April
April
Clarke woke to the sound of her phone, vibrating angrily against the wood of the bedside table. Disoriented and half-asleep, she gazed at the tiny alarm clock next to her, wondering who would have the audacity to call at 3am. She grabbed the phone, staring at the unfamiliar number and fearing the worst as she swiped the screen.
“Hello?”
There was a dedicated pause, followed by the sound of low, soft chucking. A moment later Lexa’s voice filled her ear.
“Her unmistakable skill is coupled with a relentless work ethic, and while such remarkable talent could easily make the young phenom cocksure, she possesses an equally remarkable sense of humility.”
The corner of Clarke’s lip pressed agains the cool glass of the phone as she smiled, embarrassed to hear her own words read back to her.
“You read the article, I see.”
A lazy laugh on the other end of the phone betrayed the unmistakable effects of alcohol and exhaustion.
“I wanted to read it earlier, but the game went extra innings, and I got dragged out after for drinks.”
“How’d it go?”
Clarke listened to the sound of computer keys being tapped as she waited for Lexa to answer.
“We carried a 3 and 0 lead going into the eighth until our number two pitcher relived me and gave up a double and a two-run shot. Deadlock through the ninth and tenth innings, a go-ahead run in the 12th, and I came back in to close the last half-inning. I now have a 1–0 win–loss record for Class-A advanced ball.” As she spoke, Lexa blended her words together ever so slightly, having clearly enjoyed the post-game celebration.
“So you liked the article?”
“I loved it, although I don’t think my teammates will ever let me live it down.”
“Well, I should hope not. I did call you a phenom, after all.”
“You also called me charming.”
The reporter laughed, trying to remember what line Lexa was referring to. “Did I?”
“Affable and charming, the young pitcher possesses the kind of easy confidence that baseball legends are made of.”
“Ahh, so I did then.”
She listened to Lexa continue to tap keys, and giggle drunkenly.
“Your article doesn’t mention our date.”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“I meant the one we’re going on when I get back.”
Clarke rolled her eyes as she settled back into her bed, doing her best to fight off sleep.
“Very clever.”
“You mean very charming?”
The blonde stifled a yawn, and burried her face in the soft down of an oversized pillow.
“You’re the worst.”
“Go on a date with me?”
“You’re drunk.”
“You’re beautiful.”
Clarke sighed. “How about we trade? I’ll go on a date with you, in exchange for another interview, later in the season. The managing editor at the paper went nuts for the article. He wants me to do a follow-up piece.”
The reporter could almost feel Lexa’s smile through the phone, as she waited for the pitcher to reply to her terms.
“Done.”
“Really?”
“If it means a date with you, I’ll do a hundred interviews.”
“Slow down there, Woods. One more should be fine.”
“Ok, but don’t say I didn’t offer.”
Clarke’s eyelids sagged as sleep began to give in to her exhaustion. She rolled onto her side, realizing that if she didn’t get back to sleep soon, there would be no point in going back to sleep at all.
“I should go. There is an early morning staff meeting at the paper, and I need to be awake for at least 75% of it. Congratulations, again.”
Lexa giggled. “Thank you. I mean, it was an uphill battle, but I knew I’d get you to agree to a date eventually.”
“I meant on your win.”
“Oh right, that!”
Clarke half yawned, half laughed as she shook her head. She curled into herself, pulling the cover around her tighter.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously charming?”
“You’re about to loose that date.”
“No take backs!”
“Alright, but this time I get to pick the place.”
“Just tell me when and where, lady.”
“How about Friday, 502 East River Street, 5:30pm?”
“Prefect! We have an early game Friday. I have the night off.”
“Friday it is then. Anyway… Goodnight Lexa.”
“Goodnight Clarke.”
________________________________________________________________________________________
Clarke closed her eyes as as the phone finally went silent. A moment later she allowed sleep to overtake her, the faintest hint of a smile playing on her lips as she thought about Friday, and remembered the way Lexa looked when she was off the field.
