Chapter Text
‘What the hell have I done this time,’ is Clarke’s first conscious thought as rays of sunlight shine through open venetian blinds and filter through to her eyelids. The second is that it is entirely too bright and entirely too early to be awake. She curses herself for not closing the blinds last night and flings her arm over her eyes in an attempt to block out the light. .
A gentle breeze on the side of her face and the slight rattle of the blinds tells her that she’d also neglected to close the window before she went to sleep. The steady rhythmic tapping of wood against wood makes her acutely aware of the dull ache in her head and the dryness of her mouth.
All the classic signs of a hangover. Ah, yes. She’ll have to thank Raven for that later.
With a groan she reaches out to the bedside table, hands groping blindly for the bottle of water she knows is there somewhere. When she finds it she props herself up on one elbow and takes a long drink, greedily downing half of it before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Thirst quenched, she sinks back into her mattress and begins to piece together the events of the previous night. She’s got to stop doing this. If only she had friends who didn’t encourage her whimsical nature and determination to have a good time...who is she kidding? That’s the best thing about her friends.
But this is the last time Raven talks her into half-price cocktails at The Dropship, she promises herself silently. Even as she thinks it, she knows it’s a lie.
She may no longer be the ‘party animal Clarke Griffin’ from back in college, but she’s not above taking advantage of Happy Hour. Not when $3 Margaritas are at stake. For that price she can even put up with Murphy’s questionable customer service.
There had been cocktails of course...too many of those. And shots too. Whiskey, if she’s not mistaken. Sloppy drunken dancing. More shots. Snapchatting Octavia. Raven booty-calling Wick. Clambering into an Uber. Raven kissing her sloppily on the cheek and saying she’ll see her at work tomorrow. Kicking off her heels and collapsing into bed fully-clothed.
Clarke closes her eyes and groans again, burying her face into the pillow. Then she pauses.
What did Raven mean ‘see you at work tomorrow?’ Today is Sunday, isn’t it?
Honestly it’s hard to tell because all her days seem to blur into one. If she’s not working, she’s out with her friends. If she’s not out with her friends, she’s painting or surfing. It’s a continuous routine, but it suits her fine. It keeps her busy, keeps her occupied. That’s what she needs.
Besides if it was a working day, the alarm on her phone would have woken her. Hell, she’s got three set up because she’s so paranoid about sleeping in.
Dread building, she reaches for her phone and swipes her thumb across the screen. Nothing. It’s completely dead.
Fuck.
With lightning speed she leaps out of bed and fumbles with her charger, ignoring the way her head throbs painfully with every movement she makes.
In less than a minute her phone comes back to life. Her heart rate about doubles and she instantly panics when she sees the date and time.
07:45 and yes, you bet your ass it’s a Monday
A string of creative curse words later and she’s running a hand through her tangled locks, breathing deeply in an effort to calm herself. Ok, so its 30 minutes later than she’d like. It’s an inconvenience but it’s not the end of the world.
If she ties her hair up and foregoes her make-up routine, she can still shower, make a coffee to-go and get to work for 9am providing traffic isn’t bad.
Clarke tries not to think about the consequences of being late. If she dares to show up to one of Indra’s 9am meetings smelling like last night’s bad decisions, being fired will be the least of her worries.
Her thumb hovers over the screen as it lights up with several incoming messages from both Raven and Octavia. Whatever it is can wait, she thinks, as she sets the phone down and dashes to the bathroom. It’s probably just banter over last night’s antics. Her first priority is to stop smelling like she literally crawled out of a vat of tequila.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Clarke tries to replace the mantra of ‘fuck fuck fuck’ currently racing through her mind with something a little more positive. It’s proving to be very difficult considering the universe seems to be actively working against her today.
She’s in such a rush that she almost runs over with the mailman as she pulls out of the parking garage beneath the apartment. She grimaces and mouths an apology as he furiously brandishes his fist at her. There go her chances of receiving any packages for the next six months.
What a fucking morning though. Along with waking up late she’s had to contend with a cold shower because the hot water is busted again. They’re also out of coffee. She knows Raven is responsible for the latter problem. Her roommate always drinks the last of it and forgets to buy more.
Clarke decides she’ll hold off reprimanding her for that until Raven’s fixed the shower. It’s not a good idea to piss off the person who will fix your plumbing for free, even if they are a gigantic pain in the ass sometimes.
Still, she needs her morning dose of caffeine. The horrible truth is, once you hit your mid-20s, getting through the morning without a decent cup of coffee just isn’t an option.
