Chapter Text
“She had a flower tattoo on her wrist; "What does that mean?" he asked her. "Absolutely nothing," she said, "it's just a flower.”
― C. JoyBell C.
It was the same thing every time: a simple bouquet of white chrysanthemums paired with moss for contrast. The chrysanthemums had been his mother’s favorite; Marcus had told her the first time he came into the shop before heading over to the Arcadia Cemetery two blocks away. Lexa had nodded her understanding. There were, after all, two languages for flowers: the ones the flowers provide, and the ones people create for them.
Lexa hadn’t been able to help herself—she had an encyclopaedic knowledge of flowers and their scientific names as well as their meanings. Marcus had told her which flower his mother had loved, and Lexa had chosen moss to accompany the shock of white buds. “Do you know why moss is the emblem of maternal love?” She had asked as she prepared the bouquet for him, wet fingers nimble as they sorted and trimmed the stems.
“No, why?” Some people could walk into Bucket of Thistle and be abrupt, with little interest in understanding the meaning of the arrangements they were choosing. Marcus, however, had seemed genuinely fascinated. So she had elaborated.
“Because, like a mother’s love, it is constant even in the harsh of winter.” To his credit, Marcus hadn’t done more than blink and nod at that. Okay, Lexa is aware she’s not the sunniest of personalities, but she is the way she is and she’s long since accepted that and its attendant consequences.
Chrysanthemums (white): remembrance; devotion.
Moss: maternal love.
Marcus’ visage is pleasant today, he’s smiling easily and complimenting the arrangements she’d put out in the window that morning. “That’s quite the change from the usual— celebrating the new season?” He’s not even wearing a jacket; the weather had finally warmed up last week, temperatures reaching a welcome 72 degrees yesterday.
Lexa eyes the set-up from the counter. It’d taken her weeks to plan out and put the orders in for the more special items that weren’t frequently available in your run-of-the-mill store. She’d taken a lot of inspiration from the Alnwick Poison Gardens, which she had visited during her trip to England last September. Bright yellow Laburnum flower-buds were suspended in a cascade from a dark metal archway, delicate aquilegia coerulea seemed to drift midair while surrounded by two varieties of cacti.
“Not exactly. One of the most famous florists who often writes for Fleur de Vivre, Susan Princip, she’s coming to check the store out and possibly offer me a job arranging a spread for their May issue.” Marcus’ eyebrows raise and drop while he gives an impressed whistle.
“That would be terrific exposure. If she has any sense in her, she’ll give it to you in a flash.” Lexa respects the man because, though he may be a politician nowadays, he always made an effort to go visit his mother’s grave once a month. She may not be the friendliest of people, but she does make an effort to talk to her patrons.
“I can hope,” she demurs, graciously accepting the compliment as she finishes tying off the bouquet before handing it to him.
“Thank you again, Lexa.” He tells her, giving her a polite nod before heading out the door and to the right. Lexa can be honest and admit that she appreciates the company even if she treats it as a replacement for close bonds.
(She also appreciates the repeat business.)
A burst of laughter floats in through the wide open door and Lexa could only sigh and close her eyes as if the act would give her fortitude. Susan Princip would be here in less than an hour and it was too late to somehow change who her next-door-neighbors were. She squares her shoulders and marches outside, making a sharp about-face to the left before stalking ten feet and making another abrupt about-face through the open doors of The Gryff tattoo studio.
The laughter dies down immediately and two heads, one dark and one light, rise to face her.
“Lexa!” The blonde exclaims, standing up straight and while Clarke Griffin may have meant to smile at her, it comes out more as a grimace.
“Clarke,” she states and, after a moment’s thought, “and Octavia.”
The brunette presses her lips together tightly. “Hello to you, too, Lexa.”
Octavia is being insincere but Lexa decides to address the reason she was here in the first place instead. “I doubt you are aware of this, but I am considered the best florist in the city. Last year I won the top prize at the annual Home and Garden competition.” People often call her arrogant; Lexa thinks she simply states facts.
“Yes, I remember that.” Clarke nods, looking to mollify. “I read about it in the papers and there was that segment on the news.”
That’s a surprise, and it causes Lexa to stumble over her next words, flushing with either pleasure or embarrassment. “Well, then I’m sure you can understand when I explain that I may be given the opportunity for national exposure and it would be nice if your shop and its garish patrons wouldn’t detract from Susan Princip’s visit, which will happen fifty-three minutes from now.” She checks her wristwatch for precision.