Even for 5:25pm on a Friday night, River Street was busy. Lexa made her way down the bustling sidewalk, feeling underdressed in a t-shirt and jeans, boots, and her team jacket. The outfit seemed rather casual next to the well-dressed couples she passed, sitting outside bars and restaurants, enjoying the night air, but the day-game had gone extra innings, and she hadn’t had time to make it home home and change. Besides, she was running late, and if it came down to looking impressive or being punctual, Lexa was decidedly in favor of the later.
Jogging up to her destination, Lexa stoped, re-check the number she’d written down when she saw the building that matched the address. Lexa stared at the small, wooden food-shack in front of her, confused. Two menus were posted just below the ordering window, each one with “The Naked Dog,” written across the top in large letters. Just to the left, was a metal food cart covered in signs that advertised “Eisenberg Hot Dogs.” Lexa checked the address again, sure that she’d come to the wrong place, and worried that it was now 5:33pm.
“Darn it! You beat me again.”
The pitcher turned on her heels when she heard the reporter’s voice. Clarke stood behind her, looking radiant in a blue sundress and strappy heals, a chunky, leather tote bag slung casually over her shoulder.
“You dressed up again.”
Clarke rolled her eyes. “I came from work.”
“So you say.” Lexa smirked, giving her a small wink, before realizing that the blonde’s presence meant that the destination was indeed correct.
“So… You brought me to a hot dog stand?”
“I did.”
Lexa gazed back at the food shack, her smile faltering a little.
“Clarke… This isn’t exactly date food.”
Clarke gave her a smug smile, and nodded. “A fair assumption, but…”
She walked past Lexa cocking an eyebrow suggestively as she crossed towards the shack. “You only say that because you haven’t tried it yet.”
Forty minutes, and several hotdogs later, the pair laughed as they ambled down River Street together, passing the last of something called a “Slaw Dog” back and forth. Clarke tried not to choke on her food as Lexa moaned in pleasure.
“Ugh… This is so good! What is in this sauce?”
Clarke wiggled her eyebrows, giggling at the brunette. “Nobody know, that’s why they call it mystery sauce.”
“Well, whatever it is, it’s delicious.”
Clarke smiled triumphantly, crossing her arms over her chest. “See, I told you you’d feel differently about the place after you ate there.”
Lexa gave Clarke a playful but extremely gentle shove, sticking out the tip of her tongue for the briefest of moments. “Okay, okay…. You were right. But, I still say it’s an unorthodox choice for a date. What made you think of it anyway?”
The Blonde shoved the final bit of Slaw Dog in her mouth, chewing it greedily. A moment later she smiling bashfully, gazing over at her companion with guilty eyes. “Honestly? In the interest of full disclosure, I actually grab dinner there every Friday.”
The brunette furrowed her brow skeptically. “You eat hot dogs from a street-food stand every Friday?”
Clare shrugged, pausing long enough before she answered, that Lexa knew she was revealing something sacred.
“During my summers here as a kid, my father use to take me there every Friday night. We’d get hotdogs, and walk along the river, and he’d listen to me rattle on for hours about friends, and school, and life with my mother.”
Clarke looked out over the river, avoiding eye contact with Lexa as she continued.
“I don’t know why, but about a month after I moved down here I got this weird urge to see if that place was still around. One Friday after work, I came down here and there it was, exactly the same. One visit turned into two and… I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to keep the tradition alive.”
Lexa considered everything Clarke had told her, mulling the information over thoughtfully.
“You know… That’s a pretty longstanding tradition for someone who says they weren’t very close with their father.”
Clarke sighed, finally looking back at Lexa. “It’s complicated.”
A breeze picked up, causing Clarke to rubbed at her upper arms. Her shoulders trembled ever so slightly, and Lexa noticed the beginning of goosebumps forming on the blonde’s pale skin.
“Do you want my jacket?”
Clarke rolled her eyes, looking at the young pitcher skeptically. “No, I’m…”
The breeze picked up again, becoming a genuine wind and turning the evening air cold. Clarke’s teeth chattered and her shoulders tremble again. She looked at Lexa, bitting her lip, reluctant to admit her need after her initial attempt to refuse the offer. “On second thought… Would you mind?”
