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unchartedcloud · 2 years

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OR forgotten first meeting/locked in a room (Clexa)

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57 (Forgotten First Meeting) + 70 (Locked in a Room)

A John Wick (modern assassins) AU

TW: alcohol, sexual themes, gun & violence mention

Rated: M

It’s never a good sign when Lexa feels groggy upon waking. She’s either a) been drugged or b) at Doc’s office, most likely having been consensually drugged.

This drugging was not consensual.

The first thing she’s aware of is her surroundings. Relatively bright, fluorescent light. Green accents. The smell of cleaning solution and fresh linens. She’s in a room at The Continental. Lying on one of the small couches provided in the larger suites, if the vantage point is any indication.

The second thing she’s aware of is the muzzle of a Sig P365 pointed at her forehead.

“Finally,” the woman holding the gun says. Lexa blinks several times and focuses her gaze. A blond woman with curly, short hair. The curls are damp, as is the rest of her body; an easy observation, given that she’s wearing only a bra and underwear. “Care to tell me why the fuck you’re in my room?”

The woman’s tone is relatively light, given the situation. More curious and a bit peeved than outright angry, at least for the moment. Though how Lexa managed to interrupt this person’s shower whilst unconscious remains a mystery.

She blinks a few more times, waiting to move until her vision is reliably un-blurred. The couch is upholstered in a silken green fabric embroidered with coarse gold thread–a curious choice, given the difficulty of getting blood out of either–and the latter presses into her palm as she pushes herself up to sit. She neither watches the blond nor informs her she’s doing so; the Sig’s safety is on, so she’s clearly not in danger of being shot just yet.

The room is indeed unfamiliar. A suitcase is open against the far wall, its contents tossed; the sheets have been slept in and left mussed atop the bed; the closet door is ajar, the suggestion of an empty gun belt and a long rifle outlined in the shadows beyond. A quick flex of Lexa’s bicep tells her the holster beneath her left arm is empty. And she isn’t wearing her jacket.

She took her jacket off when she returned to her room in the afternoon…she’d poured herself a dram of whiskey, but it was from the bottle she’d brought with her. Had she swept the room first? Could someone have…

The Sig clicks, and cold gunmetal touches her right temple.

“Are you deaf?”

Lexa frowns. “No.”

“Well I’m not asking again.”

She angles her eyes to the side, turning her head two degrees to get the other woman in her periphery. Water drips from her hair onto toned shoulders, rolls down over a defined bicep tensed slightly in the work of holding the gun. Almost all of her is bare, the essential bits covered not by simple underwear, but lingerie: black, lacy, partially transparent, the half-corset bra she wears fades into strong abs. Her right forearm bears a geometric tattoo; the left bears the Sig.

So she’s attractive.

And familiar.

“I don’t know,” Lexa answers, and knows immediately the answer is unsatisfying. She can feel the pattern of the embroidery pressed into her cheek and rotates her jaw a few times. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“You could, though it would be somewhat unproductive given that this is, as I said, my room.” The woman sighs and pulls the gun back from Lexa’s face. It’s still in her hand; a sure, easy grip. A finger taps absently on the gun’s handle in a way that suggests habit rather than intention. And, perhaps, impatience.

“I suppose I shouldn’t kill you until I know whether you’re worth breaking the rules over.” Clear blue eyes roam Lexa’s body brazenly as if she were naked rather than fully clothed, and the edges of a smirk appear on the blond’s lips. “You certainly look like you could be.”

It sounds like innuendo, but Lexa doesn't give it the time required to process. She pulls her fallen suspender strap up onto her shoulder as she stands. "I wouldn't advise it. You've already tried once and failed."

The room spins. She has every intention of walking straight to and out the door to track down whoever thought this would be a fun prank to pull, but the drug is clearly still working its way out of her system. Not that she has any intention of betraying that; she covers by brazenly eying the blond right back. "Your lingerie was red then."

“Feeling okay?” The smirk is out in force now. “You look a bit…”

Lexa’s words sink in as the smirk falls away, replaced with an equally attractive frown. “Have we met?”

"Once." If she grits her teeth, the floor mostly stands still. It's enough that she feels confident about crossing the room without collapsing. "In Budapest."

“Budapest…” The woman taps the gun against her own shoulder, of all things, and looks up into the middle distance in a dramatic display of deep thought. “Hardly narrows it down.”

Lexa shakes her head before she can think to stop herself and grimaces. “Red lingerie in Budapest doesn’t narrow it down?”

“Not exactly.”

It does strike Lexa as strange that she meets no resistance on her way to the front door, but then again apparently this woman has just as much interest in Lexa being in her room as Lexa has in remaining in it. She manages to avoid the small table in front of the couch, round the edge of the bed, and make it to the door - where she meets a lock.

“The door is locked,” she hears, rather pointlessly, from behind her.

"I can see that." Lexa doesn't turn around, just goes on watching the doorknob as though its resistance to moving is another symptom of being drugged. "Why is the door locked?"

“If I knew that, you’d have woken up to an empty room.” When Lexa turns around, the woman is shrugging and in the midst of digging in her luggage. “Got a name, cutie?”

No gun, no jacket, a locked door…Lexa looks down at her wrist. Not even a watch. How much time remains? If the sunset is any indication, not much. She leans back against the wall to steady herself.

"These doors don't lock from the outside."

“Not usually.”

She’s pulling a dark blue dress over her head and adjusting it over her hips with a wiggle. Lexa finds herself staring at her ass before she manages to pull herself together. Her eyes are just tired, along with the rest of her body, from being drugged. Potentially by this woman, though that seems increasingly unlikely.

Which does remind her to ask:

"You didn't hear anyone break in?" She blinks hard, and finds herself staring at the blond's stretch of bare back instead. "Or them dragging a full grown human being inside?"

