AN: This came to me at the end of my S2 binge watch in December. I'm in this fic for the long haul and promise that you won't be disappointed. I will be including trigger/content warnings at the beginning of chapters but firstly, I must give overarching warnings for this fic.

TW/CW: substance abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), graphic depictions of violence, blood, unhealthy coping mechanisms, snakes, paranoia/social anxiety, depressive episodes, past trauma.

I do hope you enjoy this work if you are willing to continue despite the warnings given. Feel free to contact me with questions or to share your love for the fandom. Please comment and subscribe for new chapter updates! x Pierce

In the End (will I find an ending with you?)

Chapter 1

Yet another order comes through wrong and Lexa doesn't think she has the patience or the coffee supply to handle the bigotry and backhanded insults being flung at her over the phone. So many distributing companies only veneered themselves with claims that they respect the value of physical albums. In reality, they only pander to the top tier businesses that invest in more than just CDs and vinyl. The digital age shops that have no physical storefront to maintain. And worse yet, they are all men with music tastes as narrow and short as their pricks.

"You are missing the point!" Lexa snaps. It's already more than an hour into the conversation-argument really-and she's incapable of restraining her ire. "The money was paid for the order and the packaging slip state all vinyls are accounted for but the inventory doesn't match up. Which means you need to send me the missing items free of charge."

The man on the other end of the line sniffs so loudly into his receiver that the woman can nearly smell the condescension where she sits in her closet-sized office. "Ma'am, the items you claim aren't there were accounted for when packaged and shipped. If you want to place another order, I'm happy to connect you with our-"

"No. You know what? I'm sick of this bullshit. I'll call back when you aren't working so I can get someone reasonable to speak with." The corded phone of her business landline clatters back on the base and Lexa jerks to her feet as she rubs her hands down her face. She needs a smoke. Or five. She'll decide that when she gets out of her hellhole office.

Striding out into the narrow hall at the back of the shop, the brunette enters the main floor with narrowed eyes and her pack of Marlboro Red Label held in one hand, the vintage lighter in her other. Out of the corner of her eye she notices a blonde head rummaging through records but her gaze only holds steady on the woman behind the register.

The dark gaze takes one look at her boss and shakes her head. "Those pricks aren't going to do us any favours."

"Fat chance." Lexa leaves it at that as she shoves the shop door open, jaw clenching hard enough for her molars to grind in her ears at the sound of the guitar riffs that strum out to announce her departure. She hears her own voice in her head the day she had it installed: Door chimes are too dull for this establishment. Right now, that cheeky idea feels like the worst investment she ever made.

Combat boots clomp on cement as the sole proprietor of Polis Vinyl turns into the alley beside her painstakingly earned shop and throws herself bodily against the brick siding. Her thoughts burn trails through her brain, envisioning what sort of revenge she could take on the companies shortchanging her. All the while her fingers go through the ingrained motor memory of drawing out a cigarette, settling it against her lips and lighting it up. It's only after four deep inhales and heavy exhales of smoke later that Lexa feels some of the fury inside her dull from a roar to a growl.

Indra continues to tell her that her smoking habit would lead her to an early grave. That the cost of her addiction to booze and cigs would do the business in long before the musicians gave up on producing physical copies of their albums. Lexa claims the cigarettes lead her to her decision. Kept her up at night so she could discover the necessity of opening her own store. Music is life. And that life is what has kept Lexa alive for twenty four years. So what if a pack of smokes shaves off a bit at the end. She'd be homicidal without smoking. More violent. Trapped in a more vicious cycle she'd promised not to repeat.

It's as she lights her second smoke right off the first that she hears the shop door open and the guitar riff sounds. The green-eyed owner glances up at the sound of footsteps growing louder and watches as a blonde woman strides past the alley with a bag from Polis clutched to her chest. Lexa stares, wondering why the woman holds so tightly to her purchase, and in her curiosity, fails to look away before the blonde lifts her gaze. Blue eyes meet green and it's only a moment-the awkward realisation of meeting gazes-but the blonde smiles at her. Lexa only nods her head before turning away.

Why does she smile? A brilliant smile. Bright and open. Sharing. It baffles Lexa. She's well aware that her outward appearance gives people room to question and fear her. Skin-tight black leather pants with chains hooked through straps at her hips. Combat boots lacing up her calves. A shredded grey band tee laid over a black long-sleeve top. Her eyes rimmed heavily black and lips left pale. Piercings gleaming from several parts of her body, some stretched beyond accepted limits. Yet the blonde smiles at her. A blonde blue-eyed young woman who shared none of the same fashion tastes in her briefly-glimpsed attire.