Lexa laughed at her companion, shaking her head in amusement. “Of course.” She shrugged the jacket off, letting it slide down her muscular arms before grasping it by the sides and holding it open for the tiny blonde.
The reporter gave Lexa a shy, half-smile, avoiding her eyes as she slipped her arms into the satin sleeves, and allowed the pitcher to slide the jacket over her shoulders gently. Though jacket was several sizes too big for Clarke, she enjoying the way Lexa’s body heat lingered in the soft fabric. Clarke wrapped the sides of the coat tightly around her small frame, inhaling the scents that the prior occupant had left, lingered on the collar; citrus, sandalwood, and a subtle hint of tanner’s oil from a baseball glove.
“Thank you.”
Lexa only nodded, fighting to hold back the smile that was forming as she took in the the sight of Clarke, swimming in her too big baseball jacket.
A comfortable silence settled over the two as they began making their way down River street again. The wind continued to pick up, hastening the clouds that had begun to roll in over the Savannah River. Soon, the cold had driven most people back inside restaurants and bars, and Lexa and Clarke were left to wandering the cobblestone street alone.
As they made their way down the sidewalk, Lexa stole occasional glances at Clarke, watching as the blonde burrowed even further into her jacket.
“That’s a good look for you.”
Clarke blushed, shooting Lexa a grin as she raised an eyebrow. “What? This old thing?”
The pitcher’s laughter was interrupted by the feeling of a hard, cold drop of rain water hitting her forehead. It slid, lazily, down the side of her nose coming to rest on the point of her upper lip. Lexa glanced up at the darkening sky, noticing how low the clouds were hanging now, and listening to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance.
She sighed, trying to hide her disappointment as she smiled at the beautiful girl who was wrapped in her jacket.
“Looks like we’re about to get rained out.”
“So it does.” Clarke peered into the sky. A few raindrops landing on her cheeks as she frowned at the poorly timed weather. She wiped the rain form her face and looked back at Lexa, tilting her head towards a nearly Public House.
“Well, it’s still early, and I had a pretty long day at work. Any interest in grabbing drinks?”
Lexa rubbed the back of her neck nervously as she considered the offer.
“Honestly, there’s nothing in the world I’d like more right now, but…” She sighed, wagging an internal battle over her impulse to stretch out the evening as long as possible. Finally she gritted her teeth, and gave Clarke an apologetic look.
“Gosh, this is embarrassing but… Clarke, the thing is, money’s a little tight right now, and I know if I follow you into that bar, I’m pretty confident one drink will become as many as it takes to keep you there, talking to me. I think I’d better not, as much as I’d like to.”
Clarke nodded, her face softening in an understanding manner. She smiled, brushing a few more drops of rain from her face, and pushing a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “I understand. That’s ok though, I’ve got some beers at the house so… I suppose a night in, watching movies on the couch works too.” She looked over her shoulder, pointing in the direction of a side street.
“Anyway, my car is parked over there so…” She slid Lexa’s jacket off and handed it back to the lean brunette.
Lexa took the coat, tucking it under her arm as she moved in to give Clarke a parting hug. Before she had a chance though, Clarke leaned up, swiftly pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Thanks for the jacket Champ.” A second later Clarke had turned on her heels, and was hurrying back towards her vehicle.
The rain started falling in earnest then, soaking the stunned young pitcher, flooding the street, and making tiny rivers of the cervices between the cobblestones. Halfway down the sidewalk, Clarke turned back towards Lexa, smirking out of the corner of her mouth and placing a hand on her hip.
“Well?”
Lexa cocked her head, unsure. “Well, what?”
Clarke smirked again, giving Lexa a wink. “Well… Are you coming or not?”
________________________________________________________________________________________
They stepped out of the car and made a made dash for the front door, helpless against the downpour as Clarke fumbled to find the right key. By the time they made it inside the brick apartment building, they were soak to the bone. They girls shivered as they made their way up the stairs, and down a short hallway to the door marked 2B,. Clarke paused, giving her companion a shy smile.
