beat the devil's tattoo

by isawet

Summary:

When Lexa first told Clarke she was the rightful ruler of a small country currently being ruled by a dictator, Clarke laughed. In her defense, she was drunk.

Notes:

this hasn't been beta-ed. I apologize for the inevitable mistakes it contains.

also known as: how many tropes can I fit into one work?

Chapter 1

“Not to sound like a Disney original movie,” Raven says, grunting as she hefts a box, “but this year is our year.”

Octavia pokes her head out of the door, where she’s wrestling with the strap of her duffle bag. “I thought last year was our year?”

“Bitch, every year is our year.”

Clarke snorts, taking the box from Raven. “Okay, Reyes. But I actually agree,” she says to Octavia. “We’re seniors, it’s totally our year.”

“Every single one of us is applying to post-doc programs,” Octavia points out, dragging an armchair through the door by force of pure will. “It’s not like we’re about to be free from academia.”

“Fine. But we’re finally living all together, in a real house, and classes haven’t started yet, so my will to live remains unbroken. For right now, it’s our year.” Clarke walks inside, dropping the box of assorted cutlery onto the dining table Bellamy and Octavia had assembled the night before, drunk on cheap beer and cursing shoddy instructions. “Raven, when are the other girls coming?”

Raven checks her phone. “Three hours? I hope they don’t suck.”

Clarke wipes a sheen of sweat away from her forehead. “What do you know about them?”

“Two girls, also seniors, and they get the room with the attached bathroom.”

Clarke stares at her. “That’s all you know?”

“They’re hot?” Raven offers, turning her phone around. “I’ve got their ID photos. They have their own transportation and they put down their portion of the security deposit in cash. Everyone else who replied to the ad was kinda skeevy, or balked at the deposit. And they already signed the lease, so if they turn out to be serial killers we’ll just have to hope we’re not their type.”

//

Clarke’s at the grocery store when her new housemates arrive, so by the time she gets back all she knows about them is the play by play of her phone blowing up from texts and irritating everyone else in the supermarket line. She kicks the door until someone opens it, bags piled in her arms up past her head. “What’s this about the robot mafia?” she asks, pushing past through the kitchen and dumping the bags.

“What?” It’s an unfamiliar voice, and she freezes before turning around. “Robot mafia?” The girl arches an eyebrow at her, questioning, and Clarke splutters for a second before recovering.

“Sorry, I thought you were Raven.” She sticks out her hand. “Clarke.”

“Lexa.” Lexa, Clarke’s traitorous brain notes, is unfairly attractive, even in ratty jeans and a worn t-shirt, black ink curved over her arms and disappearing up the sleeves. Another girl enters, blonde and tan and grim faced. “This is Anya. Anya, Clarke.”

Clarke holds out her hand again and Anya looks her up and down before turning away. “Teik osir gonot kom hir,” she says to Lexa. Clarke busies herself with putting away the groceries, half-listening to Lexa and Anya converse in the foreign language, Anya’s voice rising until she stomps away.

“Anya is not a people person,” Lexa says. “Until we see each other again, Clarke.” She leaves, a bag slung over one shoulder.

//

After a week, it’s clear Lexa is not a people person either. Clarke only sees her coming in and out of her room, usually with Anya, and while Anya glares straight through her like she’s hoping she can cause Clarke to fall apart in a shatter of atoms just by the force of her hatred, Lexa usually nods, polite but not interested in sharing niceties or small talk.

“I stand by my robot mafia theory,” Raven says one night at dinner, after Lexa and Anya have left without a word. “Have any of you actually seen either of them eat something?”

“No, I can buy the robot thing,” Octavia says, “but why are they in the mafia?”

“You've met Anya, right? If that isn’t the face of a killer.” Raven aims the fan at herself. “I wish they would use their mafia connections to fix the air conditioning. I’m melting.” As soon as Lexa and Anya had left, Clarke had stripped off her shorts and shirt, and is currently lying on the tiled kitchen floor in underwear and a sports bra, so she doesn’t really have a leg to stand on, but she tries, weakly.

“I’m sure they’re not in the mafia.”

“They have green cards, I saw them when I signed the lease. I think their last name is Russian,” Raven argues. “Ergo, mafia.”

“They’re not Russian,” Clarke says, her voice muffled as she rolls her flushed cheeks over the floor. “I heard them speaking that--what’s that class you’re taking, Octavia?”