With a heavy drag on her second cigarette, Lexa stares at the litter-strewn ground. Bet she's a customer who didn't get the album she wanted thanks to the fuck up with the latest shipment. Or the one previous to that.

Lexa flicks the butt of the smoke once it's through and tells herself she still has a business to run. She can't sustain a third chain smoke. So she kicks at a used can of a redbull as she turns and strides back to her shop with green eyes, blonde hair, and bright smiles wavering between the ire of her recent phone call.

"The girl that was just in here," Indra intones the moment Lexa steps foot back inside the dimly lit shop, "says she'll be back later this week. She wants you to give suggestions on some new artists she should listen to."

Lexa blinks as one of her dark eyebrows arches upward. "What taste?"

"Metal. Looked like the more they screamed, the more she was interested."

The other brow jumps skyward to meet the other as Lexa blinks again. "Interesting."

Indra nods as she strides out from behind the counter and heads into the stacks to see if the customer had misarranged the vinyls in that section. Lexa stands there for a moment as she reconciles the bright smile, simple yet well dressed clothing she glimpsed in those brief moments, and then shakes her head. People and their music interests can always surprise. She certainly isn't one who would judge.

"I'll be in the back sacrificing a goat to the corporate asswipes who won't give us what we deserve. Scream if you need me." Indra never screams. Her voice rarely raises. It's why Lexa only hired her to work with her. One of the reasons, at least.

Indra doesn't look up from where her fingers make quick work of alphabetising the vinyl records. "Whatever you say, Commander."

Lexa gets to the employees only door that leads to the back where the storage, break room, and Lexa's office are located. Just as her hand lands on the door handle, Indra speaks up once more.

"Lexa, you do remember that you agreed to interview Octavia Blake today, yes?"

The shorter brunette lets her eyes fall closed for a moment without turning around. She'd forgotten. But instead, she answers, "Of course. Three p.m."

"Yes."

Green eyes jump to the steampunk face of her watch. It's already after two in the afternoon. "Then I suppose I'll save the goat sacrifice until after. Can't scare this Blake girl off too soon."

Lexa doesn't have to look back to her most trusted friend. She feels the eye roll and amused smirk coming from Indra pressing into her shoulderblades. Just like she can feel that she's going to need another six cups of coffee and perhaps a shot of bourbon to get through the rest of the tasks for the day. This Octavia better turn out to be promising. Indra's approval means a lot but Lexa doesn't trust just anyone to work under her authority.

"I'm not making you any promises, Olivia."

"Octavia, ma'am."

Lexa looks up from the resume. It's rather sparse but Indra said it would be. A grimace passes over the woman's expression before she responds, "Octavia. I'll commit your name to memory if you refrain from ever calling me ma'am again. Deal?"

"Deal." A hint of an amused grin tugs at one corner of the girl's lips.

"Like I said. No promises. I'm picky and this isn't the type of job where you're going to meet famous musicians or spend time listening to records and tossing back shots after hours. It's incredibly dull. The biggest busy period comes when you have to do battle with the dust motes and mop the floors." Lexa leans back with a sigh. "But I understand the sort of position you're in. Indra helped me so I should be willing to do the same for you."

The small office lapses into silence as Lexa lets her gaze sweep over the young woman before her. She's likely a year or two younger than herself. Her skin is on the pale side, but she seems healthy. Strong. Bright eyes looking to prove herself. The slight upward cant to her chin tells Lexa everything she wants to know. Octavia has fought for her identity and will keep doing what it takes to make her way in the world. It's the same spirit Indra had seen in Lexa and it's satisfying to see a similar energy in another woman now.

Lexa sets the resume down. "Come back tomorrow to fill out some paperwork."

The girl jumps to her feet, eyes suffused with the promise of something new but she bites her lip to stop any cheer or wild declaration from breaking free. Lexa appreciates the show of restraint. Instead, the owner is quick to wave her hand toward the door. "Go do something to celebrate. Let Indra know. I'm sure she'll be pleased."

The door falls closed behind her as Lexa turns away from the resume and the thought of having a new employee to train and pay. A new risk right in her domain. A person she doesn't know how to receive into her carefully-preserved small world. Her fingers seek out the handle of the lowest drawer on her desk, yanking it open to reveal several bottles of liquor. The glass bodies clank against each other with the motion of the drawer. There's no method to her selection. Fingers curl around the neck of one of them, draws it out, and unscrews the cap. Lexa's throat burns as she knocks back a swig straight from the bottle's opening. In the back of her mind, she wonders what kind of demons Octavia had been running from when she hit the streets.

