@femininenachos @bae-in-maine @syngularitysyn How about this?
Snow sprayed with a swoosh as the boarder slid to a controlled halt, body lean and coiled like a fine-tuned machine. A few stray flakes spattered Clarke’s cheeks and brow, but she ignored them, watching instead as the athlete pivoted to face the scoreboards. Helmet upturned, the woman waited, balancing effortlessly on the board, still and poised but for the rise and fall of her chest.
The results came, blinking bright on the signs above. Clarke squinted against the sun’s chilly, ice-fueled glare. Another flawless run. If she wasn’t careful, she’d have a gold medal at the end of this Games.
Of course, you wouldn’t know that from the competitors lack of reaction. Just a breath, slightly deeper than those previous - a sigh? of relief? of disappointment? - and she bent to unbuckle her feet. Always focused, always stoic. As though it were any training run and not one that just qualified her for the semi-finals. An emblazoned WOODS decorated the back of her uniform. Basic, utilitarian. Function over form. Much like its wearer.
Clarke edged a bit further along the perimeter rope, closer to where Woods began to undo the strap to her helmet.
Woods maintained her usual routine. The rasp of Velcro colored the air as she loosened her gloves.
Clarke had yet to earn a smile. Or elicit any emotion whatsoever in her meager attempts at interaction. A glance on the first day was her only acknowledgement. But today she had backup.
“Cause, y’know, if you do… I’ve got guns.”
Clarke shouldered the rifle, balanced the neck against her bicep and hefted the butt in her hand, maneuvering so the blue and pink hued unicorn design shone clear and bright beneath the noonday sun. Impossible to miss. It was against regulation to have it out of its case when not actively practicing. But for this, she’d risk it.
There was a pause. A pause, and Clarke held her breath.
Woods turned her head, and Clarke wished she’d taken the helmet off so she could read the expression behind the tinted visor. As it was, she only saw tousled blonde hair and an eager smile reflected back at her. God, do I really look like that?
“Puns are the lowest form of humor.”
The muffled voice was higher than she expected, but she hardly had time to register that before Woods busied herself with the board. Her boots crunched into packed snow as she lifted the board vertical, rested an elbow on its edge. Another glance her way, and the helmet and visor came off. Loose tendrils of damp chestnut hair spilled to either side of a face surely meant for magazines rather than chaffy winter air. Of course, at this rate the woman could have both. Already had.
And those eyes. Withstanding the intensity of that gaze ought to be a sport all its own.
“Shoot,” she said, cocking her weight onto one hip. “And I thought I was on to something.”
Was that… Her pulse quickened. Was that a lip twitch?
Green eyes took her in, flitted briefly to her decorative rifle.
That’s what she said. Dammit. God, get your mind out of the gutter.
By now the gloves had come off, and Woods was as open and engaged as Clarke had seen her. Which was to say, still not much, but the interest was promising.
She stepped up to the rope until it pulled taut, offering a hand. “Clarke Griffin. Biathlete. Best of both worlds.”
A brief pause, where Woods studied her, before she too stepped forward and grasped Clarke’s hand. Her palm was warm and dry, slightly calloused. The shake firm without being overbearing. Here was a woman confident enough to have no need to flaunt it.
“Lexa Woods. Snowboarder.” Another pause, and Clarke expected that to be it. Ah, well. Worth a try.
But then those eyes… up close, the green turned almost sage in the reflective light of the snow. They became…inquisitive. “But I imagine that’s obvious,” she continued, gesturing to her outfit and the board at her side.
That was definitely a twitch of the lips. It sent a small thrill across her skin.
“Good run,” Clarke said, nudging her chin toward the scoreboard while letting her rifle slide to the ground. Damn thing was heavy, and if it hadn’t done its job by now, there was no point. “Care for a celebratory drink in the Village?”
Lexa blinked, and some emotion flitted through her eyes, too quickly for Clarke to discern. She glanced away, further down the slope.
Ah, damn, Clarke thought, disappointment drooping her shoulders. She’d read it wrong.
“I don’t know, Clarke.” The way her mouth cut the consonants of her name made Clarke swallow. Lexa met her gaze once more. “I thought by now you’d be out of ammo.”
It took her a beat, gazing unsure into sage green eyes. Was that a…? Lips tugged upwards in a subtle curl, and Clarke laughed. Full and hearty and loud, and Lexa’s answering smile - small yet warm - was enough to steal the rest of her breath.
In the ensuing silence, as she gazed at Lexa and Lexa gazed back, smiles yet to fade, the air turned almost shy without the armor of teasing and laughter. She got a glimpse of something she wasn’t expecting - something searching and soft, something she wanted to see again. But it felt too heavy for a moment out in the open, surrounded by spectators and the slush of packed snow in the harsh wake of competition. So she tucked it away for later, and turned her smile teasing once more.
“Oh, no. I’m very flexible.”
Lexa’s smile never completely faded, just dimmed into a softer glow, like turning down the flame of a lantern. She turned and began making her way down the slope. “We’ll see about that,” she called.
Now on AO3: Snow Your Go.
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