Octavia squeaks. “They’re Trikru? Clarke what the fuck? You know trigedasleng is my personal hell, and you haven’t told me our housemate is fluent?”

Clarke shrugs. “She doesn’t really seem the type to offer you study help, O. Sorry.”

“I’m sure Trigeda has a mafia,” Raven continues. “Or--I mean, aren’t they ruled by a dictator? So a secret police. Our housemates are gestapo!”

//

Clarke is thumping her head into the door when she hears the roar of a motorcycle. She gets in three more thumps before: “I’m not sure how effective that will be,” Lexa says from behind her, and she turns.

“I forgot my keys,” she moans.

Lexa holds hers up, expressionless, and Clarke lets them in. “Thank god you came home,” she says. “Octavia and Raven won’t be back for another hour.”

Anya’s sitting in the living room, watching television. “Kom hir,” she says to Lexa.

Clarke glares at her, annoyed. “Didn’t you hear me knocking?”

“Why would you knock,” Anya says with fake nonchalance, “didn't you have your keys?” Clarke actually has to lean over Anya to get her keys from where they’re sitting on the arm of the couch, four inches from Anya’s body, and she lets her dirty look speak for itself. She’s about to try for a cutting remark when Lexa growls, and she looks at her, surprised.

Lexa’s fists are clenched by her sides and her eyes are fixed on the television--it’s some news thing, preshot establishing views and people talking behind wooden podiums, and Clarke turns half an ear to it while she putters around the kitchen, making dinner for when Octavia and Raven get home. Something about a little country somewhere and all the political corruption that comes with a dictatorship. Anya turns it off during a commercial break, speaking quick and low, and Lexa responds, her tone angry and frustrated. Their voices build up and then break with a last snap of Lexa’s. She storms the kitchen a moment later, grabbing for her water bottle in the fridge. It’s sweltering by the stove, and Lexa strips off her long sleeved shirt, leaving her in a tank top.

“Holy shit,” Clarke says, gaping, because Lexa’s arms are mottled, fresh bruises of blue black overlapping healing ones of yellow and green.

“Anya and I are going to the gym,” Lexa snaps. “If you leave the house, turn off the oven and take your keys with you.”

 

Clarke tells Raven and Octavia about the encounter at dinner, a little because they should probably be distracted from a failed attempt at oven roasted chicken and potatoes and a lot because she’s annoyed with Anya and Lexa both, and of course neither thing is what they latch on to.

“Underground fighting ring,” Raven says.

“Crime fighting vigilante,” Octavia counters.

//

Clarke is drunk in a frat house, and if she wasn’t so disgusted with herself she’d be amused, falling back into old habits so fast and so hard, Finn’s lips on her neck and her back against a wall. She pushes him away, her palms flat against his chest. “No,” she says, and then “I said no, Finn.”

“I love you,” he tries, and he smells like shitty beer and cigarettes and Clarke’s self-destructive tendencies and it would so easy, to let him fuck her in his bed and leave before he wakes up and not tell Raven, not ever.

She fumbles for the doorknob and staggers out of the back of the house, sucking in fresh air and fighting against the urge to vomit. She loses and throws up, wet and tasting bile on her tongue, leaning against a tree. She sits on the ground next to the puddle of her own sick and crams her phone against her ear. “It’s me,” she says when she hears the line click. “I need help.”

“Clarke?” Clarke freezes.

“Octavia?”

“No,” Lexa says, and Clarke pulls back to look at her phone, groaning.

“Sorry, I meant to--it doesn’t matter. Sorry.” She hangs up, and is only halfway through navigating with shaky drunk fingers to the right number when the menu disappears, Lexa calling back.

“Where are you,” she says, before Clarke can apologize again. Clarke hesitates, and Lexa’s voice goes sharper. “Clarke.”

“The frat house, the one on Larkson, with the red windows.”

“Stay put.” Lexa hangs up. Clarke sighs at her phone and then levers herself to her feet, staggering around the house to sit on the curb outside. A few people nod at her and she flaps a hand at them in a wave, putting her head between her knees. She’s not sure how long she sits there before she hears Lexa again. “Clarke.” Clarke looks up. Lexa’s standing there in dark pants and a hoodie, mussed hair.

“Did I wake you? When I called?”

“Yes. Are you ready?”