Clarke’s voice is low and level when she addresses her again. “You don’t need to worry about my store, Lexa, or its patrons. Whether you get this opportunity or not will be entirely due to your abilities.”
Lexa reddens further at the underlying mockery in her tone and realizes that she had insulted Clarke and perhaps she didn’t truly mean to. In truth, this interview had her stressed out and nervous, and that was no excuse for taking it out on other people. Especially Cl…her neighbor.
“I’m sorry. That was unnecessarily rude." She apologizes as gracefully as she is able. "There have been occasions where your customers, or your friends, have been loud and boisterous, and I don’t know how Susan would react.” (It should be noted that Lexa isn't the most humble of apologizers.)
Clarke angles her head again and steps out from around the counter. It’s then that Lexa realizes that the black-and-white striped top Clarke is wearing is short enough to show a hint of skin above the line of her white jeans. She swallows thickly and makes sure her eyes remain resolutely on Clarke’s face.
“Apology accepted. And it should be a quiet day—it’s too nice to keep the door closed but we won’t be talking or laughing too loudly until later in the day.”
“Thank you,” Lexa tells her gratefully. She turns to leave the shop.
“Good luck with your interview,” Clarke calls after her and Lexa can only give her a tight smile over her shoulder before she’s on the sidewalk.
What on earth had that been about?
Clarke watches her go, Lexa still stiff-backed and with that wild mane of curls bouncing against her back, and bites her lip in consternation. Behind her, she can hear Octavia slamming a drawer shut and muttering darkly to herself.
“Jeez, someone needs to remove the stick up her—“
“Octavia!” She admonishes, turning to give her employee a warning glare. It hurts, for a moment, to turn her eyes from the brightness outside to the relatively dim interior. Octavia holds her palms out, shrugging defensively.
“I’m just saying, Clarke. That woman does not play well with others. She’s practically soulless.”
That label, 'soulless' doesn't sit well with Clarke. She finds herself trying to explain on Lexa's behalf. “She’s just prickly and exacting. And nobody who loves flowers the way she does could be soulless.” Clarke mutters as she finishes wiping down her equipment. Octavia pauses in the middle of erasing something in the appointment book and gives her a narrow look that clearly says she sees through Clarke’s bullshit.
“Oh my god, you like her. You actually want to get with that.” She couldn't have sounded more incredulous if she tried. Octavia isn’t a tattoo artist, you see, but she sometimes works the front desk for extra money on the side of her primary job over at the gym down the street. She is also a competitive MMA fighter and Clarke seems to be stuck with her. Not that she’s complaining. Much.
“I may objectively find her attractive, but that’s beside the point here, Octavia. I just don’t think Lexa asks for much more than we be professional businesswomen who respect each other’s space. She’s clearly nervous about this meeting and wants it to go well.” Well, that wasn't entirely a lie.
“Mm hmm.”
She doesn't see if the woman Lexa had been waiting for arrives on time because she's in the back working on her first customer of the day. Monroe had first come to The Gryff two weeks ago to meet with Clarke and plan out her second tattoo, a sort of memorial for making it through her first tour alive. She is fairly quiet, lying on her belly with her shirt off and the straps of her sports bra pushed down so Clarke can press the needle and inject bright red ink into the dermis over her right shoulder blade.
"Why Captain Marvel?" She asks the stoic young woman. Monroe furrows her brows and hisses through her teeth before replying.
"I used to read her comics when I was growing up. She was kind of my inspiration to join the Army. I know it just changed, but the rule used to be that women couldn't be in combat roles. Not that it made a difference in the sandbox. Everywhere was the front, basically." Clarke hums and wipes away the excess ink, giving Monroe a chance to get a breather before she continued. This was probably one of the best parts of the job for Clarke- second only to the joy of creating permanent works of art on human canvas- listening to people's stories. The meaning vested in the marks they chose for themselves. Monroe's voice is becoming thick with emotion.
"There was an ambush one day: an IED went off and we were pinned on two sides by enemy fire. We were just a supply convoy, really. I lost one of my best friends, who had been with me since Basic. Sterling. I carried another guy out there who was too wounded to walk. He had to be twice my size but I did it. And the government can't award me a medal because as far as they were concerned, I wasn't there." There's an undercurrent of bitterness to Monroe's words, to the jut of her chin. Clarke doesn't begrudge her that.
"I'm sorry."
"Anyways. It was like I understood Carol even more afterwards and maybe I just want to carry her around with me, as a reminder that I survived. That I fought. That I won't stop pushing for a place doing what I love."