“My mother used to rent this place out, but she never really redecorated it. It’s still all of my father’s old furniture and stuff in there. You’ll have to excuse the place if it’s a little 1990’s bachelor pad.”
Lexa placed an arm on the blonde’s shoulder reassuringly, sure that the place couldn’t possibly be that bad. “Trust me Clarke, I’m sure it’s much nicer than my place.” She winked at Clarke, giving her a confident smile, though she secretly hoped she’d never have occasion to show the reporter where she lived.
“Ok, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Clarke sighed, turning the key in the lock and pushing.
The heavy wooden door swung slowly forward, creaking on it’s hinges. Lexa followed Clarke through the doorway, pausing behind the smaller woman as she felt along the hallway wall for the light switch. A second later there was a click, and when the apartment flooded with light, it immediately became apparent to Lexa what Clarke had meant about the decor.
“Wait here. I’ll go get us some dry clothes.” The blonde dashed through the living room and disappeared down the lone hallway, leaving Lexa to look around.
The whole place was exposed brick walls and cedar ceiling beams, with an atmosphere that practically screamed bachelordom. The main room had an open space concept and was divided into two tiers. The upper deck held the kitchen and a small eating area, and was divided from the rest of the room by a low wall with a fireplace in the center of it. Two leather armchairs sat in front of the fireplace, and behind that, along the side wall, a full bar, complete with counter-top, stools, wall mirrors, and neon lighting. Behind the armchairs, a large pool table sat in the center for the room, dividing the rest of it from the den area, which was a every bit the recreation room of a 1990’s single, adult male. The wraparound couch was a well worn chestnut leather, and the shelves against the far wall were brimming with DVD’s and old VHS tapes. In the middle of the large entertainment center sat a rather old fashioned looking, big-screen television.
What was most characteristic about the apartment however, what defined its essence, was that every square inch of it was steeped in baseball memorabilia. The place was a veritable shrine to the American pastime. The walls were decorated with old-timey photographs of the Polo Grounds and Shea Stadium, the shelves held plastic boxes with autographed baseballs, battle-worn leather gloves, and tattered baseball caps. Here and there, framed jerseys hung on the wall, all of them with the same number, 24. It took a moment, but Lexa finally realize the connection between the items.
“Clarke?” Lexa called down the hallway absentmindedly, still peering around at the multitudinous collection of memorabilia; items that surely constituted a lifetime’s worth of collecting. “Was your dad a big fan of Wild Man Wechadtowski?”
“What’s that?” Clarke suddenly reemerged from the hallway, making her way towards Lexa with a pile of clothing in her arms.”
“Jacob Wechadtowski? Baseball’s Wild Man? You know… Scruffy guy with huge sideburns and a big handlebar-mustache? Played for the Mets?” Lexa paused. “One of the greatest pitchers who ever lived? Died in a freak accident?” She paused again. “Any of this sound familiar?”
Lexa searched Clark’s face, though she was met with stoicism rather than recognition. “I was just saying your dad must have been a big fan to have collected all of this stuff.” Lexa gestured at the contents of the apartment.
“Yeah.” Clarke shrugged rolling her eyes as she surveyed the memorabilia. “Something like that.” She handed the stack of sweats to Lexa and giving her an apologetic smile.
“These were my ex’s. I hope you don’t mind.” She pointed to a bathroom of the entryway. “You can change in there. Towels are on the left if you need them.”
Lexa nodded, accepting the clothes gratefully, and slipping into the bathroom. Lexa stripped of the wet clothing that clung to her skin, sighing with relief as the cold items were peeled from her body. She grabbed a towel, and dried her sopping hair, squeezing as much of the rain out of her curls as possible, before dabbing her clammy skin. Finally, warmed and dry, Lexa slipped on the sweats Clarke had given her, examining them curiously. Clarke’s ex boyfriend had clearly been quite tall . Even on Lexa the pants seemed a bit baggy, as was the sweatshirt, which read “Cal Rugby” across the front.