“I listen to music while I shower.” Somehow the gun is still in her hand, though her grip is relaxed and her arm is at her side. She gestures at Lexa with it. “You don’t remember drinking something you shouldn’t have? Maybe getting knocked over the head?”

Lexa doesn't merit that with a response. Music while showering? It's a miracle this woman is still alive.

"Have you tried to pick the lock?"

“No, I just noticed it was stuck and hoped a strong, pants-clad woman would come and save me.”

Lexa processes and is about to respond when the blond rolls her eyes and amends, “Of course I tried to pick the lock. The fact that I can’t narrows the suspect list down quite a bit.”

"Does it?"

The blond turns her back on her again and shakes her hair out, which Lexa finds only mildly distracting. Determined to get her feet under her she shoves away from the wall.

"Where's your lockpick set?"

She saunters over to Lexa, all hips and collarbones and eyes that seem to shift in color to match her dress. “Here,” she says, pausing only once she is fully within Lexa’s space. It takes Lexa a beat to realize she’s reached down to the nightstand beside them and opened the drawer. “Help yourself.”

She looks down. One lockpick set would have met expectations; two would have been smarter, assuming she didn't wake up in the room of a master thief. Instead, she finds a veritable drawer full of different sets, different makes, all in pristine condition. A comment comes to her lips and she lifts her chin to deliver it, but the other woman has stepped away, leaving the scent of citrus and spice in her wake.

So she swallows hard, grabs the top set of lock picks, and kneels in front of the door.

Surely she imagined the way those blue eyes bounced down to her lips.

"Well, I'm all ears."

“You want a drink?”

Lexa stops what she’s doing to level a raised eyebrow at the woman behind her, who is now standing at the small bar on the opposite side of the room. “I’m a little busy.”

She shrugs again and goes about fetching herself what appears to be a nip of whisky from the hotel fridge. “Suit yourself. Ever heard of Finn Collins?” The whisky ricochets off the crystal glass from the force of the pour, some of it splashing off onto the counter. The woman tongs one large square of ice from an ice bucket and plops it in, eliciting yet another small splash. “He’s a shit assassin, but he’s got connections. Including one of the world’s greatest locksmiths. He is also,” she swirls the liquid around and finally meets Lexa’s eyes, “after the Carl Emerson contract.”

What?

It's only because she's already locking her jaw that the word doesn't jump from her lips. Instead, Lexa only narrows her eyes and reevaluates her position. The contract on Emerson was too lucrative to stay exclusive for long–but she hadn't anticipated competition quite this quickly. Titus must have been talking to more people than he let on.

But as far as she's aware, Titus is the only one dealing this contract…which means her situation isn't the only thing she's reevaluating.

Lexa sits back, taking a breather with her weight on the ground while she studies the way a flower tattoo spills out from the back of that blue dress.

"Who are you, exactly?"

“Clarke Griffin.” She says it easily, readily. It even sounds genuine, and that smile that’s more of a smirk is back on her face. “Nice of you to finally ask. You got a name under those traps?”

Lexa frowns. “Under what?”

Now the woman–Clarke–raises an eyebrow right back. “Trapezius.” She gestures at her own with the hand currently unoccupied with a glass, leaving Lexa to wonder where she’s stowed the gun. “You have nice shoulders.”

She should be more concerned about the location of the gun than she is.

Clarke Griffin.

"You really don't remember trying to kill me?"

“I have killed a lot of people.” Clarke takes a sip of her drink and swallows - then narrows her eyes at the middle distance. “Red lingerie, Budapest…” the finger tapping is back, this time on the glass. “Tried to kill you, that does narrow it down…

“Oh, shit!” A resounding smack jars Lexa’s ears as Clarke slams the glass down on the counter. It’s a miracle the thing is still in one piece. “That was you? Fuck, what was that contract…Woods!” Now she’s pointing at Lexa like she’s caught her out in a lie. “Lexa Woods. I had no idea you were in the Network.” She shrugs apologetically, though that smirk is back on her face and Lexa gets the distinct impression that she is anything but sorry. “Misunderstanding, I’m sure.”

"Mm."

The light through the window shifts and Lexa is reminded of the ticking clock. She gets back on one knee and the world spins less as she turns and tries at the lock again.

"In your defense, Lexa Woods isn't in the Network." The lockpick jerks as she pushes a tumbler a bit too far, resetting the whole thing. She sighs, her shoulders deflating. "The Commander is."

Something happens then that hasn’t happened since Lexa woke up in this room: silence.

At first, it’s nice. She can actually hear the tumblers as they move and can identify more readily when she continues to fail. But then it starts to tickle at the back of her neck. Clarke hasn’t moved, and yet she’s quiet? Having known the woman personally for less than ten minutes, Lexa is confident that silence is not her natural state.

“The Commander?” she finally hears behind her. The surprise in her voice makes Lexa smile at the door despite herself. “You are the Commander?”

“Does that make you feel better about failing?”

“A little, to be honest.”

There’s more silence as Lexa manages to flip one tumbler…then two, then a third…that one clicks farther up, is a little more finicky, and then…

A clunk that Lexa has never heard in a lock echoes through the metal of the doorknob and the lockpicking tool snaps inside.

“...fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Lexa sighs and sits back on her heels, frowning at the keyhole. “The world’s greatest locksmith, you say?”

“One of. Locks that fight back are her specialty. I think some kind of bird is her calling card.”

“Hm.” Leaving the broken pick in the lock isn’t helping in any way, but it’s making it awfully hard to get it out. Several long seconds of twisting and pulling pass before she grunts, “For what it’s worth…I feel better about almost losing. I hadn’t realized Wanheda had been sent after me.”

“I’ve always disliked that nickname.” Lexa growls at the stupid little tool in her hand, still half-stuck in this absurd lock, and Clarke’s voice adds, “You sure you don’t want a drink?”

A fit of pique grips her and she slaps the door. “I suspect whiskey is how I got into this mess.”

“Ah. Well, you’re in it now, and I haven’t passed out yet so my whiskey must be fine.”