After jotting a few notes down on a post-it, Lexa pushes herself out of her office chair and clicks off the overhead light. The glow of her clock resting in the corner tells her it's about time she call it a day and find her way home. The long list of things to do could wait another day. No doubt Indra will have accomplish several of them by tomorrow afternoon. Lexa feels the cacoon of her apartment calling her.

The journey home isn't a far one. Stepping out into the narrow hall, Lexa turns away from the doorway that opens onto the lobby floor. Instead she takes the other door at the back end. Locked. The key easily works through the tumbler and frees her to enter a narrow staircase leading up to the second floor above her business front. Lexa clicks the lock back into place behind her, along with two other deadbolts and a chain lock slipped into its safety groove. Then she lets out a soft sigh and trudges up the stairs with the bottle of liquor she'd chosen still clutched in one hand.

The small apartment space smells faintly of old cigarette smoke, burnt cheese from the last time she tried to cook, and lingering air freshener; it did less to mask the burnt cheese than just mixing in and making a complicated scent. It's not that Lexa doesn't care to make her home smell nice. The reality is that the smells remind her that it's her own place. Her own safe haven. She's not choking on the smell of chanel perfume and hairspray. No pinesol or baby powder coating the inside of her nasal passages until she's certain she's inhaling more fumes than oxygen. Those unfortunate aromas are things of the past.

The mattress shoved into the corner is a lumpy comfort, draped with a heather grey comforter and a jaggedly sewn patchwork quilt. Fat pillows in different shapes and sizes litter the bed space while a torn curtain hangs from the ceiling over it like a poor man's canopy. To some, it may seem pathetic; a temporary fix for the proper thing. But to Lexa, it's perfect. It's hers. Cozy and different. Just how she wants it.

It's clean, even if it's sparse and eclectically decorated. She can't stand clutter. Even when she's shitfaced drunk, she'll pick up after herself haphazardly. Call it a side effect of her upbringing. She'd tried for a long time to be messy out of spite, but it hadn't lasted long before the gnawing anxiety got the better of her and her bones went on autopilot to correct her mistake. At least she never worries about tripping over boots.

Lexa flips on the lights hanging from exposed pipes before sliding onto a stool and bringing the bottle of rum back to her lips for another gulp. Another burn. Another moment of chasing away her crowded thoughts.

"Hey there, Gus," she greets with a toast of her bottle toward him. Her green eyes glance over Gustus where he lies exposed.

His scales gleam from under the fluorescent bulb that lights up his tank. A beautiful Blood Python in his custom vivarium setup. Lexa smiles at him as he presses his face to the side of the glass and she stands, the bottle remaining on the bar countertop. Her gaze jumps quickly through the things she's become accustomed to checking; humidity, ambient temperatures, fecal droppings, skin shed. All is well. Lexa may have skimped on certain aspects of her living quarters but she makes certain Gustus lives in snake luxury.

Peering at him through the glass as she moves into his direct line of sight, she offers, "I'll get you out soon. Let me just grab something to eat and a quick shower, then you can help me pick out what music we should listen to."

It turns out something to eat is little more than a jar of hummus and cheese crackers. But it will do. She doesn't need much. Her form of dinner comes with her out onto the fire escape outside her window so that she can take a smoke. With a few drags of the cigarette between bites of food and sips of rum, Lexa doesn't think over anything. Her mind skates. Forcibly so. She'll get the shipment replacement for the records, even if she winds up dishing more money out for it. Octavia isn't likely to disappoint. Smiling blondes will pass by with music choices leaning toward unorthodox. No calls from her sister recently. Gus will need to be fed this weekend. Each thought dips in, clinging for a moment or two before working its way back out of her mind. Her therapist would have said she keeps herself on the surface, skimming instead of diving. Lexa thinks skimming feels just grand. More importantly, skimming keeps her safe. Sane.

But skimming only holds sway for so long. It's in the shower that it comes for her.

Hot water streams down her back, parting ways over her shoulders. The calm surface of her mind shifts so suddenly that Lexa doesn't have time to realise the quicksand it becomes before she's staring wide-eyed, breath laboured as it gets stuck in her chest.

Blood.

It's everywhere. A sticky coat that covers her chest, dripping off her hands as the coagulation breaks down from between her fingers and swirls away in the drain. Gulping down the thickness in her throat, Lexa scrubs hard at her hands, desperate to rid herself of the darkness clinging beneath her fingernails. Her legs feel weak as the heat of her shower begins to crowd around her, stifling instead of comforting.

