes she’d momentarily forgotten Lexa’s presence behind her and turns around, sheepish, to find Lexa standing with her hands in her pockets. The wind catches her hair, blowing the loose wisps that frame her face around, and somehow that view is even more breathtaking to Clarke. Lexa looks washed out in the moonlight and Clarke’s fingers itch for a pencil, or paintbrush, anything to capture the way she looks at that moment. Eyes shining, lips parted, a hopeful glint in her eyes as she rocked back on her heels in what seems like a nervous tic.
“What do you think?” Lexa asks, still hanging back. Like she honestly couldn’t tell if Clarke would be impressed or not, or whether or not she’d wasted their time by coming up here.
“Beautiful,” Clarke tells her. She’s still looking at Lexa when she answers, and she herself wasn’t even sure if she was referring to the view or to Lexa. Both, realistically. She swallows, trying to get her wits about her, which she can only accomplish if she stops staring at Lexa, who stares back with an openness that makes Clarke feel off-kilter, unbalanced. Which is not the safest thing to feel when standing a few feet away from a ledge 40 stories above the ground.
She turns around again to take another look at the city. It’s beautiful and inspiring, no doubt, but all she sees are images of Lexa dancing behind her eyes. Lexa approaches silently, suddenly appearing in Clarke’s peripheral as she joins her in the viewing. “It is, isn’t it?” she says quietly. “I used to come up here frequently, especially when I had just gotten out of university. It somehow always helped me calm the business in my mind when I had so many ideas, so many possible pathways, that I froze up.”
“I bet,” Clarke murmurs. “This is really amazing, Lexa. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
“Of course,” Lexa replies simply, like it’s no big deal at all; like they hadn’t met only hours ago after Clarke had dumped her wine on the expensive hardwood floor. Clarke wonders if maybe Lexa takes a lot of women up here; if it was part of her playbook. She isn’t entirely sure if she cares either way. “Oh, look,” Lexa says, touching Clarke’s arm with her fingertips and leaning closer as she points out a horse-drawn carriage making its way through the park, following an illuminated path. Clarke shivers at the touch and Lexa is close enough to notice. She mistakenly attributed it to the temperature. “I’m sorry - it is cold out, isn’t it. I should have let you get your jacket. I wasn’t thinking.”
Before Clarke can blink, or explain in a not awkward or embarrassing way that she hadn’t shivered because of the cold, Lexa slips out of her suit jacket and settles it over Clarke’s shoulders.
“But now you’ll be cold,” she protests.
“I’ll be fine,” Lexa reassures her, nonplussed.
Clarke doesn’t know Lexa well at all, but she gets the sense she wasn’t going to budge, so she decides to be gracious instead of arguing. “Well, thank you,” she says. “We might as well go back in any way. I mean, I could stay up here all night, but Raven would probably not love that, and I have a feeling you’d be missed at your own party.”
Lexa sighs, reluctant to agree. “I suppose you’re right.” She steps closer towards the edge, placing her hands on the barrier wall meant to keep anyone from falling. “One more minute?”
Clarke acquiesces without a fuss, happy to make a compromise that earns her more time with the view and more time alone with Lexa. She’d come to this party with intentions to indulge herself, after all. She steps up beside Lexa, leaning her palms against the cool rough surface of the ledge, and is acutely aware of the way Lexa shifted towards her, their pinkies brushing as she does.
Clarke glances down at their hands and then up, finding Lexa watching her. She bites her lip again, adorably and endearingly nervous. So very much not at all like Clarke would have expected her to behave. “I hope I’m not being too forward,” she starts. “It’s just that when I go back down there I’m sure to get swept up by business partners and eager young professionals again.” She pauses for a breath, shifting to lean her hip against the ledge and face Clarke more fully. “So instead of waiting until the end of the night, I’d like to ask you now if you’d be interested in getting dinner with me sometime. Or breakfast, lunch - whatever you’d prefer. I’d like to get to know you better if you’re amenable to the idea.”
Clarke is maybe a little more than amenable to the idea. Ecstatic would be one way to put it. But she manages to keep her cool. “That sounds nice. Dinner, and getting to know each other,” she clarifies.
Lexa smiles, full-fledged, and the site of it makes Clarke smile too. “Fantastic.” She pulls her phone out of her back pocket. “Can I get your number, then? So we can make arrangements?”
Clarke enters her number into her phone, and sends herself a message - Lexa Woods - so she’ll be able to add it into her phone when she gets back to the table and her bag. Lexa seems unable to keep the grin off her face as she walks Clarke back inside with a hand at the small of her back, insisting she keep the jacket on until they get back to the main floor.
As the elevator begins its descent, she says, “I have some free time next weekend, if you’re available. Just text me to let me know what works for you so I can make sure my calendar stays clear.”
Clarke nods and is finally allowed to hand the jacket back to Lexa as the elevator slows to a graceful stop. “Thank you again,” Clarke says. “The view really helped. And it was really nice to meet you, Lexa.”
“Likewise,” Lexa says, and Clarke’s heart stops for a moment as Lexa leans in, but only to quickly and politely peck her cheek. “I’ll be seeing you.”
They go their separate ways, and Clarke knows two things.
1.) she is so, so screwed
2.) Raven is going to be insufferable about this.
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