Lexa finally turns back around to see Clarke slam the rest of her drink back, swallow, lick her lips, and grab another glass. “Here’s how I see it.” She disappears under the bar to the sound of clinking glass, and then emerges again with two fresh nips. “There are three hours left of the contract. I can guarantee Finn is still scurrying to eliminate the competition. He scouts who has the contract he wants, eliminates them one by one, and waits until the last moment to pull the trigger.”

Clarke holds up the ice tongs and levels a look at Lexa. “Ice?”

Lexa finds herself shaking her head no.

“Right.” The cube plops back into the ice bucket. “So we have some time to discuss our exit strategy. And,” she slides the glass over the bar to Lexa, “to have a drink.”

Three hours…

She scans the room again as she pushes herself carefully to her feet. Lock picking is often an essential skill, but it's one she lacks the finesse to master; if Wanheda couldn't get it, with her reputation of sneaking into places she couldn't possibly be, then perhaps it's time to start working on a different plan.

Vents, windows, tools and points of leverage are catalogued as she crosses to the bar, feeling much steadier on her feet. But even so, once the glass of whiskey is before her she hesitates.

"Christ sake," Clarke rolls her eyes, "you literally saw me open it just now. Cracked the safety seal and everything."

An FDA approved tamper-evident seal is nothing for an experienced assassin to get through without altering, but saying as much seems unnecessary. Certainly after another handful of silent seconds the blond sighs, picks up the whiskey she poured for Lexa, and takes a sip off the top.

"Happy?" She asks, putting it down with a clink.

I'm content knowing that if Collins managed to poison this because you were listening to music in the shower, we'll both suffer, is what she thinks. What she says is:

"Every pane of glass in the Continental is bulletproof and shatter resistant."

“That’s true.” Clarke turns her back to Lexa - a known assassin, and a damn good one at that - to study the floor to ceiling mirrors that cover the far side of the room. This woman is insane.

“With enough bullets, perhaps,” she’s still saying, “but I didn’t bring an arsenal with me. You brought,” Clarke glances back over her shoulder to sweep her gaze up Lexa’s front, “less than that. I could keep working at the door, but it will take me some time. I’m open to less tedious ideas.

"Damn that man.” Her shoulders tense suddenly, drawing Lexa’s attention once again to an intricate floral tattoo that creeps around her shoulder blades and down her spine. “I may actually kill him next time.”

Lexa has never missed a contract. Not once. She's only even come close a handful of times. She hasn't yet decided this will be her first, but even coming close is grounds for revenge in her book. "I'll give you the gun."

The Continental spares no expense, least of all on its glassware; the crystal is solid and satisfying in her hand, and she gives its contents an experimental sip as she turns her back on Clarke Griffin.

Leaning back against the opposite side of the bar, she scans the hotel room's interior. One elbow rests on the arm she folds over her chest.

"Any chance of taking the door off its hinges?"

“You could certainly try.” A chuckle resounds from behind her. “I’d like to see how you plan to do so. Look,” a finger appears below Lexa’s right shoulder. “The hinges are hidden behind the doorframe. For aesthetic reasons, I imagine. It’s probably possible, given enough time.”

"Mm. Which we don't have." Lexa frowns.

“Well, we have some time. But perhaps not ‘breaking down the door’ time.”

Lexa considers her options while she takes a sip of her whiskey. It’s not bad, for something acquired from a hotel refrigerator. Balvenie of some kind, she thinks.

This woman–Wanheda, Clarke Griffin, whomever–knows about the Emerson contract. If she knows about it, she’s after it. If this Finn knows about it then he’s after it, too. Given that, who knows how many others may have knowledge of it. Lexa dislikes being forced to change her meticulously laid out plans, and she certainly did not have escaping a hotel room turned prison cell in the cards for this evening. She likes competition even less.

There has to be more at play here. Why stash her in this room? And how does Finn Collins fit into all of this? He must know Clarke. But how does he know who Lexa is?

“You seem rather unperturbed by this whole thing for someone who knows how much that contract is worth.” Lexa doesn’t have to turn around to direct the comment at Clarke; the blond has already stepped around the bar and is making herself comfortable on the corner of the bed, facing Lexa. “Do you have a plan for getting out of here? Or are you content to let Finn Collins walk away with your millions?”

“My millions?” Clarke folds one leg over the other, revealing far more of her thigh than was previously visible. “I didn’t realize you were giving up. That’s good to know.”

Lexa doesn’t reply and forces her line of sight to stay focused on Clarke’s face, which is of little help. Her lips twist into a look of disgust that has no right to look as pretty as it does. “I’d rather shoot Finn in the dick than let him have my money. It would be quite a loss for him, and frankly for me, but he’s pushed me too far this time. I might even shoot him in the mouth for good measure.”

"I imagine that would be less of a loss for you."

"Quite."

The vents are intentionally built too small to facilitate anything larger than a ferret to traverse them, the walls are reinforced with concrete and lead. Every element of the Continental meant to protect its occupants from each other has made it that much more effective of a cage–a stroke of genius she suspects is rare of this Finn Collins.

But why this room? Why her? Did he simply know they were both after the contract, and killed two birds with one replaced lock?

She pushes away from the bar and strolls to the windows, stands in profile against the fading light to keep Clarke in line of sight, and peers down at the street. Shatter resistant doesn't mean shatter proof…but they are several stories up.

"We get out of here," Lexa assumes, because there's no question that they will. She drops her empty hand to her equally empty pocket as a taxi scuttles by. "What happens then? I close my eyes, count to ten, let you run your separate way?"

“I think it’s more like I close my eyes and let you go,” Clarke meets Lexa’s eyes through the glass, “given that only one of us is armed. Though if I recall correctly, you weren’t armed last time we met either.”

“No guns, no knives.” Lexa allows herself a smirk around the edge of her whiskey glass. “I was without quite a few things, as I recall.”