Lexa collected her wet duds, exiting the bathroom and handing them to a waiting Clarke, who deposited them in the stackable washer by the front door.
Lexa cleared her throat as she watched Clarke shove her own wet clothes into the machine. “So… Your ex play rugby?”
Clarke nodded, looking over her shoulder at the pitcher, and throwing a few detergent pods into the washer. “Oh, yeah. Center, I think.”
“He must have been a big guy.”
Clarke closed the lid of the washing machine and gave Lexa a smug look. “She was. 5’ 11” to be exact.”
Lexa fought back the urge to do a victory dance at Clarke’s revelation, though Clarke seemed to pick up on Lexa’s excitement, none-the-less.
“Try not to look too pleased there, Champ.”
Lexa smirked. “That’s the second time you’ve called me that tonight. Should I consider it a term of endearment? I mean, it’s a little early for pet names but, if I had to pick one for you, I guess I’d go with Cookie.”
Clarke’s frown at the comment only egged Lexa on. “No? How about Honey? Sugar-Bear? Boo-boo?”
“You’re not even a little funny.”
“But admit it, I am a little charming.”
Clarke rolled her eyes. “I deeply regret using that particular adjective in my article. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Perhaps, that I was charming?” Lexa fought back smirk as she sassed the irritated girl in front of her.
Clarke shook her head, trying her best to look unamused. “Don’t push your luck, Woods.” She stuck her tongue out before she turned back to the washer, setting the dial. “How about you go make yourself comfortable infant of the TV, and I get us those beers?”
Lexa nodded, heading over to the couch, and depositing herself unceremoniously into its soft, enveloping cushions as she began scanning the shelves of the entertainment center for titles. A moment later Clarke plopped down beside her, handing her a brown, glass bottle.
“I hope an IPA is ok.”
Lexa nodded. “Perfect.” She happily accepted the beer from Clarke, taking a long swig, before setting it on her knee. “Any movie in particular you were thinking of?”
Clarke smiled mischievously, setting her beer on the table in front of them. “Well…” She crossed to the entertainment center, searching through the titles before pulling one from the shelves and flashing the case towards Lexa, smirking. “Field of Dreams?”
Lexa rolled her eyes, slightly irritated at Clarke’s assumption that she’d jump at the chance to watch a sports movie. “Ugh… I pitched nine innings just a few hour ago. I’m up for anything as long as it’s not a baseball movie.”
Clarke nodded. “Well, since you’re my guest, how about you choose?”
The pitcher took another swig of her beer, pushing herself off the couch as Clarke replaced her among the cushions. Lexa scanned the titles on the shelf carefully, contemplating each one, determined to find something that would be enjoyable, without making her seem predictable. Finally, her eye caught the perfect title. She pulled the DVD from the shelf, and made her way back to the couch, taking a seat, and handing Clarke the box.
The blonde looked at her skeptically, raising an eyebrow in semi shock. “Casablanca?”
Lexa gave her a triumphant smirk. “It’s a classic.”
“I know that. I’m just…”
“Just what?”
“I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
Lexa leaned in toward Clarke, narrowing her eyebrows and furrowing her brow in mock seriously. “You know Clarke, I’m more then just a great arm, and charming affability.”
“Ugh! That’s it!”
Clarke immediately pounced on Lexa, straddling her and knocking her back against the couch cushions. The blonde pinning the pitcher down as she began to assault her sides with tickling.”
“Stop! Quoting! My! Article! To! Me! You! Idiot!”
Lexa writhed in the cushions, her eyes screwed shut as she desperately tried to block the onslaught from Clark’s quick and dexterous fingers, which were sending her nervous system into a frenzy. Lexa was nothing if not severely susceptible to tickling. It had been her twin’s favorite method of torturing her when they were younger, though having Clarke straddling her waist, rather than Levi, seemed almost worth the torture. Lexa gasped for air in between hysterical fits of laughter. Somehow, she managed to grab ahold of Clarke’s forearms, stilling her attacks by pulling them out from under the tiny girl.