As she drives to Starbucks she can’t shake the nagging feeling that there’s something important about today. Something that she’s forgetting.
It’s July 25th. The date shouldn’t mean anything special to her. It’s no one’s birthday that she knows of and she doesn’t have any due project deadlines at work...yet. The Polaris Corp bid doesn’t begin until Friday but she can already hazard a guess how much fun that will be (approximately zero).
She mulls it over as orders her coffee and waits in line at the drive thru. By the time she merges back into traffic, she’s come up with nothing and so dismisses the thought as residual panic from this morning’s craziness.
Clarke takes a sip of her iced latte and hums contentedly. It might be an odd drink choice considering it isn’t 9am yet but outside its stiflingly hot, waves of heat rising from the tarmac in a blurred haze.
Keeping one hand on the steering wheel and the other still grasping her cup, she extends her pinkie finger to switch the radio on, frowning as some Meghan Trainor song emanates from the speakers.
“Oh no you fucking don’t,” Clarke murmurs, twisting the dial.
That’s when it happens.
It will occur to her much later that if she’d been concentrating at this exact moment, she would have avoided the unfortunate turn of events that would unfold within the next two minutes. Events, which coincidentally, would carry staggering repercussions for her throughout the day and stretch long into the weeks ahead.
If only she’d known.
She doesn’t see black BMW 7 series merging into her lane until the last second. Registering movement out of the corner of her eye, she looks back at the road to see the car barely a meter in front of her. She yelps a strangled ‘fuck’ and pumps her foot on the breaks, eyes widening in shock momentarily before slamming closed as she braces for the jolt of impact.
It doesn’t come.
There’s no sickening crunch of metal on metal or the sound of breaking glass. Instead she gasps audibly when she’s suddenly hit with a freezing cold wave that steals the breath from her lungs, the unpleasant sensation stretching from her chest all the way down to her thighs.
Of course when she opens her eyes she sees that she’s absolutely covered in the coffee she had so craved. It’s everywhere. On the dashboard, the centre console, the roof... in her purse. Not to mention her shirt and pants both completely soaked through.
Clarke doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, suspended in shock as she still clutches the now empty cup, her knuckles white. At least it wasn’t hot coffee, she thinks, letting out a shaky breath. She may not have third degree burns but she will now have to go into a departmental meeting looking like a complete idiot.
It’s when the cars in line behind her start honking their horns that her short-lived relief turns to rage. With a glare she looks back up to see the owner of the black BMW has pulled to a stop at a red light. Clarke clenches her jaw as she restarts her car with every intention of giving this jerk a piece of her mind.
Sure, she should have been more attentive with her driving but she doesn’t remember seeing this entitled asshole bothering to signal. Really, she could have done without adding survive ‘mini-heart attack’ to this morning’s agenda.
She pulls up level with the BMW, rolling her eyes at the personalised licence plate. She scoffs because of course someone with a car this expensive would be the kind of douche to do such a thing.
Clarke knows the exact type; she’s seen it a million times before. She’d bet $10 that the driver is some entitled rich kid with a trust fund, driving around LA like they own the damn place. Little do they now they’re about to get a very rude awakening courtesy of one Clarke Griffin.
“Hey!” Clarke calls, winding her window down. “Hey dude, I’m talking to you!”
There’s no movement from the other car.
Along with the personalised license plate, the owner also has tinted windows, making it impossible for her to see inside. The lack of response only infuriates her further.
“Just because you’ve got a fancy car doesn’t mean you can ignore the highway code y’know!”
Again there’s no reaction other than the slight rev of the engine as the driver waits for the lights to change.
Clarke seethes. There’s no way this guy can’t hear her at the volume she’s shouting. He’s just being ignorant...or rude...both are as bad as each other in her book.
There are a number of factors fuelling her anger right now. She’s angry at the possibility of being late. She’s angry with this guy for not bothering to signal. Most of all she’s angry that she’s sat here in wet clothes, making her uncomfortably sticky as the damp material clings to her skin in the LA heat.
True, she could have avoided this by keeping her eyes on the road but they’re both at fault...and it’s much easier to be angry at this stranger than it is at herself.
At least that’s how she rationalises her actions when she picks up the empty Starbucks cup seconds later and hurls it at the BMW, smirking as it bounces off the windshield with a satisfying thunk.
Clarke’s smirk begins to slip from her face when the reality of what she’s done sinks in. She’s essentially attacked a car. A very expensive car. She hopes that doesn’t amount to criminal damage...it was only a plastic cup after all.
