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From Commander-in-Chief: “Gabby Blabby Abby? Grabby Hands? Dr. Crabbie Pants? Ugh. I’m so glad you ended it with her. She was too old for you, anyway.”“Just wait until you meet your future mother-in-law,” Anya sing-songs. “You’re in for a treat.” For the love of holy causes and effects, upon all that is good in this world, p l e a s e tell us how this meeting goes! *angel's choirs singing please* Like, what wins - Lexa's Heda composure or her awkward gay noodle bean-ness? I'm so curious

Haha, hmm… One question is who tells Lexa and whether Clarke actually finds out (wait, Clarke doesn’t know about her mom and Anya, right? Or was that her mom and Raven? omg need to pull out my venn diagram again! okay, it’s unclear. so just for fun, let’s say that Clarke doesn’t know about it either. bc what is that fic but crack and miscommunication?)

–

January 3rd, 2021

“Babe. Don’t freak out but—Lexa. Stop. It’s fine.”

President Woods takes a deep breath. “Of course it’s fine. I’m fine. Go on.”

“Are you going to need your panic room?”

“It is not ‘my panic room,’ Clarke. It’s not, like, therapeutic. It’s just called a panic room because it locks down.”

“Ummhmm. And it just so happens to be your bedroom. Where you do all your panicking.”

“I’m the President of the United States, Clarke. I don’t panic,” Lexa sulks, digging a pen into the surface of her desk before remembering it’s a priceless historical heirloom. “What were you saying?” she prods, furiously trying to buff away the scratch with her thumb.

“My mother—”

Lexa whips her head up. “Your mother?”

Clarke smirks and saunters over to the Oval Office desk, hopping up and crossing her legs. She’s wearing a skirt today, thin nude tights that might as well not be there, and Lexa’s mouth suddenly contains too much saliva. It won’t go away; Lexa Woods might be the first president of the United States to die at her desk, choked by her own drool.

“She’s—”

This time it’s a secret service agent who interrupts, knocking on the doorframe with an apologetic expression. “Heda, Dr. Abigail Griffin to see you.”

Lexa narrows her eyes. “I don’t have her on my schedule.”

“It’s a recent update, if you’ll refresh your tablet—”

Fuck. There she is. 2pm.

Gabby Blabby Abby.

Anya’s ex-girlfriend always did had a way of ruining Lexa’s day; it shouldn’t be a surprise she’s still capable of doing it, presidency and an army of bodyguards or not. The woman’s scarier than Anya, and that’s saying something.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Clarke, this might take awhile. The Director of the NIH is always after me for more funding, no matter how much I maximize out their budget. I’ll try to make it quick and meet you in the sitting room in twenty minutes or so? And then you can tell me more about your mother and why I shouldn’t be panicking.”

“Okay, maybe panic a little,” Clarke says, wide-eyed.

“Why?”

“Abby Griffin is my mother.”

What is it like to breathe? Lexa can’t remember. Why isn’t any air getting into her lungs? They’re certainly working hard enough—or is that her heart?

“Babe. It’s okay. She was happy to hear I was seeing someone. And I don’t think she’s here about the NIH today, if that helps.”

“Dr. Crabbie Pants is your mom?” Lexa squeaks.

“Excuse me?” a low, dangerous voice growls from the door.

“My deepest apologies, I’m hearing over my headset there’s an emergency, please excuse us,” Lexa blurts out at double speed, grabbing Clarke’s hand and dragging her through the doors into the adjacent room. It’s not safe enough though, not safe enough by far, and she pulls them into the next room, too, slamming and locking the door behind her and then the front entrance, just to be on the safe side.

“Clarke,” that terrifying voice reverberates through the bedroom doors and Lexa is happy to admit that she’s panicking right now. “Clarke, Lexa, get out here this instant.”

The control panel—Lexa dashes over to the picture frame and tears it off the wall.

“Lex, sweetheart, it’s fine,” Clarke tries to soothe. “She’ll love you. She won’t tell anyone, either, don’t worry. I know you want things to settle down a bit before we announce anything.”

“Your mother is Dr. Abigail Griffin, I don’t think everything will ever be fine again, Clarke.”

“I mean…didn’t you make the connection between our last names?”

Lexa pauses. “I did not.”

“Babe…”

“Fuck, what is the code? She’s going to ram down those doors any second now.”

“I think you might be over-reacting.”

“Your mother once pointed a gun at me. Twice, actually. All because I came home early. Oh, god, I’ve seen your mother naked, Clarke. Naked.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Anya’s fault! She never locks her bedroom door, how was I to know she’d be—”

Clarke goes still and dangerously quiet, a look of murder in her eyes, and Lexa instinctively flinches and then wonders how she could have possibly missed the influence of Abby in Clarke’s mannerisms, the gleam of power and just a hint of wild in her eyes. The capacity to wield goodness or terror with the raise of an eyebrow.

Meanwhile, the pounding at the door grows louder, more…animalistic.

“My mother fucked Anya?”

Lexa takes a step back, hands held up where Clarke can see them. “Um. You didn’t know? They dated. For about a year.”

Jumping aside as Clarke charges closer, Lexa watches her finger-mash every single key on the control panel until the lights start blinking and several clicking sounds are heard.

Steel falls onto steel and the panic mode is fully activated.

“Clarke?”

“To be clear, this isn’t panicking,” Clarke notes, scary-calm. “This is for her own protection.”

Lexa believes it.

“Now. We’ve got a few hours to kill,” Clarke decides, still thrumming with electricity, enough that Lexa almost doesn’t want to touch her. (Almost—ha! Not even close. Lexa has a high pain tolerance and she’s never been so grateful) “Whatever shall we do with them?”

“Clarke, I love you but please don’t use words like ‘kill’ right now.”

“Get on the bed. I’m going to make you scream loud enough my mother has to hear it. I love you, too.”

Lexa swallows.

This probably isn’t the time to mention how similar Clarke is to her mother.

Or to think about it.

At all.

Oh, god, she’s taking off her tights. Oh god oh god.

“Oh and Lex?”

“Yes?”

“We’re pretending that wasn’t the first time we said I love you.” Her shirt is off now. The President mentally commits to tax breaks for every company that manufactures red lacy lingerie.

“O—okay. Good. Yes. Fine. Superb.”

“Lexa. Bed—now.”

“You know, I bet your mother would hate it even more if it was me making you scream,” Lexa attempts, already on top of the covers.

“Nice try, my messy little bottom. Hands on the post.”

All mental images of her sister doing the same under Clarke’s mother’s command go right out the window, thank god.

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