"No, go away," she whispers, fingers scraping each other, dragging over her stained palms as the water of her shower clings to her lashes. "Please, stop. I didn't-I had to. Fuck-stop." Her eyes squeeze shut against the sight. She can't breathe. She can't cope.

And as fast as it came on, the sight is gone. Her trembling fingers are perfectly clean. Nothing stuck to the edges of her cuticles. There's no viscous redness staining her bare chest. All is water and nearly invisible tendrils of steam. Perfectly safe, entirely harmless to her. It's gone. A haunting vision and nothing more. Nothing more.

Lexa releases a shaky breath as she reaches through the curtain to grab at the rum resting atop her toilet's back tank. Another two gulps down her throat helps to blast through the tightness. Burning bright as it warm her gut and chases away the fine tremor in her veins. "Nothing more. Nothing less. I'm fine."

When she steps out of her shower, clean if not refreshed, Lexa wraps a towel around herself and pads out of the small bathroom without looking at herself. She makes quick work of drying off and dressing in a pair of pyjama pants and an oversized shirt. Back to skimming. Back to surface thoughts. Back to drinking to chase away memories. She's fine.

They don't happen often anymore. She's set up so many safety measures to keep them from dragging her under. Indra doesn't agree with the choice to drown the noises buzzing in her head with a bit too much liquor but it's better than the alternatives. Gustus' presence and the sounds of music filling her apartment help a great deal. Lexa draws Gus out of his tank from the front sliding glass door and takes a moment to appreciate the strong pull of muscle rippling over her skin as he makes himself comfortable on her arm, head searching for a new place to rest. Smooth scales shift as nature intended as he moves. Turning to the metal spray-painted boxes on top of her dresser, she holds him out.

"First, which genre, hm?"

Gustus wavers over the boxes, the tensile strength present in how he can hold his upper body aloft in the air without once making himself victim to the temptation of gravity's pull. Then he slides further out away from Lexa's outstretched arm and settles atop the box labeled 'Classical'.

Green eyes brighten as she steps forward and lifts the lid. "Good choice."

Then she watches as he moves across the records that lie inside until he stops long enough to flick his tongue over one record. Once, twice-when he's stayed in that place and smelled the vinyl sleeve five times, Lexa nods as she fingers him back up to rest him against her shoulder. With her freed hands, she pulls the sleeve out and holds it up to the light.

"Dvorak's Symphony No. 9-the Berlin Philharmonic performance." With a nod, Lexa carries her reptilian friend over to the record player and sets the vinyl onto its post. Turning on the machine-a modern adaptation to the original music player-she passes the needle to the very edge to play the entire vinyl from the beginning. She inches the volume up until it just edges out her thoughts, giving her space to breathe freely.

With a small smile, she hears the effortless blend of the winds, strings, and percussion coalesce as she sweeps around her apartment. Another pass of alcohol down her throat and a hand brushing over the scales of Gustus, Lexa settles herself to the floor beside her bed, tugging a broad hardcover book out from under the mattress. The drawer to her nightstand holds a cluttered collection of supplies and the young woman begins to destroy a fresh page of the creative journal as the trumpets sounds in the opening Adagio. The python, all eight feet of him, moves slowly over her arm and down to the floor. Lexa reminds herself that this is one of the reasons she meticulously cleans the floors as she does. Her man can't explore if the wooden floor is littered with dust for him to inhale and get sick from. She lets him meander toward her bed. Of course. He wants the warm blankets and she lets him.

By the end of the night, as dawn creeps on the horizon, Lexa will be blissfully intoxicated with another page of glue and paper, tape and coloured drawings filling in the gaps between the mashed collages she creates. An outlet she always embraces but has become rather dependent on in the last several years.

Being haunted sometimes leaves her drained, but she manages.

Three different alarms blare through Lexa's ear canals at eight a.m. Letting out a groan, she throws an arm over her eyes as the cacophony of sounds persist. Alarm one comes from her cellphone that she knows she set on its charging dock even drunk. Little powerful speakers wail with the siren so familiar to the Silent Hill franchise. Alarm two sounds from across the studio space where a cheap alarm clock trills the classic beeping, sitting on the window ledge. The third comes from the kitchen counter. Another clock, this one the ringing of bells from the metal contraption she'd paid five dollars to have someone fix. The third alarm beckons her toward the kitchen where her coffee maker has already been pre-programmed and sends a wafting scent of delicious coffee grounds through the apartment, warmed and ready for her.

"I'm up!" she calls as she throws herself out of the bed, snatching her phone and turning the first off as she pads up to Gus' tank. Good. He peeks out from his hide at the racket and Lexa smirks. Even at her most intoxicated moments, she always makes certain to put her precious things away so they're safe.