Slowly the window of the BMW rolls down. Clarke very nearly swallows her damn tongue because holy fuck this was not what she was anticipating. There goes her $10.
Instead of the privileged douchebag she had been expecting, she finds herself face to face with a woman who can’t be more than a few years older than her.
Clarke shrinks back into her seat a little under the brunette’s intense glare. She’s not sure exactly how this woman manages to emit such an intimidating air when her oversized sunglasses hide half her features, but she does.
It could be the impeccably tailored cut of her suit. It could be the manner in which she holds herself, chin tipped up and jaw set as she regards Clarke. It could be the way she drums her fingers on the steering wheel nonchalantly. Whatever it is, she’s giving off a very clear ‘do not fuck with me’ vibe.
“Can I help you with something?” the brunette asks, sounding altogether disinterested.
“W-what?” Clarke manages to stammer.
She’s entirely thrown off by the seeming politeness of this interaction. No one in LA is polite. Ever. Especially not after they’ve had trash thrown at their car.
“I said, can I help you with something?” the brunette repeats, her tone a little sharper. “I assume you wanted my attention. Congratulations,” she says dryly. “You have it.”
When Clarke doesn’t answer immediately the woman sighs and tilts her sunglasses down, peering at her over the top of the frames. Clarke really wishes she hadn’t because she finds herself helplessly transfixed by the most captivating shade of forest green.
She’s speechless, lost in a temporary daze as the woman stares up at her waiting for an answer. As the seconds tick by she begins to forget why she was mad in the first place.
“Or are you simply in the habit of being rude to everyone you come across?” the brunette continues, arching an eyebrow in silent challenge. “Because whatever it is, I don’t have all day.”
It’s when the brunette’s mouth lifts to the side in an unmistakable smirk that Clarke snaps back to reality with renewed anger. This woman might be inconveniently attractive but Clarke isn’t about to be sassed by some stranger with a superiority complex. Not with the morning she’s had.
“Actually, I just wanted to let you know you’re a jerk,” Clarke retorts, eyes narrowing. “That’s all.”
“Excuse me?” the brunette asks incredulously. “You throw trash at my car and I’m the jerk? Care to explain?”
“Yeah, you cut me off back there!” Clarke says exasperatedly. “Look at my clothes, they’re ruined,” she adds, gesturing down at her shirt.
“I didn’t cut you off,” the woman protests coolly. “Besides you shouldn’t be drinking coffee when you’re driving. You should have both hands on the wheel.”
“You didn’t signal, dude!” Clarke cries, throwing her hands up. “I almost crashed because of you! You’d think when you own a car that expensive, you would at least know how to drive it. I guess money can’t buy you brains,” she adds cuttingly.
The brunette rolls her eyes. “And manners cost nothing but you don’t seem to have any of those. Besides, I signalled in plenty of time, it’s not my fault you didn’t see it. You really should have been paying more attention. You can’t go through life blaming other people for your mistakes, dude,” she insists, exaggerating the final word complete with air quotes.
Clarke’s eyes narrow. Is this woman giving her life advice and mocking her in the same breath? The brief quirk of the brunette’s lips tells her that, yes, she definitely is.
Clarke tells herself it’s the woman’s smug grin that fills her with a sudden rage, not that her comments are a bit too close for comfort. Not that they hold any truth. Nope.
But now she’s flustered, unable to articulate a comprehensive argument that will put this woman in her place so instead she says...
“Whatever dicksplash.”
How anticlimactic.
Clarke cringes internally. There’s pathetic insults and then there’s that. She’s pretty sure no one has used that word since the 1980s. With good reason. The brunette seems to be of the same train of thought as she smirks even wider, shaking her head. Clarke feels her cheeks burning with an unmistakable blush.
“Dicksplash?” the brunette echoes patronisingly, resting an elbow on the window frame. “Now that is a retro one. You want me to give you a moment while you trying to think of something a little more contemporary? Go on, I’ll wait.”
Clarke likes to think of herself as a pretty laid-back person. It’s kind of her thing, she goes with the flow. But there’s something about this woman that really puts her on edge. Something about this stranger that manages to unsettle her relaxed and easy-going nature. It’s like she’s immediately gotten under her skin. She can’t put her finger on it and it makes her angrier than it should. She sees red.
“Oh, I see. You’d like something more contemporary, would you?” Clarke scathes, voice dripping with sarcasm. “How about go fuck yourself? Hmm? How’s that for contemporary?”
She allows herself a second to gage the woman’s reaction, feeling a smug sense of satisfaction when the brunette’s eyes widen and her eyebrows rise abruptly. She looks completely scandalised.
