with plans to use my hands (alex/lexie)slybrunetteOctober 30 2010, 04:40:59 UTC
Halloween 2010 starts off kind of anti-climactic.
The tips of her fingers are orange stained because April thought it was a great idea to put the leftover candy in little bowls around the house like it was decoration or something. All that means is that she’s ingested enough candy corn to have your average five year old bouncing off of the walls. They’ve had one trick or treater the entire night, a little girl dressed as a spider, which is a pretty badass costume considering most of her friends are probably dressed as princesses.
So it’s just her and Alex and the bottle of tequila that he was passing back and forth with Meredith, right up until Cristina showed up and they scrambled upstairs.
“I’m not holding your hair back,” Alex starts, the sentence breaking off awkwardly. He stifles a Grey right there at the end, she can tell, because that’s her sister. Lexie has her own set of nicknames. Occasionally Lexipedia, according to Cristina. Formerly known as Number Three and Little Grey and probably at one point Meredith’s-half-sister-what’s-her-face.
She’s not anything with Alex. She’s just Lexie.
“You know,” she gestures in the general vicinity of his head, “I would say the same thing for you, except for the hair thing. Have fun with your early morning scavenger hunt for the aspirin.”
He tips the bottle back - they didn’t even bother with glasses or pretending that they weren’t just drinking to get totally plastered because it’s Halloween and things that go bump in the night are the last thing any of them want to think about considering the year they’ve had - in response. Her lips turn down at the corners and she contemplates that bottle.
She knows better. She contemplates the bottle and then she contemplates his mouth and then she ends up naked in his bed.
“Also, candy corn doesn’t make me sick. Candy corn doesn’t make anyone sick.”
“Tell that to all the kids who’ll be complaining of stomach aches because their parents never learned the word no,” he counters.
“You realize how hypocritical you sound considering that bottle was full when you two started and now it’s decidedly not?” His smirk is wicked, like a jack-o-lantern without the geometric shapes and accidental disfigurement from the slip of a knife. Lexie smiles despite herself. It’s not a denial. “Good. Now hand me that.”
Alex eyes her, keeping a firm hold on the bottle like he doesn’t trust her not to bolt with it. She leans over and snatches it, or tries to anyway. His attempt at fending her off almost gets him a knee in the groin for his troubles. When she’s done using him as a jungle gym, bottle safely ensconced in her hands, she gives a little triumphant fist pump in the air and then drinks.
“Cute,” he says, without meaning it, and then snares the bottle by way of catching her wrist. She laughs and lets him, doesn’t pull back when their hands fall that way, index finger against bone, gentle tapping that she thinks he isn’t aware of.
They trade like that for a while. There’s a loud thump at the door, some high school kid's idea of a prank, and she jumps and his hands might shake against her skin for a moment there and, really, that just ups the chances that the bottle’s going to be completely empty by the time this night’s over.
“You still taste like the inside of a sugar bowl,” he tells her, damp exhale against her skin and his hand sliding up her leg, because, well, like she said, with drinking comes other reckless behavior. He doesn’t seem to have any qualms when she smears her mouth over his again, sickeningly sweet or not.
The tips of her fingers are orange stained because April thought it was a great idea to put the leftover candy in little bowls around the house like it was decoration or something. All that means is that she’s ingested enough candy corn to have your average five year old bouncing off of the walls. They’ve had one trick or treater the entire night, a little girl dressed as a spider, which is a pretty badass costume considering most of her friends are probably dressed as princesses.
So it’s just her and Alex and the bottle of tequila that he was passing back and forth with Meredith, right up until Cristina showed up and they scrambled upstairs.
“I’m not holding your hair back,” Alex starts, the sentence breaking off awkwardly. He stifles a Grey right there at the end, she can tell, because that’s her sister. Lexie has her own set of nicknames. Occasionally Lexipedia, according to Cristina. Formerly known as Number Three and Little Grey and probably at one point Meredith’s-half-sister-what’s-her-face.
She’s not anything with Alex. She’s just Lexie.
“You know,” she gestures in the general vicinity of his head, “I would say the same thing for you, except for the hair thing. Have fun with your early morning scavenger hunt for the aspirin.”
He tips the bottle back - they didn’t even bother with glasses or pretending that they weren’t just drinking to get totally plastered because it’s Halloween and things that go bump in the night are the last thing any of them want to think about considering the year they’ve had - in response. Her lips turn down at the corners and she contemplates that bottle.
She knows better. She contemplates the bottle and then she contemplates his mouth and then she ends up naked in his bed.
“Also, candy corn doesn’t make me sick. Candy corn doesn’t make anyone sick.”
“Tell that to all the kids who’ll be complaining of stomach aches because their parents never learned the word no,” he counters.
“You realize how hypocritical you sound considering that bottle was full when you two started and now it’s decidedly not?” His smirk is wicked, like a jack-o-lantern without the geometric shapes and accidental disfigurement from the slip of a knife. Lexie smiles despite herself. It’s not a denial. “Good. Now hand me that.”
Alex eyes her, keeping a firm hold on the bottle like he doesn’t trust her not to bolt with it. She leans over and snatches it, or tries to anyway. His attempt at fending her off almost gets him a knee in the groin for his troubles. When she’s done using him as a jungle gym, bottle safely ensconced in her hands, she gives a little triumphant fist pump in the air and then drinks.
“Cute,” he says, without meaning it, and then snares the bottle by way of catching her wrist. She laughs and lets him, doesn’t pull back when their hands fall that way, index finger against bone, gentle tapping that she thinks he isn’t aware of.
They trade like that for a while. There’s a loud thump at the door, some high school kid's idea of a prank, and she jumps and his hands might shake against her skin for a moment there and, really, that just ups the chances that the bottle’s going to be completely empty by the time this night’s over.
“You still taste like the inside of a sugar bowl,” he tells her, damp exhale against her skin and his hand sliding up her leg, because, well, like she said, with drinking comes other reckless behavior. He doesn’t seem to have any qualms when she smears her mouth over his again, sickeningly sweet or not.
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Thank you sooooooo much!
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