She smacks the second alarm into silence before moving into the kitchen space and resetting the third. As she does, she yanks the carafe from its port and draws down a clean mug from the cabinet. In seconds, she has her java ready, steaming tendrils curling up from the cup's dark surface. Just the smell itself helps Lexa feel more awake and as she carries the morning pick-me-up out to her fire escape perch to cool as she lights a morning smoke and reminds herself what she has to do at work today.

Octavia. Paperwork. Business calls for more records they should have already been sent in the first place.

She sends her words through the cracked window into her apartment. "Gus, you can go down to work for me today. I'll be the snake friend today and lounge around. How 'bout that?"

There's no response from the reptile's tank and Lexa doesn't expect one. Instead she sighs before snubbing out the butt of her cigarette in the ashtray and picks up her cup of coffee, sipping it as she moves inside toward the array of dressers that do not match. It's far easier getting dressed for work when she's the owner and makes the rules. No need for stiff collars and pant suits or a retail uniform; no holes, no crazy colours. Lexa takes another long sip of the scalding coffee before she draws out her outfit for the day and carries them to the screened off changing space she set up. In minutes, she's dressed and ready to begin another day of business.

Once she's left her loft and locked the door behind her, Lexa drops the cup of coffee off on her desk before walking out to the floor where Indra already stands watch at the counter. At her boss' appearance, the woman looks up, taking stock of the shorter of the two.

"How much sleep did you get?"

Lexa meets Indra's gaze with a flat expression. "Enough."

Her friend shakes her head as she retorts, "If your liver or lungs don't kill you first, the lack of sleep will do you in."

"I'll pencil it into my schedule." Lexa's dry response draws a sigh from Indra but the conversation-an old one they've had far too many times-gets cut short as the door sends the familiar guitar chords into the air and Octavia Blake appears. She holds two travel cups aloft with a wide smile.

"I thought I'd bring you both some coffee," she clarifies.

Lexa just stares as the girl steps up to the counter and sets one down before Indra, holding the other out to her. "Decaf skim latte with one pump of vanilla," she nods to Indra's cup, "and black with tons of sugar."

Reaching into her pocket she draws out a few more packets as she adds, "I brought more if it's not enough. Indra just said it has to a lot but that's not much to go off of."

"Thank you, Octavia." Indra picks up her own cup but doesn't immediately drink from the small opening. Instead her dark eyes remain trained on Lexa. The owner of the record store stares at the coffee cup, expression unreadable to the girl offering it up. Octavia frowns, shifting uneasily as silence descends.

Indra's voice breaks through, soft but firm. "It's safe."

Releasing a breath she hadn't realise she'd been holding, Lexa reaches out and takes the cup. When her green eyes finally move to Octavia, she sees the young woman's brow furrowed with unspoken questions. "Don't try so hard," she offers before turning on her heel and walking toward the employee door. "Come. You have forms to fill out."

But she doesn't miss the slight fall of the other woman's expression. Disappointment. Get used to it, she thinks to herself.

The paperwork doesn't take long to get through. Lexa's biggest concern had been that Octavia's lack of stable residence would mean that things like her address and social security number would be lost. She had been prepared for the possibility but the young woman seemed capable of jumping those hurdles all on her own. All pertinent information comes without incident. The only line of tension had come from Octavia's frequent glances at the store-ordered coffee cup resting at Lexa's elbow, cooling untouched. But she only had to look at her new boss to see that the hard green gaze offers no answer. The owner shows no interest in explaining her reason behind not embracing the offered drink.

Lexa collects Octavia's completed forms with a sharp nod, setting them beside her desktop computer before standing and waving for the young woman to follow her out of the office. "The forms will go into the system and I will contact you by the end of the week with your tentative schedule after looking over your availability and receiving the turnaround on your background check."

A flash of anxiety flickers over Octavia's face at the mention of a background check and Lexa carefully turns away as she adds in an even tone, "All a formality. I am aware of your background in a broad sense and I doubt I will come across something that bars you from working for me."

As the two of them re-enter the main floor, Lexa hears the girl let out a soft sigh. It doesn't come as a surprise. They've all been in similar situations. It's one of the reasons she agreed to take Octavia Blake on. Lexa had once been there and will do what she can in her capacity as a business owner to provide others the chance to get on their feet. Giving Indra a nod that conveys all she needs to know, Lexa stops at the register counter and bids Octavia farewell.

Just as the girl steps up to the door to head out, a flash of blonde hair appears in the shop window reaching out to pull the door of the shop open just as Octavia gives it a push outward.