Clarke doesn’t give her time to retort, rolling her window up and turning to face the road once more. As soon as the lights turn green, she puts her foot on the gas and peels away smoothly into the distance, flipping the woman off as she goes.
Clarke smiles to herself. She may be covered in coffee. She may have no make-up on. She may be running late for work but at least she’s one-upped a stranger. That one is going firmly in the win column. Sometimes it’s the petty things in life.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Twenty minutes later she’s running into the lobby of Trikru Incorporated. In the two years she’s worked here she’s been late a grand total of once. That’s mostly due to the fact that Indra is the terrifying Director of Operations and a stickler for punctuality. Clarke tries not to piss her off when she can help it because she happens to sort of like her job.
Working for a firm that specialises in advertising may not have been her dream but it pays the bills and she gets to exercise her artistic ability somewhat. It also helps that two of her best friends work here too.
She herself works in Branding; logos, concept art, that sort of thing. Octavia works in visual advertising and Raven...Raven is supposed to ensure that their computers don’t spontaneously blow up. Tech Support is the proper name. Though Clarke suspects the Latina would like to see nothing more than a good controlled explosion or two.
Glancing at her phone, she repeatedly jabs the elevator button for the 6th floor. Its 08:54 meaning that by some small miracle she has six whole minutes to make herself presentable. Glancing down at her coffee soaked attire she thinks that might be asking too much.
As soon as the elevator stops at her floor she’s flying out of it, making a beeline for her desk as fast as her legs will carry her. She can see Octavia at the desk beside hers which means Indra hasn’t called them into the meeting yet.
She flings herself into her office chair with a heavy thud. Breathe. She just needs a few seconds of quiet to breathe and everything will be fine.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Octavia questions, scrutinising her appearance. “You look like hell.”
“Yeah, good morning to you too,” Clarke says dryly, reaching for Octavia’s cup of coffee. “The short answer is I went out last night and slept in.”
She takes a large gulp of the coffee and hums gratefully, not caring that it burns her throat slightly on the way down.
Octavia grins mischievously. “Yeah, I got your snapchats. Still doesn’t explain why you’re covered in,” she leans forward and sniffs, “vanilla latte?”
“Iced,” Clarke confirms grimly. “It’s a long story involving a near collision and some uppity rich bitch. I’ll fill you in later.”
Octavia nods. “Sounds intriguing,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “So are you ready for the meeting?”
Clarke frowns at her over the top of the cup. “Why wouldn’t I be? We have the same boring departmental meeting every Monday morning. All Indra’s gonna do is rant about the Polaris Bid again.”
Polaris is a global chain of luxury hotels. They were going out to tender – looking for a company to totally rebrand their image with something fresh before they opened their newest hotel in Dubai in the New Year. That meant new logos, a new website, new advertisements...new everything. Trikru would have to put a bid together and present it to the board within two months. It was going to be a lot of hard work.
It just so happened that for this bid they would be competing with their biggest rival, Azgeda Industries, for the privilege. The tender process would start on Friday and Indra frankly wouldn’t shut up about it.
Octavia shook her head. “No, Clarke. Today’s meeting is when she’s gonna announce Titus’s replacement. You know, our new boss? I sent you a text this morning to remind you, didn’t you get it?”
Clarke frowned. No, she hadn’t had time to read the message but at least that explained why she’d been so fixated the date earlier. Indra had been on about replacing Titus for months ever since he was discovered slipping information to Azgeda. It only made sense that they’d hire a new head of Branding before the bid happened.
To tell the truth, the branding team had quite enjoyed managing themselves for the past couple of weeks. In her opinion they would be just fine without another chump in a suit to dictate their work to them. Did she dislike her job? No, it was fine. But did she take every opportunity to slack off when she wasn’t properly supervised? Absolutely. Who wouldn’t?
“Do we know anything about the replacement?” Clarke asked, draining the last of the coffee.
Octavia shrugged. “Not much. Raven saw her earlier. Apparently she’s from the New York office. Rae said she was hot.”
Clarke snorted. “Raven doesn’t know dick. She thinks everyone’s hot. Last night she- ouch!”
Clarke scowls and rubs the back of her head. She spins around in her chair to see the aforementioned girl stood right behind her brandishing a rolled up magazine.
“Griffin, I hope you’re not telling lies about me,” she smirks before leaning against the desk. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
Raven shoots Octavia a sly wink and Clarke watches on as the shorter brunette’s cheeks turn an impressive shade of pink.