She tips her chin towards the other bedside table, the one holding a hotel phone instead of an army’s worth of lockpicks. “I assume you’ve tried the front desk.”

“That’s disconnected. But,” Clarke emits a dramatic sigh, “since you did finally ask.” She produces a cell phone from, of all places, her cleavage.

How could she possibly have concealed a smart phone there so completely? Lexa's stomach flips at the thought, despite the enraging words now coming out of the blond’s mouth.

“He thought he’d blocked the signal, in his defense. But I’m a rather good hacker myself.” Lexa snorts. An understatement, if her reputation is any indication. “So it’s simply a matter of calling Charon and sorting it out. We’re locked in, not out. I’m sure he’ll make short work of the situation.”

"You can't be serious."

She may not have a gun, but that doesn't mean she's incapable of harming someone - and as she pushes away from the glass to face Clarke head on, fists clenched, she feels sorely tempted to do so.

"You've had a way out of here the entire time? Why didn't you take it??" She growls. "Emerson could be halfway across the city by now!"

“Well, excuse me for being curious when a stranger–sorry, someone whom I assumed to be a stranger–appears on my chaise lounge while I’m showering.”

Clarke has the audacity to look not only unconcerned by Lexa’s reaction, but is that pleasure in those blue eyes? Satisfaction? Lexa’s fists tighten.

“Alright, look.” Clarke holds up a hand in a universal sign of surrender, though Lexa hardly thinks it applies here. “The fact is that I don’t mind a little competition. I enjoy improvising, and our line of work can get so dull. I was curious about you. Even more so now that I know who you really are. I highly doubt an hour or so will make the difference between the Commander’s success or her failure. But I can call Charon at any time, whenever you like. Hell,” she moves so quickly that Lexa just barely manages to unfist her hand in time to catch the phone, “you can call him.”

Motion sensors cause the phone’s screen to light up as she turns it around. She’s confronted with a high resolution image of a female praying mantis in threat posture and a password prompt.

“It’s locked.”

“0813.”

Four quick taps later, a different kind of mantis appears behind app icons. It’s such a specific choice, Lexa needs to ask: “Why the bugs?”

“My most recent target considered herself somewhat of a maneater.” Clarke chuckles into her glass and shakes her head, perhaps recalling a memory. “She was also a Leo. Made for an interesting evening.”

“August 13th would be a Leo birthday,” Lexa says without thinking, and hates herself a little for it. Especially in light of the Cheshire grin she now catches from the corner of her eye.

“Exactly.” Clarke’s shoulders engage, biceps and abdomen tensing to keep her body steady as she lithely re-crosses her legs. Lexa suddenly can’t remember what comes after the front desk’s area code. “Leos like Leos.”

What the fuck was the next number…? Clarke watches for a moment, head tipped to the side. And with an even bigger grin, adds, “I’m a Libra. In case you were wondering.”

Right! Fuck. Her brain jerks back into gear, supplying the remaining numbers in short order. She puts the phone to her ear. “Taurus,” she admits, and Clarke “ooooh”s as she turns to face the windows.

“Front desk.”

Charon’s deep, placid voice picks up after the second ring, prompt and polite as always.

“Good morning.” Windows across the way reflect the sky, offering Lexa a glimpse of drifting clouds against a darkening sky. “I’m having trouble with my room’s door lock.”

“My apologies. The hotel can have that rectified right away. Which room?”

“Room number…” She looks at Clarke over her shoulder, prompting her to provide the answer. “518.”

There’s a pause from the other side. Several things must fall into place, because Charon says, “Ms. Woods, this is neither your phone number nor your room number.”

“That’s correct.”

Another pause. “Will you be needing a dinner reservation?”

The code drops surprisingly easily from his lips, given its meaning.

“That won’t be necessary. Just a locksmith.” After a beat. “A good one.”

“Understood. I will have my best sent up immediately. Please know it may take some time to solve the problem. I hope you will forgive the inconvenience.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

“Enjoy your stay, Ms. Woods.”

Lexa ends the call and tosses the phone back to Clarke. She doesn’t put it back in her cleavage, but rather stands up and walks past Lexa to place it on the bar.

“Charon to the rescue?” she asks.

Lexa nods. “He says it may take some time.”

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t be long. The man can really pull a miracle out of a hat when he wants to.” Clarke taps her phone to initiate the display. “If it takes an hour, that will still leave us with a little over an hour and a half. Plenty of time.”

Ire twitches again, making itself known in the corner of Lexa’s jaw. “It would be a full two, if you hadn’t delayed.”

“Perhaps. But then I wouldn’t have gotten to know that the Commander is a Taurus, and that would’ve been a shame.”

“Mm.” That is less than amusing, and Lexa lets her know mid-sip. The whiskey’s burn on her tongue distracts her somewhat from the new jitters beneath her skin. “This…Collins…must have known his trap wouldn’t hold us for long. Why wouldn’t he pull the trigger before then?”

Clarke purses her lips. “He might,” she admits, which makes Lexa’s blood nearly boil in her veins, “but I doubt it. He’ll be trying to take out others with the same information before he does anything, and even then Emerson is surrounded by a small army at all times. Finn may not be the best, but he knows a bad situation when he sees one. If he can’t find a solid way in - and he’s not that smart – he won’t pull the trigger. He’d rather forego a paycheck than risk his life.” She leans an elbow on the bar and crosses one ankle over the other, casual as you please. “A boring attitude for an assassin, but he’s stayed alive this long. I suppose that counts for something.”

He may not be smart, but Lexa is–and she has plans, plans to find a way in and deal with that army, plans that are no doubt melting away faster than the ice in the bucket behind the bar. She steps up to the corner of said bar, presumably to set her glass down…but doing so also puts her just on the edge of Clarke’s space.

“If I miss this contract,” she warns, “you and I will have a problem.”