"Oh sorry!" The blonde immediately offers before blinking where she stands in the doorway. "Octavia? Goodness, it's been awhile, how are you!"

Lexa doesn't miss the wide smile. Similar to the one she'd seen on the young woman before. This time directed at Octavia who offers a smile back. "I'm good, Clarke. Sorry we haven't seen each other. Bell and I finally found a place. He got a job at Ark and Co. so we've mostly been settling in."

"That's excellent news." While the woman, Clarke, seems genuinely pleased, Lexa spots a hint of self-satisfaction in blue eyes. "And what about you?"

Octavia's gaze turns over her shoulder to take in Indra and Lexa where they stand. Clarke's gaze follows as the dark-haired new hire answers, "I believe I just got a position working here, actually."

This time, the broad smile on Clarke's face loses the self-satisfaction and beams with pride and approval. "It's a perfect fit for you, O. Maybe you'll be able to show me some good bands once you've gotten familiar with the place."

The happy reunion begins to get under Lexa's skin. Patience thinning. It's not as if she needs to be present and she turns to head back toward the office. She needs to harass the company responsible for yanking their chain over missing records. A stronger show of muscle likely in order. Indra can play sitter to the customer. Except the moment Lexa attempts to make her exit, the blonde calls out.

"Wait!" When Lexa glances over her shoulder, she sees Clarke pull Octavia into a quick hug before ushering herself inside the shop with blue eyes trained on the proprietor. She comes to stop before Lexa with a hesitant smile now, shifting on her feet as she adds, "Sorry. I came here hoping to catch you specifically. I'm Clarke. I was in here yesterday and I was hoping I could get your help with some music choices."

Lexa turns back fully, biting her tongue against a sigh though she doesn't hold back the irritation from her expression. When she spares Indra a glance, the woman shrugs and answers the unspoken question. "Not my genre of expertise."

Green eyes swivel back to hold blue and Lexa considers Clarke as a whole. Nothing screams metalhead. A light blue blouse that brings out the shades and dimension in her ocean irises, khaki trousers, and a pair of brown leather boots. Neiman Marcus if she's not mistaken, with a heel to put the blonde slightly taller than Lexa herself. Her appearance stands as a stark contrast to Lexa's personal choice in attire.

"Looking for gifts for the metal head in your life?"

The question is a reasonable one. Often they receive customers who fly in, flustered over having no idea what to gift a friend or loved one with contrary music tastes to them. Yet Clarke's face lights up with amusement, her eyes creasing in the corners as her lips tug upward and she lets out a bold laugh. Shaking her head, Clarke finally quiets her laughter to reply, "No. But you're not the first to jump to that conclusion."

As she adds further explanation, her gaze becomes furtive, as if she's imparting a secret that she hopes the two other occupants of the room will keep to themselves. "You see, I never thought I'd like loud thrashing screamo music. But I've found it helps me work, helps me create better than my usual tunes. I just discovered it a few months ago and-well-I don't have anyone to go to who knows the genre and can suggest new artists that will work for what I need."

One of Lexa's dark brows arches at the admission. What a minute ago was an obligation to assist a customer becomes more of a personal intrigue. How did a woman like Clarke discover she worked best with guttural screaming lyrics and heavy chords and drums? Not to mention, how is this put together blonde associated with someone like Octavia and her brother? What did Clarke have to do with Bellamy's new job? Because that fleeting gleam in the blonde's face suggested she'd been involved in some way. Lexa would bet her personal vinyl collection on it.

Lexa gives a tilt of her head, inclined toward the rows of albums laid out; a silent invitation for Clarke to follow her as she turns and makes her way toward the back corner where the punk and metalcore genres are organised.

The amount of genuine curiosity and interest Clarke takes in learning about the different bands and musicians makes the job of curating specific records for the blonde far more enjoyable than Lexa anticipated. Each album sleeve the connoisseur holds up, confident in her selection, is taken up by enthusiastic fingers-well manicured though sporting a few smudges along the knuckles and palms.

"I think I'll start with these four for now," Clarke insists, though her gaze rakes over the others Lexa had laid out in suggestion. It's clear that she would snatch them all up if she could. "I can't splurge too much starting out."

"Of course." Lexa nods before she turns away from the rack of vinyls to give her attention fully to her receptive customer. "Although I had been under the impression you wouldn't be coming back to ask for my assistance until next week. Not the next day."

Clarke has the decency to look chagrin as she offers, "I thought I wouldn't either but I have a big project to present this weekend and I haven't finished it. I figured the sooner I could get new music, the better I would do on it."