Later, while Monroe smiles at the sight of her new tattoo in the mirror, Clarke looks around the worn reddish-white brick walls that made up her studio with an indescribable emotion. It wasn't exactly a profession she had seen herself going into when she was fifteen. Certainly not one her parents would have expected from her. But their lives had changed so much one year later, and her mother had seen how resolute Clarke had been about training and then opening her own business, and had put aside most of her misgivings and supported her daughter. It had been like a balm on the open wound in her soul.
She loves what she does and she loves the little niche she's carved out in the world.
"It's perfect." Monroe tells her, all smiles. Clarke grins and beckons her back over. "Come here, I need to tape it up and walk you through aftercare- don't give me that look, I'm legally obligated!"
Later, after she's locked the shop up, Clarke heads upstairs to the second floor, which she's turned into a studio apartment. She goes through the motions, stretching to release the tension of the day as she kicks off her ankle boots and dumps some food into Luna's bowl and sets it down on the floor next to the kitchen counter. The cat's nowhere to be found. Probably off telling Usagi how to save the world, Clarke chortles to herself. The joke never gets old.
The sun is shining dark gold through the westward-facing windows, casting most of the apartment into shadows. She hums softly as she cranks the fridge open and tries to decide what she's going to make for dinner. She loves food, but she hates having to go to the effort every day to make a simple meal. At least she could waste a few hours watching tv shows on Netflix.
A thought niggles at the back of her mind and Clarke tries to quash it for all of a moment before she gives in and closes the door. Padding softly, with unnecessary stealth, she reaches the large window near the north-western corner and squints as she peers out of it. There's a narrow alleyway in between their buildings, but the window placements are identical and thus Clarke can see right into the apartment that Lexa occupies above her flower shop.
She feels like a stalker as it is, spying on her neighbor like this. But there's just something about Lexa that draws her attention; that makes her want to see what she's like when she isn't keeping up the facade around other people. There! Clarke straightens up and jumps behind the brick wall, bending over so she can peek around the edge of the window. The sun's just dipped beneath the line of buildings opposite them, casting them into enough darkness that she can see right inside. Lexa has changed her clothing- she now sports an ancient pair of baggy high-waisted jeans that look a decade or two removed from current fashions and a loose white tee. Her hair is haphazardly tied back and she's slid a pair of big, ugly glasses onto her nose.
Clarke can't help the giggle that threatens to bubble out of her throat.
Lexa is gorgeous like this, all the same. She's bustling around her kitchen, sorting through- what else?- a pile of stems. Her apartment is full of flowers, always. Several vases and several pots decorate the open space. Clarke likes watching her arrange the different types of flowers: cutting them and keeping them watered, extending their lives longer than Clarke had ever been capable of. Watching Lexa lean in and breathe deeply, closing her eyes as she inhaled the sweet scents, on the other hand...
Clarke wonders what comes to her mind when she did this.
Realizing what she was doing, Clarke shakes her head and steps away from the window. She’s such a fucking perv. And she can’t exactly blame it on the dry spell she’s been under lately ever since her and Lydia had broken up. She doesn't close the blinders because maybe she wants Lexa to see what she gets up to when she's home alone, too. After all, she’s not actually in the habit of walking around her place half-naked.
She would be lying if she said she wasn't interested in Lexa in a more-than-friends way. Octavia had been right on the mark when she'd come to that realization earlier. But Clarke wasn't sure if Lexa would ever look at her in that way. They were neighbors and capable businesswomen, maybe it wouldn't be worth rocking the boat over a sudden infatuation. All the same, Clarke finds herself thinking as she re-opens the fridge and pulls out an onion and a jalapeno, figuring something Mexican was on the menu for the night.
Maybe tomorrow she would go next door and buy some flowers herself.
“Yes, I can be ready by then. Yes. Yes, and thank you again for this opportunity. Goodbye.” Lexa ends the call and sets her phone down on the counter next to the stack of yellow tulips she had been processing. Nothing today can derail the vicious sense of satisfaction she feels at that moment.
“Sounds like you got the job. Congratulations.” Lincoln pipes up from his perch behind the register, where he is currently doing little more than sketching pictures of random people he’s seen lately. Lexa turns to face the wall of muscle with his back to her, giving him a baleful glare. She shouldn’t complain about Lincoln—he does his job and helps the customers, but most importantly he doesn’t question her when she tells him to do things a certain way. She appreciates a well-trained male. She paces over to the sketchpad and sees that Lincoln is working on the confident smirk of a very familiar brunette who sometimes parks her motorcycle out front. She mentally sighs.