“Alright, Clarke! Alright! I give up!”
The tickling ceased, and Lexa breathed a sigh of relief as her nervous system returned to baseline. “No more quoting the article, I promise!”
She opened her eyes, her sense of relief disappearing as she realize how intimate of a position they were in. Forearms pinned to her sides, Clarke had toppled over, landing squarely on top of Lexa’s chest. Their bodies were nearly flush, pressed together in a way that made Lexa’s heart begin to race as she stare at the girl on top of her, panting for breath. Clarke’s flushed cheeks radiating an inviting warmth against Lexa’s own, and her golden hair hung haphazardly, endearingly disheveled from the rough housing. When Clarke licked her lips, Lexa’s brain went completely numb, and she drifted off into fantasies of Clarke’s lips pressed to her own.
“Lexa?” Clarke’s voice finally brought her back from the abyss.
“What?”
The brunette snapped back to reality, noticing the strange look Clarke was giving her.
“I said I’ll stop. You can let go now.”
“Oh, Sorry!” Lexa released her hold on Clarke’s wrists, letting them drop, unceremoniously, from her grasp.
Clarke grinned shyly, rolling off of Lexa and grabbing the DVD from the floor, where it had been absentmindedly discarded during the melee.
“You’re sure this is the one you want to watch?”
Lexa sat up, settling into the corner of the couch as she pushed her hair out of her face and gathering it behind her head. “Absolutely.” She popped a hair band off her wrist and secured the mess of frizzy curls in a loose bun atop her head. “Its my favorite.”
Clarke raised an eyebrow, giving Lexa a questioning smile. “Is Casablanca really your favorite movie?”
The pitcher nodded. “Ever since my Pop-Pop forced me watch it with him when I was eight.”
Clarke stared at Lexa, contemplating the character of the girl on her couch extremely seriously. Finally, she gave a low chucked, shaking her head. “‘Curiouser and curiouser…’”
When the DVD was finally queued up, Clarke flipped off the living room lights and returned to the couch. Lexa couldn’t help but notice the generous amount of space that Clarke seemed to leave between them, and worried that their earlier hijinks had turned the blonde girl off in some way. Not wanting to turn an otherwise comfortable situation awkward, Lexa tried to dismiss the thought, quietly sipping her beer as the opening titles flashed across the screen.
It took several more beers, but by the time the patrons of Rick’s Cafe had begun to sing “La Marseillaise,” Lexa’s worries were put to rest. Clarke had begun inching closer to her, and somewhere around the flashback of the Germans invading France, she felt her reach over to pull an old throw blanket from off the back of the couch.
“You cold?”
Lexa smiled timidly, nodding as she sipped her third beer. “Just a bit.”
Clarke unfolded the blanket, tossing it over Lexa’s body, and sliding under herself a moment later. “You don’t mind do you? I’m freezing.”
Lexa attempted nonchalance as she looked down at the girl sliding closer to her. “Um… No, of course not.”
Lexa raised her arm, and allowed Clarke to slide under it, burrowing herself into the crook of the the pitcher’s shoulder as she snuggled between the blanket and the warm body next to her. A moment later Lexa lowered her arm, pausing before she wrapped it around the body next to her.
“This ok?”
Clarke didn’t answer. Instead, she gently curled her hand around the brunette’s wrist, pulling it arm until the pitcher’s arm was wrapped over her waist. Lexa reveled in the feeling of having Clarke cuddled against her. She tried not to smile too noticeably as she felt the smaller girl yawn, and curl into her just a bit more.
“Just wake me up if I fell asleep on you ok?”
“Sure thing,” Lexa smiled down at her, having no intention whatsoever of following through on the request.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Lexa woke to the sound of the score playing over the rolling end credits. Through half-lidded eyes, she peered down at the girl tucked into her side, fast asleep, still wrapped securely in her pitching arm. She squeezed the girl gently, running the pad of her thumb along her torso.