Lexa inclines her head in understanding as the blonde grins and adds, "And you've been a huge help. So thank you. I'll likely be a regular of yours, if you don't mind the deluge of questions."

"I don't mind," Lexa returns. Though her lips only twitch upward for a second, the truth of her words shines in her green gaze. "It's refreshing."

Clarke's grin widens into a bright smile. The same that had caught Lexa off guard the day before when it had been directed at her in passing. It makes the woman blink now. It's a stunning smile, one that glows with genuine depth of emotion and appreciation for others. It's a heady thing to have aimed on her and Lexa looks away to avoid its scalding warmth.

"Also." The blonde's shift in tone draws Lexa's gaze again. Clarke's expression soft and eyes penetrating deeper than the proprietor feels comfortable with. "I wanted to thank you for what you're doing for Octavia. After all that she's been through, I'm glad you've given her a chance to make something of herself."

Another blink. A furrowing of dark brows. Lexa stares hard at Clarke, trying to read in her demeanor, the flow of respect and appreciation in her bottomless blue eyes. "How do you know Octavia?"

It's Clarke's turn to look away, breaking the moment with a shrug. "She and I used to go to high school together. We've always been close, even when things weren't easy."

It's a sign for Lexa to stop asking questions. There's no reason to pry. It's not her place to know if Clarke is unwilling to offer up more than her vague explanation. But it doesn't stop the curiosity from growing in her chest. Those who know and present such a level of care and concern for people like Octavia and Bellamy Blake are the type of people Lexa wouldn't object to getting to know. Especially when a person like Clarke, who appears to be well-bred, successful, and capable of affording designer shoes, cares enough to help where she can.

"Well you're welcome here any time you need new tunes." Lexa turns to put away the albums not chosen today. "I'm certain Octavia will appreciate a familiar face as she gets used to her responsibilities as my employee."

Even with her back turned, Lexa feels the smile Clarke gives. "I look forward to it. Thanks again."

The heels of the woman's boots clack across the worn wood floor as she goes to purchase her records with Indra at the register. Lexa takes her time replacing the records in the correct alphabetical order. Clarke shares a few words with Indra but nothing the owner can make out from a distance and a few moments later, the blonde's heels precede the guitar riffs as she makes her exit.

"Indra."

With a molasses slow shift of her gaze, Indra answers, "Yes, little commander."

Lexa makes quick strides back to the front counter with narrowed gaze. "I thought we agreed to cut the 'little' of your strange nickname." She makes a passing wave of her hand before forging forward, leaning her palms against the counter surface. "Did you know that the blonde was a friend of Octavia's?"

"Had no idea." Indra's passive expression reveals nothing and Lexa lets out a huff. "But I was aware that someone was helping Octavia and her brother when I could not. I did not know who it was but now I have a good hunch."

Lexa rolls her eyes with abandon as she turns to head back to her office. "You don't do hunches, Indra."

"That's true. And neither do you."

"My goat sacrifice is back on schedule so don't bother me unless it's life or death."

"Yes-little commander."

Lexa shakes her head as she lets the employee door slam shut behind her. Sometimes she questions what she sees in Indra. Even if she was the only one who believed in her when no one else was willing to offer her support.

There is a level of finesse and experience needed in order to create a balanced mixed drink of coffee and whiskey. Too much coffee, and there's no point in having the liquor in there to begin with. Loading it with too much whiskey and the bitterness of the coffee taints the fine burn of the liquor, making it taste more like drinkable oil. Lexa has become adept at making it just right. She holds it in her hands, her mixed drink, as she balances Polis Vinyl's monthly finance spreadsheet. The replacement records from the failed shipment is going to cut into the budget. While she'd been able to talk the distributor down from paying full wholesale for the replacement shipment, he wouldn't send them for free either.

"Dammit."

It's not a huge bind for the business. More a troubling nuisance. Lexa hates for the record shop to be anywhere but perfectly in the green. Especially when the thought of opening up the bank account she hasn't touched in three years always looms at the edge of her mind. With a heavy sigh, Lexa drains the rest of her alcoholic caffeine concoction and shuts the desktop shut. No more numbers for tonight.

Before going up to her apartment, the raven-tressed woman steps into the shop and strides swiftly over to double check that the front door is locked tight and the alarm system's already keyed up. She adds the motion detector on and then strides out before it sets in, locking the employee door on her way down the hall to her own home entrance.

"Gustus, did you vanquish any bad guys while I was busy playing boss?" Lexa quips as she passes his terrarium, grinning to herself as the snake's tongue flickers from his face in greeting. "I thought so. So vicious you are."