“Yes, that was Susan’s assistant, giving me the details. You do realize that the woman is at least fifteen years your senior?” She points out, indicating the biker chick Lincoln seems to be stuck on. He shrugs and gives her an inscrutable look that tells her he's going to continue to pine for the woman regardless. Lexa had been persuaded to hire him after the Valentine’s Day fiasco when she had lost her patience with a patron. "I’m sorry, we are out of red roses. Would you like something with more thought and originality to fool your spouse into forgetting what a worthless partner you are for a single night?" Her kindness towards customers had a limit, it seemed, and so it had made sense to hire someone who would not be constantly insulted by the unimaginative choices people tended to go for.
A soft but persistent meow draws her attention to the small gray body carefully pacing around the bundles of flowers until she could make the leap onto the counter in front of Lincoln and Lexa. Lincoln puts down his pencil so he can scratch the cat behind its ears. It purrs loudly with satisfaction. “Look who’s come back around again. Must really like the smell of flowers.”
Lexa frowns at the cat, wondering if she should allow it to continue to wander into her store as it wished. She never makes a mess and seems content to just spend time there. If asked, Lexa would insist she was neither a cat nor a dog person. She only had the company of her pet octopus, Ursula, in her apartment upstairs. Octupi were clever by design and Ursula was a demanding creature who required constant stimulation else she might break out of her tank. Cats were a mystery to her.
“Let it stay—it’ll probably leave soon anyways. It’s getting late.”
“Speaking of, it’s about time I head out. See you on Wednesday?” Lincoln begins to gather up his things and slide them back into his messenger bag. Lexa gives him a nod of dismissal, still staring at the cat.
“Yes, have a good night.” He exits with a jaunty wave, leaving Lexa alone in the shop for twenty minutes before another customer enters, just shy of closing time. When she catches sight of who it is, she swallows a scoff. She doesn’t much like Bellamy Blake, co-owner of A Novel Idea, the bookstore down the street. He looks about as pleased as she is to be in the shop. He’s got his arms crossed as he frowns over the various bunches before him.
“What do you want?”
“Flowers.” He states succinctly.
“How novel.” She replies tartly.
“Don’t listen to Bellamy, he doesn’t know how to grovel very well.” Finn’s melodious voice pipes up from behind Bellamy as he strolls through the door and comes to a stop before the counter. Him, Lexa accords a small smile, which Finn meets with a wink. He takes another bite of his apple and reaches over to let the cat lick at his fingers. “Ah, Luna comes to visit you, too?”
“You know her?”
“Yes, she’s Clarke’s cat. From next door?” Of course this creature belongs to Clarke Griffin. Of course.
“Yes, I know Clarke.” Lexa says rather evenly, she thinks.
“Luna always finds some way to sneak into the bookstore in the afternoons. I think she just likes to nap in the sunny spots. Probably makes us more profit since people love small bookstores that have cats. Makes us more quaint.” Lexa demurs and busies herself with her tulips while Finn cranes his neck to look at his friend.
“You alright back there, Bellamy?” Finn calls out, knowing Bellamy was absolutely lost among the sea of flowers.
“Fuck off.” The man grumbles, toying with a yellow rose. Finn snorts and turns back to Lexa.
“He’s trying to pick out flowers for Maya.” Finn explains for her benefit. She gives him a shake of her head, that hardly explained anything since she hadn't a clue who Maya was.
“His girlfriend?” The statement elicits simultaneous denials from Finn and Bellamy.
“He wishes.” “She’s just a friend.”
“They like to have long talks about art history as foreplay.” Finn wriggles his eyebrows.
“I swear to god, Collins—“ Lexa decides to step in so Bellamy would leave her store sooner.
“Has she ever expressed a preference for a certain type of flower?”
“No.” Then what use are you, Lexa doesn't say.
“Very well. What type of art does she enjoy? Favorite color? Does she go for a classic aesthetic or does she like more ornate romanticism?” Lexa fires the questions off rapidly. Bellamy straightens his spine and answers her.
“She likes the Mannerists, odd vintage things she finds at antique stores, and her favorite color is yellow.” If she hadn't been accustomed to thinking of love as a pathetic thing, Lexa would have been impressed.
