snowed-in | clexa

nine

Two hours later, after many cocktails, snacks and dances, they fall onto the couch exhausted, changed back into Lexa's knitted sweaters.

"This evening was such a good idea," Lexa sighs.

"I'm glad you're liking it. Feels unreal that this is the sixth evening here for me. I don't think I've ever gone that long without internet and working."

"Don't you get vacations?"

Clarke shrugs. "Work on a pretty beach is still work."

Lexa stares into the fire silently for a while before she says, "I don't know for how long we'll be stuck together, but even if you're gone tomorrow and we never see each other again, I would love it if you took some time off once in a while. Properly. Without work. It's so important."

Clarke looks at her, a little surprised. "Why do you care?"

"You're so special, Clarke. I'm sure you're great at what you do, but it would be such a shame if work was all you do for the rest of your life. You have so much more potential."

Clarke needs a moment to take that in. The fireplace crackles in the background, illuminating the now otherwise dark living room warmly.

You have so much potential.

Outside of work? Clarke wouldn't know with what. She barely does anything outside of work.

Lexa should know how bad she is at the most common things. "I can't even bake cookies without making the worst mess. The only place I've ever been special is in the office."

"That's not true."

Clarke shakes her head. "I'm too messy. Interested in the wrong things. Too loud. I don't think you really know me, Lexa. I'm not the way people think I am. I'm not that clean, refined, serious, respectable CEO-to-be. I think my dad knows. It's why I don't have the company yet."

"And you think the issue is that I don't really know you? I never heard anyone else's opinion about you. I think the problem is that they don't really know you, Clarke. Who even decides what the wrong things to be interested in are?"

Clarke takes a breath and leans back into the couch more comfortably, closing her eyes. "You know what? I thought being stuck here was a nightmare but it's wonderful. You're wonderful. I didn't know there were people I could feel so non-pressured and non-stressed around." She laughs. "It's probably ridiculous, but I could listen to you telling me weird things like 'just make art your hobby' all day and feel at ease with it. Take a four hour nap inbetween. Cook my own meals. Wear comfortable clothes no one's going to take pictures of. Have my hair a bit imperfect and not apply a full face of make-up each day without hearing a comment on it. It's wonderful. Whoever John is, he can take as long as he'd like with his snowplow or whatever."

Lexa smiles, turning to the fireplace to hide it a bit. She's about to reply when their peace is interrupted by a knock at the door.

Clarke stares at Lexa, who stares back. "Seriously? Speak of the devil? Oh my God, I'm going to cry." She gets up with a sigh. "I'll go open the door. Wanna bet that it's John?"

"That's a definite win."

So Clarke gets up and opens the door.

The woman standing in front of it doesn't look like her name is John.

She doesn't look like she came for rescue either.

"Hello," Clarke says as warmly as possible, but the woman seems entirely uninterested in conversation. Within a second, and before Clarke knows it, she has a hunting knife drawn and has pushed Clarke back into the cabin, blade pressed against the fragile skin of Clarke's throat.

"Where the hell is Lexa?"

Clarke can't reply before there's a strong hand pushing her back, the other swiftly disarming the intruder. Lexa is standing between them now, the knife easily in her hand, keeping Clarke behind her with tense muscles. "Right fucking here, and you could've asked without laying a single finger on her. What the hell are you thinking, Anya? Is that how you greet your visitors?"

"Visitor? Who visits you up here? I thought she kidnapped you and took over the cabin or something."

Lexa snorts. Clarke can sense her anger without even seeing her face. "Right, and stole my apple cider or what? The great value of knitted sweaters is new to me too. I picked her off the road and she has every right to be in my cabin."

"Okay. I'm sorry."

Lexa seems to consider the woman less of a threat and steps away, motioning to the still frozen Clarke. "Apologize to her."

The woman, Anya, holds out her hand. "I'm sorry, I'm Anya Woods, Lexa's cousin."

Clarke shakes the woman's hand. "Clarke Griffin. Lovely to meet you."

And Clarke really, really hates that newly shocked look on Anya's face. It looks less dangerous, but she hasn't made good experiences with surprise on the woman's face. "Clarke Griffin? As in everywhere-searched-for Clarke Griffin? As in a-thousand-calls-in-the-whole-town-asking-for-you Clarke Griffin? As in helicopter-searches Clarke Griffin? I can't believe it. Your family and wife and the police and what-do-I-know is giving out prices to the lucky finder and you sit here in my cousin's humble cabin for a week?"

Clarke exchanges a glance with Lexa. "Fuck. That doesn't sound good."

"We'll call as soon as we're in the town."

Anya shakes her head. "The lines are down. Pretty much everything is down, actually. Some places have no electricity, there's no internet at all anymore and the streets are blocked- the whole town is inaccessible. We finally got through to you, but the next town is miles and miles away, that'd be impossible even with John's snowplow."

"He's here?"

"I didn't hike." Anya points to an unspecified spot in the darkness and then looks back at Clarke. "Look, we can try to send radio signals. Your parents were really worried and I had a one-hour phone call with your wife trying to convince her you're probably not dead and if you were, we wouldn't be responsible."

"Your... wife?" Lexa asks, but Clarke just facepalms.

"Raven Reyes?"

"Yes, I believe that was her name."

"That's not my wife, but I can imagine the call. She's my best friend. Radio sounds like a good idea, but I think we should get ready to leave first."

"Right. I need to clean up some stuff and you need to pack."

"My poor Fiat 500, I hope she survives being left."

"Being left isn't as much of an issue as the snow that's been weighing on her."

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