your hand in mine pt. II (clexa)

Chapter 6

Clarke wakes up to a dry throat and a pounding headache. A headache that's echoed in each hurried knock on her door. No. That's not right. Each knock on her door echoes in her head, bringing forth a new wave of dull pain and nausea.

Her arm shoots out, blindly searching for Raven on the other side of her bed. That's when she realizes she's not, in fact, lying in her bed. She's on a couch, and her sudden movement sends her tumbling to the floor.

And the knocking is still there, growing more and more persistent.

"Ugh," she groans. "Rae. Raven!"

Nothing. Either she's still dead asleep, or it's her at the door. Maybe she went out to get some food and forgot the key. For some reason, that seems so plausible Clarke doesn't even try to make herself look presentable - or at least slightly resembling a human being. She slowly rises to her feet and trudges to the door, rubbing her temples. Her headache is so massive she doesn't even have any energy to yell at Raven to stop knocking.

"i hope you got something greasy, because--" it's not Raven. It's not Raven and the words are lodged in her throat as she freezes after throwing the door open, mouth hanging open.

Lexa stares back, and her gaze is sharp and angry. Seeing her there jostles Clarke awake, fully and completely, and with that, comes a realization. It's still dark outside.

"What..." She clears her throat, still too shocked at the sight of Lexa outside her door. "What time is it?"

"It's almost one in the morning," Lexa informs her in a low, bristled tone. Oh. So only a couple of hours have passed since she went to her and met Kate. And then came back and desperately tried to drown out everything that's rushing in right now with all the alcohol she could find. Which wasn't much. Only half a bottle of wine. Clarke's not really sure if it was a good thing.

Okay. So it's one in the morning. That still doesn't explain why she's here. And, because Clarke's still a little bit drunk and also hungover, she doesn't bother herself with thinking before speaking. "Okay. What are you doing here?"

The sigh Lexa heaves in reply is long and exasperated. While she takes a pause, Clarke gets the chance to study her - mildly disheveled - appearance. Dark jeans and a simple white t-shirt under a black coat. It doesn't clash, but it doesn't quite match, either, and Clarke blinks in muted surprise. She's never seen Lexa wearing something that didn't click . Everything about her clothes is puzzle pieces coming together to form one clear picture. Even wearing Clarke's sweatpants and her undershirt, Lexa still managed to look like a model, ready for a domestic photoshoot. Right now, though; right now she looks like -- she looks good, but she clearly didn't pay any attention to what she was tugging on herself.

She didn't even know Lexa owned sneakers, for God's sake.

Clarke realizes she's taken too much time idly staring at her when Lexa clears her throat with slight indignation. "What am I doing here?" Her gaze bores into Clarke as her voice tilts. She sounds incredulous. And tired.

But Clarke's tired too. And still hungover. "Well, no offense, but you kind of made it very clear where we stood. About an hour ago. You being here is very contradictory." Did she mention she was still drunk?

"Two," Lexa says coolly.

"What?"

"It was two hours ago."

Clarke sighs. "Does it matter?" She's finally fully aware of her surroundings, and she hates it. And, perhaps, for the first time since falling in love with her - or for the first time since she's met her, even - she really doesn't want to see Lexa. Because when she looks at her, she doesn't just see her. She sees Kate's hands around her waist and Kate's fingers lightly scratching at her abs and Kate's lips pressed to her cheek, neck, eager mouth, and her heart hurts worse than her head.