As it is, she steps from behind the counter and sweeps around her shop, pulling a single white lily into her hand next to a bunch of daisies and some summer pheasant’s eye stems, followed by two red carnations and two pink camellias. Then she focuses on adding yellows to the palette: coreopsis, snapdragons, and California poppies. To surround the bunch, she carefully selects some leather leaf and green variegated pittosporum.
“Like Giuseppe Arcimboldo’s Le Printemps” Lexa says, referencing the famous painting. She trims the ends for Maya's sake and wraps the bouquet in clear plastic. Fortunately, the meanings the individual flowers convey do not clash outright with one other, for the most part. And maybe Lexa derives dark amusement from the incorporation of snapdragons (presumptuousness).
Bellamy’s mouth drifts open with shock. It’s Finn who lets out a whistle. “Damn, Bellamy. Give Maya that and I think she’ll propose marriage to you.”
“How much?” Bellamy manages to grind out.
“Forty-five.”
“Dollars?" His voice goes high-pitched. "That’s fuc-“
“That’s perfect for such an unique bouquet that is inspired by one of her favorite works of art.” Finn reminds his coworker with a meaningful look. Lexa knows exactly what her work is worth. Bellamy sighs but reaches for his wallet and his credit card all the same.
They both leave soon after, for which Lexa is grateful. But it leaves her with the problem of the cat. Clarke's cat. Lexa knows that cats come and go as they please, and that they had once been worshiped as near gods by the ancient Egyptians. But maybe she should seize upon this opportunity to get herself in Clarke's good graces and return Luna to her, because they were neighbors and Clarke had tried to be nice. But this leaves Lexa wondering what kind of flowers Clarke likes.
Apparently Clarke had come to the shop the other day, when it was just Lincoln there, to buy some flowers. (Lexa refused to admit how disappointed she had been that Clarke had shown up the one time she hadn’t been in that day.) She had pressed Lincoln on what Clarke had picked out, undeniably curious and willing to endure her employee’s realization that Clarke was a person of interest to his boss.
Purple dahlias. She had asked for purple dahlias and the paler hued daphnes. But as separate bouquets. Which had confused Lexa deeply. The dahlias conferred dignity; the daphnes said ‘I would not have you otherwise’. Lexa couldn’t help it—it was in her personality to overanalyse everything. Did Clarke know the meaning of the flowers she had chosen? Was this somehow a message? The daphnes, in particular, had her wondering at one in the morning whether Clarke meant those to go to someone she was romantically interested in.
She hated it. She hated how obsessive the desire for love made her. But she also adored how it felt, the clench in her chest, the rush of feel-good hormones. Thinking of Clarke made her flowers look brighter, smell sweeter. She really shouldn’t close herself off from love for the rest of her life. Deep down, Lexa fears that all the beauty would leech out of the world and she’d lose her one passion. Maybe it was time to begin living again.
And perhaps she ought to bring Clarke some flowers, as well, in apology and thanks for keeping things nice and quiet while Susan was there. And perhaps she could choose something that said far more than she was prepared to out loud.
Clarke's last customer of the day is Monty Green, in to finish the self-portrait tattoo on his left shoulder blade. ("When I'm fifty, I'll get myself done again for the right side.") Clarke really likes Monty; he's earnest, yet mischievous and unassuming. It’s because of customers like Monty that tattooing never feels like work. She never looks down on any tattoo request (well, maybe that’s a lie), because each request means something to her customers. Her and Monty bounce off each other about everything under the sun, but after commiserating on the wonders of whiskey, they lapse into a friendly silence. Which is when Lexa stalks into the shop, carrying none other than Clarke's cat.
"Lexa? Luna?" Clarke asks, not expecting this sight at all. The hum of her needle dies down.
"Who's that?" Monty twists around underneath her hands and squints at the front door. "Oh, hey, aren't you the flower chick?"
Lexa pauses uncertainly over the threshold, obviously not having expected someone to be in there with Clarke. She scratches at Luna's neck, and Clarke notices the cat doesn't seem eager to get away. She can't help the silly grin that splits her face at the sight of her neighbor. Lexa drags her eyes away from Clarke's so she can look down at Monty and nod.
"Yes, I own Bucket of Thistle. I didn't mean to interrupt; I just wanted to return Luna before she got into trouble."
Clarke carefully rubs the itch on her nose, not wanting to get ink smudges on her face from her purple gloves. "Thanks- she pretty much has free reign of the neighborhood. I hope she didn't attack your flowers-"
"She didn't." Lexa interjects quickly. "She was actually very well behaved."