Clarke shrugs, unperturbed. “I think there’s another, far more guilty culprit to blame, but fair enough.” She cocks her head to the side, her gaze studying Lexa’s still rather tense jaw and neck muscles. “You’re not a big fan of spontaneity, are you?”

“Modifying my plan to a changing landscape is a specialty of mine. But I prefer it if I don’t have to do so unnecessarily.”

“Did your plan involve getting drugged and locked in Wanheda’s hotel room?”

Lexa’s eyebrow twitches. “No, it didn’t. Nor did it involve Wanheda choosing not to help herself.”

A single, manicured eyebrow rises into Clarke’s forehead, that teasing smirk playing at the edges of her mouth again. Lexa’s eyes linger on its corners just a bit too long. “What makes you think I didn’t?”

She shifts her weight, one foot sliding slightly back. Her hand grips the glass tighter; it’s no Sig Sauer, but whiskey to the eyes and crystal to the face is still an effective combat strategy in the event Wanheda has decided now’s the time to sign her death wish. “Excuse me?”

“Oh relax.” Clarke waves at Lexa dismissively. “I don’t plan to kill you or get in the way of what I’m sure is a foolproof plan. Well, any more than I already have. I simply seized the opportunity to learn more about the mysterious Commander. Keep your enemies close and all that.” She takes a final sip of her whiskey and flicks the crystal across the bar when she’s finished. It teeters precariously close to the edge. “We all have our methods of survival, don’t we?”

Lexa's grip relaxes only slightly as she debates whether or not she can believe her. Clarke's glass only wobbles twice before its weight settles safely on the bar, a small but clear demonstration of her reflexive understanding of distance, friction, and weight. That kind of knowledge makes Wanheda one of the best shots in the business, can take the wings off a fly at a hundred and fifty yards, and yet…

A second later she decides: "A strange tactic for a member of the Network."

“I don’t think so. But it’s often to my benefit that my peers don’t understand, let alone share, my strategies.” Clarke holds out a hand, palm up, between them. “More scotch?”

Lexa hands over her glass wordlessly and tries not to focus on the warm, brief feeling of Clarke’s skin touching her own. She smiles and steps back behind the bar.

“I excel by being…unexpected. Surprising,” she clarifies unnecessarily. Glass and aluminum clink as she rummages through the fridge before producing another nip. Lexa is now close enough that she can see the label: Balvenie 15 Year. “I hear your strengths lie in being the best. The best shot, the tidiest kills, the cleanest trails. You’d think the Commander was a boogie man, the way some of our coworkers talk about you.”

"Baba Yaga," Lexa breathes, and thinks nothing of the gender aligned with that fantastical figure.

"There's a reason Charon can call me by my name without anyone in the lobby making the connection." She accepts the glass when it's offered, but doesn't drink immediately. "Precision is easier. If your competition doesn't know you, they can't lock you in a hotel room and take your kill from under you."

“Except someone clearly does know you.” Clarke folds her hands and leans forward on the counter on her elbows. The position accentuates her cleavage in a way that, Lexa assumes, is intentional. “Two someone’s, now. But don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” she adds with a wink.

Before Lexa can express her mild–why only mild?–disbelief at that, Clarke asks, “I have to know: how did you get that mob boss in Tokyo? No one I know could get into the building to get a look at the guy’s face, let alone take him out.”

“Research,” Lexa answers flatly, because she knows it will irritate. And it does: the word is hardly out of her mouth before Clarke is whining.

“Oh come on! There’s no one else here, you have to give me something.”

“I’m not giving away trade secrets just because I happen to be trapped in a room with someone for an hour.”

“Oh please,” Clarke scoffs. “I think if nothing else, we can agree that there’s minimal overlap in our methods. And here I was, all ready to be impressed.”

They watch each other for several seconds of silence. Just when Clarke opens her mouth to egg her further, Lexa says: “I went in through the basement.”

“The construction site?” Clarke’s frown of confusion deepens when Lexa nods. “But Bellamy tried that and couldn’t get through.”

“Bellamy?”

“Sorry–Gemini. Or one half of Gemini, anyway.”

“Mm. I tracked Gemini’s attempt. The security system that stopped them has a habit of opening exploitable doors when it’s overtasked, which happens when, say, it’s running fire control protocols in three other locations in the building.”

“Okay. But there would still have been half his guys between you and the penthouse.”

Lexa just looks at her over the rim of her cup and drinks.

“Damn.” This time Clarke’s eyebrow rises nearly into her hairline. “Color me impressed.”

“Glad I could oblige.”

A brief pause. Lexa isn’t in the habit of casually conversing with…anyone, really, least of all her competition. But they have nothing to do but wait in this room, and in an unusual turn of events, talking to Clarke seems a better way to pass the time than sitting in silence.

“What happened with your Leo?”

“Oh, nothing all that notable.” Clarke pushes herself up onto her hands, leaning forward just the littlest bit more into Lexa’s space. “She was a princess, believe it or not. Tough security. I was posing as a sommelier. Not my forte, wine, but I’ve found that I hardly need to know much about my cover. People tend to overlook expertise in the face of…other assets.” She grins. “We had a drink later that evening, she gave me the information I needed to get inside, and they found her the next morning.”

It’s harder than she’d ever admit to keep her eyes on Clarke’s face. Other assets, indeed.

Wanheda’s penchant for the honeypot is well known; had Lexa not deprioritized finding the person who put a hit out on her in favor of catching her target, she might have made the connection prior to now. As it is, having fallen for the strategy herself has her affording the honeypot far more respect–despite one rather obvious flaw, in her book.

“How do you avoid being connected?” She asks, and it’s genuine curiosity that prompts her to do so. “Being seen so close to the target in public, by her security guards, by bystanders…”

Clarke nods along as Lexa speaks, as if she anticipated the question. Or has been asked it before, perhaps. Lexa can’t be the only inquiring mind to ever cross her path.