Paint chipped nails reflect in the exposed light fixtures hanging over the kitchen as the young woman yanks open her refrigerator and leans in. A bottle of wine, leftover chinese, siraccha bottle alongside a jar of relish. And a jar of kimchi that Lexa opts for as she tries to avoid the knowledge that she needs to buy groceries. Not soon but badly.

She takes the jar and fork with her as she traipses over to the records, speaking aloud to no one but herself, "My turn to pick tonight."

Maybe it has to do with Clarke's keen interest in the genre or the penchant she has for the artists of the genre herself, but Lexa thumbs through to pick out her top choice at the moment when it comes to screaming metalcore: Chelsea Grin.

With the needle dialed in and the music blaring from the player's speakers, Lexa shoves pieces of the pickled kimchi into her mouth as she moves around her open planned studio apartment. It's not so much about hearing the music as it is feeling it for the woman. She isn't an adequate dancer, not since she quit lessons as a child, but the energy behind each artist's musical composition stirs one to move and feel it. To take up the same energy and express it in whatever creative of way that comes to mind.

Lexa can see why Clarke would be driven to work more creatively with this music.

The creative impulse, the invasion of the thrashing chords and blended cry of vocals works its way into Lexa's skin and she takes up a bottle of Jim Beam in hand to swig from before collapsing breathless on the floor beside her bed to withdraw her journal and begin to collage, taking old record sleeves for the purpose and sticking them into the new page, leaving a blank space in the middle. There's no space for thought as the music consumes her, hugging her brain stem. When she picks up sketch pencils, Lexa doesn't consider what she intends to fill the blank space in the center with. She simply acts. Alcohol warm in her belly and the passion of metalcore tracks firing in her veins, she marks the page, connecting lines and shadowing into the depth. Yet she doesn't see the finished product before her body forfeits to drowsy slumber under the weight of intoxication. The record continues to play until the needle reaches its end and lifts away.

—

Darkness. No not darkness. Pitch black horror. All she can hear is her own harsh breaths. Feel the stickiness of dried blood and sweat and dirt coating her skin. Her skin itches but she can't scratch, her limbs like weights at her sides.

Heavy, broken.

Worthless—

Emptiness and nothing echoing between the spaces in her organs, rattling her bones where marrow should reside.

The worthless emptiness shivers over her skin, staining the air as it oozes from her pores.

And then the footsteps.

The tread of boots stomp in her skull. What was empty fills to the brim with fear. Her body clenches tight with fright and tar thick dread.

A flash of light and a shadow looming in a doorway.

"Hey there pet."

The stench of tobacco and oil invades her senses. Her stomach twists and rolls but there's nothing to eject. She hasn't been fed in a day. At least. Time has become irrelevant here.

"Here to extract some of you. For proof. Same as before."

Grubby calloused fingers bruise her brittle arm. Her skin burns and a whimper falls off her cracked dry lips. "No." There's no fight in her though. Her objection leaks from her as a groan. A well versed line she already knows won't be heeded.

Gravel-chewed laughter and a blow to her head give her temporary light in the bursts of stars that swim to life in her weak vision. But she doesn't need sight to feel the vicious teeth of a blade breaking her flesh. It digs into her, scooping out a fresh scream she hasn't thought her diaphragm capable of producing after so many. He cuts away more than her body. His knife severs her soul, masticating her will to spit it out in tattered pieces. The bite of the blade decimates her identity, stealing another piece of her with it.

Her scream feels endless. Another part of herself gone with the sound.

A scream that throws Lexa back to reality, to her dimly lit apartment where she lies half out of her bed, tangled in sheets, slick with sweat and a sore throat. The scream dies on her tongue as she tugs her bedding off herself and groans at the sight of her floor. She'd knocked her bottle of liquor over in her sleep. The place reeks of alcohol and the only saving grace is that her journal rests open on the other side, far from the ethanol spill. Dry and safe.

Though she should clean up the mess she's made in her disturbed sleep, the sketch in the center of her journal sucks Lexa's attention in and she crawls forward to get a better look.

A smile. Bright. Wide. Full of emotional openness.

It looks like a parody of Clarke's. Lexa lets her eyes fall closed. It's not really her's. Not to mention she's never been greatly artistic. Just drunken fits of trying to process her mind constructively. Without the aid of dangerous things in hand. When she opens her eyes once more, her gaze seeks out the clock across the room to see it's only four a.m. The slowly drying sweat sticking to her skin and small tremors in her muscles tell Lexa that she's not falling back asleep tonight so she pushes to her feet to get started on cleaning up the wasted Jim Beam. She'll need to add more liquor to her list of things to buy when she gets up the nerve to do grocery shopping.