"Oh, good." Clarke sighs with relief, and then they lapse into an awkward silence. She remembers her customer, who is currently staring up at her with a knowing grin. Dammit. "I'm nearly done with Monty's tattoo, if you wanna sit down and watch. Then we can talk. If you want."
She glances down and sees Monty mouth 'nailed it'. If it wouldn't have been too obvious, Clarke would have punched him on the arm. Lexa takes a few steps further into the workspace and sits down on one of the chairs behind Clarke. "Oh, wow. The likeness is amazing." She says as she catches sight of Clarke's work.
Clarke preens. She's worked hard to be versatile and skilled in her field, but getting that kind of validation from the people whose opinions she values means more than anything. Sure, her mom thinks she's amazing, but Abby's her mother...that's kind of a given. Clarke refocuses on the palette of skin in front of her, returning the needle to the curve of jaw she had been working on. Even as electrifyingly aware as she is of Lexa's presence behind her, Clarke manages to finish her job and before long, Monty is grinning at himself in the mirror as he checks out the reddened skin on his back. "Perfect. You're the best, Clarke."
"Did you have any doubt?" She shoots back, readying the sterilized gauze to cover the tattoo.
"Never."
Monty pays and heads out, leaving her alone with Lexa, at last. She looks effortlessly lovely, like usual. Clarke is aware that she's not very dressed up today- a pair of skinny jeans and a black tank top covered with a ripped and loose white crop tank. Her hair hasn't been washed in two days, leaving it wavy. "I just have to do some cleaning, if you don't mind waiting a few minutes longer."
Lexa is still holding Luna and she nods. "I brought you some flowers, as well." It's then that Clarke notices the cluster of purple sticking out of Lexa's bag.
"Oh, you didn't have to-"
"Yes, I did." She insists, an intense look in her eyes. "I was rather rude to you the other day, and I wished to thank you for your understanding. I got the job arranging for the magazine."
"Congrats!" She's genuinely glad. Lexa accepts the compliment with a nod.
"Thank you. These are purple heather. I wasn't sure what kind of flowers you liked, so I thought I'd take a chance."
Heather (purple): admiration, loneliness.
"They're lovely. Thanks." She doesn’t admit out loud that she’ll look up what they mean the second she’s back in her apartment. "I'll be sure to put them in a vase with some water upstairs."
“Actually, I also wanted to discuss tattoos.” Lexa blurts out. Clarke eyes the unmarked flesh she can see. Lexa doesn't strike her as a person who has tattoos or who is even interested in getting tattoos. But she can't deny how much the idea of being the one to permanently mark Lexa intrigues her.
“Oh?”
Lexa nods, sending a few curly strands of hair over her shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about getting one, and since you’re rather talented—“
“Thanks,” Clarke interjects dryly. Lexa gives her a look.
“I meant that as a compliment, and you know it. Anyways, I wondered if we could discuss the design possibilities.”
“Sure. What were you thinking of getting?” Clarke finishes wiping down her chair and sterilizing her equipment.
“Flowers.” Lexa states simply, frowning a bit in consternation. At what, Clarke isn't sure. But she decides to take advantage of the opportunity this presents her.
"Well, that's a fairly broad category; maybe we can grab some dinner and eat it upstairs in my place while we discuss specifics. If you're still unsure, I have these body paints I can use to give you an idea of what the tattoo would look like." The thing is, this is something Clarke would do with her girlfriends or boyfriends- an intimate act where she would paint their bared bodies and it frequently led to a bout of messy sex. She's sure Lexa doesn't understand the sheer implications behind the offer, not that she expects anything since they're barely more than strangers and-
"Sure. That sounds perfect. I could go get the food- I'm friends with the proprietor of Geda's." Clarke has been in the restaurant a few times and the owner, Indra, seems incredibly intimidating. Then she realizes what Lexa is agreeing to. Feeling the faint sense of panic welling up inside her, Clarke forces a smile.
"Awesome. I can grab some wine and get the paints ready. See you back here in forty-five minutes?"
"That should work." Lexa stands up and begins to head for the front door.
"Lexa?"
"Hm?"
"You can let Luna go. She'll find her way upstairs before long."
Lexa looks down at the animal in her arms, startled to realize she was still carrying the cat. "Oh." She bends over and lets Luna leap down from her arms. She then takes the bunch of heather out of her bag and sets it on the counter. "Forty-five minutes."
Clarke can't help blurting it out. "It's a date."
Lexa doesn't seem to disagree with the label, at any rate. But Clarke's face is burning as she watches Lexa's lips tug upward a fraction before she exits the shop.