“You’re not the only one who does research,” she says. “My skills lie in knowing people. Their likes, dislikes. Desires and habits and dirty little secrets. People take note of the things that interest them, and ignore the things that don’t. That, a good disguise kit, and avoiding cameras can get you a long way. Besides, I have a good memory. Any information about a person could be useful, given the right context.” Her eyes take on a playful glint and Lexa can guess what she’s about to say before the words leave her mouth. “I managed to get to you, didn’t I?”

She lets herself have the little smirk evoked by that. “Sounds like I should stop talking, if I know what’s good for me.”

Clarke’s laugh takes Lexa by surprise. It sounds fuller than she expected; louder, more genuine. It could still be a part of the act, which would be rather impressive. But it could also be an honest response, a little part of Lexa insists. This woman is either the best actress Lexa has ever met, or she actually is enjoying Lexa’s company. It is, of course, unclear whether she’ll ever know the real answer.

“Don’t worry, I already tried to kill you once. I try not to repeat mistakes.” Clarke folds her arms and shrugs, a teasing look on her face. “Unless I get an offer I can’t refuse, of course.”

“Right. So the thing I said.”

“It would have to be a pretty compelling offer to go after the Commander. My wrist still aches when it rains, you know. Thanks for that.”

"You had a six inch long switchblade in your hand!"

"And?"

It is, objectively, a strange thing to share a chuckle over. But the Network doesn't exactly attract normal people.

"If I asked you who hired you…" Lexa lifts her glass and strolls slowly towards the couch, catching another enticing whiff of citrus and spice as she passes briefly through Clarke's space. Upon reaching the couch she sinks carefully back into it, resting one ankle over the other. "Would you tell me?"

Clarke steps around the bar, eyeing Lexa as she settles into the couch. “I don’t make a habit of revealing my contacts. Tends to lead to less contracts and therefore less money. But,” she settles back on the edge of the bed, this time in the middle directly across from where Lexa sits, “perhaps if we become better friends. And you had a compelling enough offer.”

Friends. Lexa perks an eyebrow instead of laughing.

"I'm afraid Collins didn't leave me with any gold coins when he dragged me here." She pats her empty pocket as though a demonstration were necessary. "Do you take IOUs?"

Clarke chuckles. “I certainly do. But how do I know you’re good for it?”

Lexa finishes off her whiskey and sets the glass down on the low table in front of her. "You don't. You'll just have to trust me."

“I see.”

Clarke leans back on her hands, her torso elongating in a way that draws Lexa’s attention–and this time, she doesn’t look away.

“Would you trust me?” Clarke asks. “If you were in my position?”

"I don't trust easily."

“And yet interestingly, that’s not a no.”

A smile twitches at the corner of Lexa's lips. "I suppose it's not.

"I think I would be inclined to trust you. But then again," she tips her hand palm-up in a shrug, "you can't know if you can trust I'm telling the truth any more than you can know if I'm good for the money."

“All true.” Clarke cocks her head to the side and her gaze takes on a quality Lexa hasn’t seen in her yet. Curiosity, almost to an analytical degree. It makes Lexa feel as though she were a specimen under a microscope.

“You are though, aren’t you?” Her voice isn’t teasing anymore. There’s curiosity there, and a hint of surprise–but no jest. “Telling the truth. If I were a betting woman, I’d say you do that more often than not. That’s a unique quality for someone in our line of work.”

She tries very hard not to squirm under this scrutiny. Revealing herself, willingly or not, is not something Lexa is accustomed to–so she shunts the spotlight off herself as quickly as possible. "No more so than genuine curiosity, I would say. Few would sacrifice time on a contract to ask a competitor's name."

“That’s, probably, also true.” When Clarke smiles this time, it isn’t sarcastic or self-satisfied. “It’s like I said. Knowledge is how I succeed–how I survive. I can get it myself, but I don’t always have to with the right contacts. With the right friends.”

There it is again: Friends. The concept is as foreign to Lexa as a sniper rifle is comfortable in her hands. And Clarke is bandying the word around like she really means it; like she really understands what it means.

There’s a pause where Clarke considers Lexa again. Gauging who knows what from her posture, her expression, her ticks. It should feel menacing, but it’s only making her feel…seen. One doesn't study the unconscious habits of a gun, of a weapon. The kind of attention Clarke gives her in this moment is the kind one gives to a person.

Perhaps it says something about her that this attention is so novel to Lexa.

“They had a feminine voice,” she says; suddenly, matter-of-factly. “Never got a name, but I traced the call to London. Analysis of the recordings provided a codename mentioned in the background: CW.”

She holds up a hand in a mirror of Lexa’s earlier gesture. “That’s all I know.”

For the first time since waking up, Lexa forgets about the ticking of the clock. She goes very still.

London. Feminine. CW.

Costia Waters.

"CW?" Lexa repeats. "You're certain? That's what they said?"

“I’m positive. I spent some time analyzing the background noise. Not even I like working for a ghost, but the money was too good to pass up. They were careful, but someone in the room must’ve slipped.”

Clarke’s eyes move between Lexa’s quickly, studying her reaction. “Do you know them?”

She stands up.

CW. In London.

She paces. Looks at the door without seeing it.

Costia is alive.

More pressingly: Costia wants her dead.

Do you know them?

"You could say that." Lexa turns on Clarke. "Did she tell you how to find me? What to say?"

“She gave me a location and a description.” Clarke raises an eyebrow but otherwise remains seated on the bed despite Lexa’s sudden movements. “I think you know me well enough by now to know that I don’t need to be told what to say.

“She didn’t mention your moniker, though. Either she was hiding it so as not to deter potential hires, or she doesn’t know it.”

An interesting prospect. Distressing, too. She sets her jaw.

"She chose well, apparently," Lexa mutters, uncertain if this new information makes her falling for Clarke's trap more or less humiliating. She runs her hand through her hair. "Fuck."