“Clarke?”
Clarke moaned, curling further into Lexa’s side, though she remained fast asleep. Lexa tried again, shaking her slightly.
“Clarke?”
This time there was no response at all. Loath to wake an exhausted girl, Lexa pulled the blanket back delicately, extricated herself from Clarke with surgical precision. Stooping down, she carefully slid her arms under shoulders and knees, lifting Clarke off the couch and groaning with the strain of the weight.
“You know for someone so tiny, you’re heavier than you look.” The statement was barely a whisper, though Lexa was thankful Clarke wasn’t awake to hear it.
Taking great care not to wake the girl in her arms, she made her way slowly down the hallway, toward the glowing light of Clark’s bedroom. She pushed the door open with her foot, making sure not to jostle Clarke as she maneuvered them through it and made her way to the bed, depositing the sleeping girl, very gently, in the center of the mattress. She lifting her head and slid a soft pillow underneath, pulling the comforter over her a second later.
Clarke moaned again, turning on her side and pulling the comforter in around her. Her eyes opened just a crack, as a barely conscious whisper escaped her lips.
“Leaving?”
Lexa crouched beside the bed, smoothing back the messy blonde hair that cascaded over the reporter’s face.
“Yeah. You’ve been drinking. I think I probably should.”
Barely awake, Clarke shook her head lazily, managing to get out three more words before curling up tighter, and drifting off again.
“Stay. Just sleep.”
Lexa sighed, fighting herself over what to do. On one hand, it was only an invitation stay and cuddle, nothing more. Then again, they’d finish a six pack between them, and she didn’t relish the idea of waking up to a Clarke who might regret the sleep over, or worse still, not remember it. She sighed, leaning in closer to Clarke and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea Clarke.”
Clarke was a barely visible nod, but a nod none the less. The blonde moaned again, turning over to face Lexa and mumbling into the comforter.
“Please… Stay.”
Lexa clenched her jaw, letting her better angels depart her, as she gave in to the blonde’s request, and the allure of the warm bed, and the inviting smell of cinnamon and soap that wafted off of Clarke.
“Ok, but just to sleep.”
Clark nodded again, and Lexa pulled back the covers, slipping underneath them and settling into the pillows. She made sure to leave a few inches between herself and Clarke, but despite her effort to maintain a respectful distance, Lexa felt Clarke roll into her a moment later. The reporter pressed her back into the Lexa’s chest, and grasped her wrist, pulling the pitchers toned arm around her shoulders.
“…’s cold.”
Lexa screwed her eyes shut for a moment, overcome with a mixture of incredible contentment and overwhelming nervousness. Her hear racing like a freight train, Lexa leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss to Clarke’s temple.
“Goodnight, Clarke.”
She stared down at for a few moments, happy just to watch the beautiful girl net to her sleeping. When she was confident that Clarke was completely out, Lexa pushed herself up slightly, reaching to turn out the light on the nightstand. Her fingers had just grasped the power cord when she noticed a small picture frame, sitting next to the lamp on the bedside table. A single glance at the frame’s contents, and Lexa’s whole body to froze, her eyes nearly popping out of her head as she realized what she was looking at.
The photograph was old, and its color dulling, but the figures in the picture were clear as day. A tiny blonde girl smiled up at the camera, through the candles of a birthday cake which proudly proclaimed that she was turning five. Even with frosting on her cheeks, and pigtails instead of neatly groomed trusses, the little girl was instantly recognizable as a young Clarke. What was shocking was the man who stood just behind her, beaming with pride. He held five year old Clarke up, his enormous hands wrapped around her waist protectively as she leaned forward, preparing to blow out her candles. The man was clad in an ringer t-shirt with “World’s Greatest Dad” printed across the chest, and he wore a party hat that had been comically tipped askew on his head. However, even in the ridiculous outfit, even without his jersey on, there was no doubt who the man was. There, trademark sideburns and handlebar mustache framing his giant smile, was Jacob “Wild Man” Wechadtowski, one of the greatest pitcher who ever lived.