“Whatever. I don’t need to tell lies to sully your reputation,” Clarke dismisses with a wave of her hand. “O says you’ve seen the new head of Branding. Spill it.”
Raven’s eyes immediately light up. “Yeah I saw her sign in. She was talking to the hot angry one from Legal. Anya . You know the one with the cheekbones?”
Clarke nods.
“Anyway they looked pretty friendly,” Raven continues. “Like they looked like they knew each other.”
This information makes her pessimistic. Anya is renowned for being a total hard ass who runs a very tight ship down in legal. If this new woman is anything like her then Clarke doubts she’s in for a whole bunch of fun. She also doesn’t miss the way Octavia scowls and her eyes darken at the mention of the Anya’s name. Though she suspects that’s for a different reason entirely.
“And yes,” Raven says, leaning forward to cup Clarke’s cheeks. “New girl is incredibly attractive in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t,” Clarke protests, batting her hands away.
“Sure. Sure Griffin,” Raven smirks. “Anyway I’d better head up to 7,” she says, pushing herself off the desk. “Sinclair says the copier up there is malfunctioning which means some idiot has done something they shouldn’t have again. Catch you nerds later.”
As soon as Raven’s gone Clarke spots Indra stalking across the far length of the office towards the glass-fronted meeting room. The older woman makes eye contact with both her and Octavia and then signals for them to come through.
Clarke swallows hard and gets to her feet, trying in vain to smooth out the wrinkles in her coffee stained shirt. Indra’s definitely going to tear her a new one for this.
“Here, take this,” Octavia says, shrugging off her blazer. “You’re taller than me so the arms might be a little short but it should cover the worst of the stain.”
Clarke beams as she accepts the garment and hurriedly tugs it on.
“Thanks so much, O. You’re the best,” Clarke cries, leaning forward to kiss her friend on the cheek.
“Don’t mention it,” Octavia shrugs. “You can repay me by telling me all about your hellish morning over lunch. I love your stories, Griffin. The most weird shit always seems to happen to you.”
Clarke would be inclined to agree.
“Deal,” Clarke nods. “Now let’s get into the meeting before that vein in Indra’s forehead finally blows and kills us all.”
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Bored. Clarke was so very bored. There was no other word for it.
The meeting had only been underway for around 15 minutes but already she could feel her eyelids starting to droop. Just as she’s suspected, Indra was ranting on and on about the Polaris bid and how important it would be for the company and how failure was ‘absolutely not an option.’
Clarke herself had long since zoned out, choosing instead to doodle on her notepad. She was halfway through drawing the Gryffindor Lion when she felt a sharp jab in the ribs from Octavia and turned to scowl at her friend. Octavia scowled back and raised her eyebrows pointedly to the front of the room.
Clarke whipped her head around to see Indra regarding her with a look of distain. Clarke gulped nervously and gave the Operations Director the best innocent smile she could. Indra’s expression didn’t change a bit.
“As I was saying, now that I have everyone’s attention,” Indra paused to spare Clarke another glare. “You will all be aware that we have hired a new Head of Branding to lead us through the Polaris bid process. This individual comes to us with a wealth of experience having worked in our New York office for the past five years. She singlehandedly spearheaded the...”
Bla bla bla. Clarke was tuning out again. Truth be told her head was still pounding with the after effects of drinking and she just didn’t have it in her to care. In the background Indra was still droning on and couldn’t she please just be done with this meeting already?
“...so I hope you will all join me in giving a warm welcome to Miss Lexa Woods, your new Head of Branding.”
Now this part Clarke was intrigued about. Raven may have had terrible taste in men (see Kyle Wick) but her taste in women was usually spot on so Clarke was curious to see just what this Lexa Woods looked like.
Casting a sideways glance to Octavia, she slowly looks up from her drawing just as Indra opens the door for their new addition to enter.
When the woman crosses the threshold, Clarke’s breath catches in her throat and she almost chokes on her own saliva. She genuinely feels her heart skip a beat out of sheer panic. There’s no fucking way. This has to be some sort of mistake.
She drops her pencil in surprise and it clatters nosily to the desk in the otherwise silent room. Lexa turns her head sharply and when forest green eyes meet her own deep blue ones she knows there’s no mistake.
This must be karma coming back for her tenfold because the woman she’d flipped off not half an hour ago, nay, the woman she’d told to ‘go fuck herself’ is Lexa Woods. Lexa Woods is the BMW driver. Lexa Woods is her new boss. They are one and the same.
Clarke knows then. Knows that when Lexa’s lips quirk up in an almost imperceptible smirk that the outcome in inevitable. She’s fucked.