Clarke merely watches as Lexa paces–which Lexa only discovers when she remembers the other woman is there and finally looks back up.

“We’re fresh out of whiskey, but there’s some vodka and gin. Though this seems like it may be a tequila situation.”

Lexa frowns in response, her mind whirring so quickly around this new development that Clarke’s words hardly register.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Clarke clarifies. “Or seven.”

"What I could use," she seethes, her spleen mounting towards unbridled rage as she turns to glare at the door, "is a fucking pack of C4 so I can blow this FUCKING door off its fucking hinges!"

Immediately, Lexa expects some smug, half-clever comment from Clarke. Or worse, that she’s given away some valuable weakness by letting her emotions get the best of her.

But if that’s true, Clarke doesn’t respond the way Lexa anticipates. Instead there’s silence, and it’s so surprising that she whirls on her heel half expecting the woman to be holding that Sig again.

Instead she’s still just sitting there, watching. “I’m not here to hurt you, Lexa. Not this time, anyway.” She nods at the door. “And Charon will need more than twenty minutes. You could waste your time cussing out the door, or,” her lips purse in a delicious sort of way, “we could pass the time some other way.”

Lexa scoffs. "All the liquor in that bar could not be distracting enough."

"Pretty lucky that's not what I meant, then."

That draws Lexa up short. There's something new in Clarke's voice, that semi-permanent smirk taking residence on her face again, and the two combined succeeds–at least briefly–in doing what liquor wouldn't.

"Oh?"

“Well.” Clarke stands up slowly, as if a sudden movement might scare Lexa away. “We have some time. I think you know by now that I don’t plan to kill you this evening, and if I’m any judge you don’t plan to kill me. You like me.” She’s standing closer to Lexa now. When did she get closer? “I like you.” If Lexa reached out she could easily grasp Clarke’s hip. “And you need to let off some steam.”

Clarke stops just shy of a foot away and from this close Lexa can see the flecks of deeper blue in her eyes. She doesn’t touch her, doesn’t even reach out, but from here she could wrap an arm around Lexa’s waist. Or a hand around her neck to pull her closer…

Imagining it sets off a sudden and surprisingly powerful pang of desire in the pit of her stomach. That, in turn, sets warning bells off in Lexa’s head.

"You like me?" She should step back, at least attempt to deny her own interest–but is there any point? Clarke doesn't have to speculate; they've been in precisely this position before. "And here I thought I was just a job."

“Well, you were. But you aren’t anymore. And even assassins need a little…” she presses her lips together and looks up, searching for the words. “Break from reality, shall we say?”

There are at least two guns in this room. The drawer is full of lockpicks, which aren’t typically classified as weapons but could certainly be used to harm or kill by the right hands. There’s no doubt more killing implements that Lexa can’t see, peppered throughout the room by a hand that knows any shower or nap or moment of dropped defenses could mean death. And yet, Clarke has made no attempt to retrieve any since Lexa woke up.

It’s possible she’s waiting for the right time. Lexa hasn’t fully discounted the possibility that Clarke is working for this Finn Collins, paid to distract her just long enough for him to steal her target. Or to lure her into a false sense of security, let her lower her walls to then kill her without a fight.

But if Clarke wanted to kill her…Lexa wouldn’t have woken up on the couch at all. There’s no easier fight than one against a drugged and unconscious opponent on one's home turf.

“A break?” she prompts, eyes tracing the wave of a damp curl, and Clarke shrugs.

“All this…running around, second guessing. Always watching over our shoulders, certain that the next smiling face would kill us as soon as kiss us. The backstabbing, double dealing, constant suspicion.” She waves a hand. “It’s exhausting. And I, personally, think I deserve a break.”

Lexa snorts and voices a thought that’s repeated in her mind every few minutes since she woke up. “It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long.”

“Yeah, well.” For a moment, Clarke looks honestly, genuinely wistful. “Shouldn’t life be about more than just surviving?

“But, of course, if you’re not interested,” Clarke starts to step away without giving her time to process that, and Lexa knows, knows what she’s doing, “then–”

Her hand shoots out anyway. Clarke is nearly out of her space but she catches her by the wrist before she’s fully out of reach. The blond stops, looks back, and they hold each other’s eyes for a beat…until Lexa’s eyes drift down to trace folds of deep blue fabric.

More than just surviving. The last time Lexa tried to take a break, Clarke nearly killed her.

“...if I take that dress off,” Lexa looks up, green eyes meeting blue. “Will I find that Sig Sauer?”

“You might have, under different circumstances.” Clarke’s gaze doesn’t waver. “But not today.”

Lexa hesitates for a second. She’ll tell herself later that she absolutely did hesitate, and that this was a considered, measured decision. But the second goes by, and she sighs. “Fuck it,” she mutters, and pulls Clarke against her.

Their lips meet and, for a brief moment, it isn't desire that greets them but…familiarity. The kiss feels like a long awaited exhale, as if the last two years never happened–as if they’d already, somehow, spent a lifetime finding the ways they fit against each other. That’s absurd, of course. Clarke Griffin could not be a more experienced lover, Lexa is certain, and much as she’d like to, she can’t deny her attraction to the woman. Clarke's knowledge and her own pliability could account for the simple ease of this, the immediate pleasure, comfort, and dare she say, butterflies that meet this initial embrace. But still, for a moment, passion seems to ebb and time seems to pause. There’s only Clarke, only the soft feel of her hand in Lexa’s, the intimate way Lexa's arm automatically settles around her waist, and the way she naturally, gently, kisses her.

And then another second goes by.

Clarke’s arms are around Lexa’s neck, fingers twining up into her hair, and before Lexa can think she’s tightened her own arm around Clarke’s waist. Long fingernails dig, painful but not intolerable, into the soft skin at the nape of Lexa’s neck. Her breath escapes her in a sigh.

