Archive of Our Own ^beta

At 1711, Lexa excused herself outside for a smoke break. There were times where she would simply zone out, and realized, and the struggle of staying clear-headed would get to her. She had been through a war. She didn't quite feel sad for herself, just beleaguered at the idea that she had been given so much to process, and also that she needed to manage rest. She was eternally curious as to why it had to happen to her, and what she should do next with it.

It was times like these where she could only do what came naturally: Her perimeters. Gus always understood why she needed to patrol the exterior of the building to relax, even when she was on break. Lexa would go out and walk her line, and observe, picking out the things that most encouraged her: Two crows working together, using a stick to tease ants from a crack in the pavement. A drifter sitting cross-legged on the pavement, displaying a cardboard sign with a rallying motto. A cryptic message of encouragement scrawled upon a street lamp, or a doorway. Sometimes Lexa would withdraw her phone, and take a picture, even if she was nearly certain she would never be bothered to look at it again. She just took the picture for the simple sake of recording it, for later use, perhaps, which was why she did her job so well. 

Today, she spied a huddle of disheveled gray feathers in the parking lane. She grimaced for the raggedy-looking thing. It was an extremely thin pigeon, its neck pecked raw. It looked too small to be an adult; perhaps it was a baby pushed from the nest before it was quite unable to fend for itself and compete with older, stronger, more well-developed pigeons. It would be put swiftly out of its misery come rush hour, which was drawing close. There were no cameras on the sidewalk or the street. It was technically off the property. Lexa donned her nitrile gloves.

"Hey, homie," She greeted the bird, in the same low, gentle way she would disturb a squatter from their sleep. Intuitively, Lexa knew how to get close enough to the pigeon. She wondered what the bird must be thinking; probably that this would how it would end for him: a predator had spied him in his weakened state and was moving in for an easy meal. The bird hopped and trundled up against the curb, evading her clumsily. 

To demonstrate fascism to a crowd, Stalin once took a chicken and slowly stripped its feathers from its body. He set the bird on the ground, and scattered some feed for it. The bird ate the feed, and huddled, naked, at Stalin's feet. 

This pidgeon kept hopping away. Lexa supposed she liked that. Very quietly, she overtook the bird and scooped it up. "Shhh..." She cradled the bird inward. She was in her shirtsleeves. There was a heatwave rolling through the city. She could not conceal the bird in her blazer. He felt as dying birds often did in her hands; like a miniature chicken carcass. She felt the sharp breastbone; imagined the delicate skin beneath the plumage stretched taut across it. 

A businessman passed her. Their eyes met. He seemed to think it silly, her rescue of Homie. She couldn't really give a fuck. As discreetly as she could, and always avoiding the cameras, she circled to the front of the building. She knew what she was doing. 

"I have to run to my car," She announced quietly to Indra, who was watching the cameras. Indra didn't glance over, as Lexa furtively picked her blazer from the spare chair and tucked the bird into it. Bringing pidgeons into the building, she was well aware, was against the rules. She could get fired. If-- if they were found out. What on earth would Clarke say? Think? Probably exactly that. Whatever. Lawyers did rails of blow in their office and that was definitely more illegal than what she was doing with Homie. Wordlessly, Lexa took the bundle of her blazer to the elevator. There were two lawyers now. 

She punched P6, and followed them casually into the elevator, assuming the corner. They talked about the hot paralegal as though Lexa wasn’t even there. Oh well. So long as they never, ever, ever spoke of Clarke that way, Lexa had larger concerns. Fouling in her freshly dry-cleaned blazer. The males got off at P3 as Lexa sent a text to Clarke.

Lexa Woods @ 1714: Gotta use your car.

Lexa had been bestowed the spare keys to Clarke's car, in case Clarke ever were to lock herself out of it again. Sometimes, Lexa also used Clarke's car to nap, or meditate. They had in the back seat a spare crate outfitted with a towel and a spill-proof bowl of water, for when they took Titus hiking on their time off. A perfect setup, one might say. 

Clarke Griffin @ 1714: K have a good relax, babe. 

Lexa Woods @ 1714: Yep.

She would, in a sense. The pigeon had, after all, been sent to relax her. He would relax in the crate, and hopefully drink some water from the bowl. Lexa imagined the heat wave had left the bird severely dehydrated. She had found him near no source of water, and she had seen pidgeons struggle to drink puddle water as she smoked. The smart ones knew a trick of dunking a piece of bread into the puddle, then gobbling the soggy mixture down to hydrate themselves. 

Reaching the car, Lexa unlocked it, opening the crate in the back and carefully transferring Homie into his quarantine facility. If Lexa could be certain of anything (and Homie was far from the first bird she had rescued-- He was not even the first bird she had risked her job for) it was that Homie most likely had worms, or parasites. She would have to be diligent. 

Satisfied for the moment, Lexa shut the door to the cage, then opened the front driver door and went clambering about the seats until she found what she sought: A forgotten box of donut holes Clarke had bought, undoubtedly with the intent of ingratiating herself to her coworkers. Perfect. Choosing an old-fashioned plain, Lexa brought it back to the crate and cracked the door to the crate open once more. She dunked the donut into the bowl of water and left it to soak. Good enough for now.

"May I deejay," Lexa asked, subtle anxiety in her voice. Clarke hoped it was concern for her, but it could just as well be for the welfare of the pigeon housed in the back seat of her car. The blonde liked to think that Lexa cared for them at least equally in this moment. And also, that Lexa cared for the interior of her car. She had just gotten it detailed.

"You want your Biggie?" Clarke responded as she steered them around the central column of the parkade. This earned her a shake of Lexa's head. The brunette scrolled as Clarke focused on not clipping her bumper on one of the concrete pillars. Made that mistake once. Lexa scrolled until satisfied, setting her phone on the mount. Gentle strains of Bach, played on a classical guitar, filled the cab. Clarke recognized it as Andres Segovia. Her dad had loved Segovia. She looked inquiringly to Lexa, who she understood to be strictly all about rap.

"To relax me, there needs to be words. Hence the rap. I keep the Segovia for Titus."

Fair enough. The poor pigeon rustled around in the backseat as they exited the parkade into the light of the sunset. Lexa twisted, grabbing a towel and throwing it over the cage.

"So, what's the plan, here?" Clarke wanted to know. "You've got yourself a new pet, or something?"

"I'll let him go," Lexa said. "He will come back if my place is his home."

"Alright, birdman," Clarke laughed gently.

"I'll punch you the thuck out if you toush my pigeon," Lexa lisped, impersonating Mike Tyson rather poorly. It was enough to make Clarke giggle geniuinely.

"I'll ban you from my car, and the pidgeon, too."

"His name is Homie, Clark-- Their name is Homie." It was hilarious to watch Lexa struggle over pronouns, when it came to birds. With people, Lexa would always commit the pronoun to memory, even if she couldn't recall the person's name.

"I like that you went with a less gendered name than Mike," Clarke chuckled. Lexa jabbed her with a finger.

"Mike is philosophical. There might be more than one of Mike," Lexa reminded her. "Anyways." Lexa usually strove to keep the topics light while in the car. The two were well capable of driving themselves to the distraction of all else when they began to play around and joke. "Were you surprised that I would keep a bird?"

"In my car, Lexa? That's a 'yes'."

Lexa ducked her head apologetically, but she was smiling. "People make a big deal of it, that I have pet birds at work," she noted. "Security people get it, back-of-house people get it, ex-con people get it, homeless people get it... And everyone else looks at me like I'm from Mars, or something..."

"Where do you think you’re from?" Clarke asked.

“Okay.”