“Do we want…to take bets?” She says between kisses, needing to tug herself away from Clarke to get a word in edgewise. She tries again and Clarke’s teeth close on her lower lip, prompting Lexa to twist them both around and shove Clarke's back into the closest wall. “On how long it’ll take?”

The air rushes out of Clarke’s lungs from the impact as she chuckles, but Lexa doesn't give her the chance to catch her breath; she closes the distance, her hand on one side of Clarke's neck, tipping her head up and back, and her mouth on the other. Clarke's chuckle gives way to a higher pitch as she’s taken by surprise. “That depends,” she says, and Lexa feels her breath hitch beneath her hand as it snakes down Clarke’s waist, “on whether you refer to yourself or Charon.”

Lexa pulls Clarke’s dress up roughly and finds soft skin, inviting and warm…as well as a slim knife holster strapped to the top of her thigh. “Don’t worry,” Clarke says, and Lexa can hear the smirk in her voice, “it’s empty this time.”

It takes her longer to puzzle out when the hell the sheath got there than it does for her to take it off: she yanks the strap that holds it to Clarke’s thigh and a second later it drops to the floor with a thud.

“Disappointing,” Lexa smirks against her ear, her voice a low, breathless rumble, and Clarke makes a sound as her breath is trapped too fast in her chest. Hips press forward against Lexa's, and the hand on her thigh takes advantage of the new gap between her and the wall to grab a handful of ass.

"Well if that's how you feel," Clarke begins, and reaches down towards the nightstand beside her as though she intends to call Lexa's knife play bluff. But Lexa is quick to catch her hand and pin it to the wall. The fingers still twisted in her hair tense, the scratch of Clarke's nails turning truly painful.

"The last time you had a knife," Lexa grunts through the pain, "I ended up with a scar."

Clarke's hand turns to water in Lexa's grip, a twist and pull too fast for Lexa to track letting her slip free. Both hands then find their way beneath Lexa's collar, following the line of it down to its top button. "A scar, you say?" she asks, and Lexa can practically hear her replay their last encounter in the hopes of locating where and how.

"No need to sound smug. And you're avoiding the question."

“I think it is, entirely,” Clarke yanks Lexa’s collar forward, jerking her face up to hers, and nips at her lip again, “up to you.”

Lexa opens her mouth to say something clever back, but Clarke’s mouth captures hers and it’s all she can do to focus on breathing. Clarke’s fingers make quick work of the buttons and before Lexa knows it her shirt is untucked from her pants, her suspenders are down in the corner of her elbows, and teasing fingernails are trailing patterns across her abs.

“Fuck you’re hot.” Clarke traces the line of the scar she left on Lexa’s stomach. “I’m almost glad I didn’t kill you. Would’ve been a shame.”

"Almost?" Lexa repeats, and has to fight to keep her voice even. It's been so long, so long, since someone has touched her like this–her abdominal muscles, so unused to this attention, shiver and shy away from Clarke's fingers, making it difficult to breathe normally. Some part of her, adolescent, foolish, fears what Clarke will think of what she finds: muscle, yes, but bruises, too, a network of scar tissue only partially hidden beneath tattoo ink.

But then Clarke presses her palms flat to Lexa's chest and shoves, throwing enough of her weight and the leverage of the wall behind it to push Lexa back several stumbling steps. She catches her weight and closes her fists, instinct immediately bracing her for a fight…but Clarke remains against the wall, dress straining as she pants, eyes overflowing with such hunger as they rove from Lexa's waist to her face that it's a miracle she isn't consumed right then.

As Clarke reaches behind her back, green eyes never once leaving blue, hardly even blinking, Lexa should be ready for anything. She should be ready for the blond to produce a weapon of some kind, at the very least, but her muscles remain tensed for a wholly separate reason. The soft snick of a zipper coming undone reaches Lexa’s ears and a moment later blue fabric is cascading down Clarke’s body and pooling at her feet.

The sight is nearly identical to the one that Lexa was greeted with when she woke up an hour ago. But this time, there’s no gun. Lexa isn’t half-drugged, Clarke’s hair isn’t dripping wet, and the burning in her eyes has far less to do with curiosity and anger than it does with something else entirely. Something Lexa recognizes, though she’d come to suspect she may have forgotten.

Clarke takes a step toward her, then another, and all the while Lexa is rooted in place. Her breaths sound heavy to her ears as Clarke enters her space and takes both her hands, gently uncurls her fists and places them on her own waist. “Why don’t you show me what I missed last time?” she whispers.

She’s been ignoring this part of herself. She knows she has because it can come so close to love, and love, she’s learned, only ever leads to weakness. That hard won lesson is a difficult one to shake, but this…need sears through her at the invitation, because while the mysterious blond was enticing in Budapest, Clarke Griffin is all but entrancing now. Beautiful, yes, but murderously competent too, and it’s been years, longer than Lexa can remember, since she could show herself so freely in front of another person. Clarke Griffin, Wanheda, expert assassin and member of the Network. There’s nothing Lexa could reveal about her professional identity or skill set that would surprise Clarke now.

More than this, Clarke is indisputably, undoubtedly, absolutely fucking hot.

Lexa’s fingers tense, drinking in the soft, warm press of Clarke’s skin for just a moment before she drops them lower. Knees bent, hands under thighs, she pulls–and Clarke gives her weight over so easily and so smoothly it’s as though they’ve practiced this a hundred times before. No verbal communication need be exchanged: Clarke automatically drapes her arms around Lexa’s neck and holds on, allowing Lexa to pull her legs around her waist and pick her up.

With fingers buried at the nape of her neck once more, Lexa looks up into Clarke’s eyes and breathes, “With pleasure.”

There's a bit more where this came from - did I say 9k words? We actually wrote 11k - but the rest belongs on Ao3. Find us there!

#clexa #clexa fanfic #the 100 #the 100 fanfic #clarke griffin #lexa woods #commander lexa #writing prompt #john wick au #assassins au #nsfw-ish?#anon love #my fic

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