“Sorry I woke you.” Clarke puts a hand out to steady herself on the pavement and miscalculates. She watches the ground rush at her head with an odd detachment, but the impact never comes. Lexa catches her, an arm around her neck and a hand on her back. There’s Clarke’s vomit on her sleeve now, which means it must also be in her own hair. Lexa heaves her to her feet.

“We are leaving.” Clarke stares at the ground, focused on keeping her feet under her, and lets Lexa steer them until she bumps into the backdoor of a tan sedan. Lexa props her against the car, opening the back seat, and pours Clarke in.

“Sorry,” Clarke mumbles again, lying on her back, “fuck.” She puts her hands on her face. “Can you--can you drop me at a motel or something? My card’s in my pocket. I can’t go home like this.” Lexa doesn’t say anything, and Clarke means to ask again, but the motion of the car rolls her stomach and she flails instead, trying to get out a warning. She fails, and just manages to get on her side to throw up into the footwell instead of on her own chest. Lexa makes a disgusted noise, and after another few minutes of breathing wetly and coughing, the car slows to a stop. Clarke squints out the window--a lit sign, a Motel Six.

“Stay here,” Lexa says, and Clarke closes her eyes, listening the door squeak and thump shut.

When she opens them she’s lying on a shitty bedspread, and there’s a wet cloth over her face. She sputters, sitting up, and then groans. “Fuck me.”

“Are you going to throw up again?” Lexa is sitting in a chair by the window.

“I don’t think so,” Clarke croaks.

“There’s water there.” Lexa points at the nightstand, and Clarke takes the plastic cup, drinking eagerly. “I suggest you shower.”

Clarke stands, woozy. The sky outside the window is still dark. “What time is it?”

“Four.”

“Okay.” Clarke stumbles into the bathroom, flicking on the light and leaning against the shut door for a moment before facing herself in the mirror. She was right, there is vomit in her hair. Her jacket is a lost cause but the shirt underneath is okay, at least puke-wise. She wets a hand towel and scrubs at her pants, then hangs them on the towel rack. She strips naked and takes possibly the longest shower of her life, using up every drop of the cheap shampoo, conditioner, body wash in the tiny plastic bottles. When she steps out she still might be drunk, but she’s at least clean, and she dresses in her clothes with a faint grimace before squinting at the outline of herself in the mirror, obscured by steam, and padding out into the room, her bare toes on the carpet.

Lexa’s still in the chair, her head dipping towards her chest before she jerks it back up at the sounds of the door. “You look better.”

“I feel better.”

“I was surprised, to find you at a party without your friends.”

Clarke sits on the bed, toweling at her hair. “They give me space this time of year.”

“You wanted to call Octavia, and then you said you could not go home.” Lexa isn't judgmental, but she is curious.

“I panicked. But it’s better they didn’t see me like this. I told them I was going somewhere else.” Clarke tosses the towel aside, careless, and it hits the wall with a wet flop, sliding to the floor.

“I see.” Lexa tips her head back on the chair, and Clarke can see dark bruising under her eyes, exhaustion. “You should sleep. We can return in the morning.”

“Will Anya worry if you don’t go home?” Lexa cracks her eyes open and Clarke shrugs. “You two are joined at the hip, that’s all.”

“I have already contacted her and explained. You don’t have to worry about her speaking to Raven or Octavia.”

Clarke snorts. “The thought never crossed my mind. She’ll be mad at me though, huh?”

“Well,” Lexa says, and she’s actually smiling now, “you did throw up in her car.”

Clarke groans again. “Fuck. I’ll clean it, and pay to have it steamed or whatever. Don’t let her kill me, okay?”

“I’ll protect you,” Lexa says, dry, and she hasn’t pressed at all, or judged, and she got her ass out of bed at one in the morning and then found Clarke a safe place to crash and she looks like she hasn’t gotten enough sleep in a long while, and Clarke finds herself explaining:

“My dad died around this time. I always get kind of… messed up.”

“Grief is an odd thing,” Lexa says simply.

“Yeah.” Clarke lies back on the bed, wiggling to get under the covers. “Fuck, I almost slept with my ex. Who is also Raven’s ex.” She groans again. “I seriously owe you.” Lexa doesn’t say anything, and when Clarke looks up she’s dozing again, head bobbing. “Lexa.”

Lexa’s eyes don’t open. “Go to sleep, Clarke.”

“Come here.” Lexa looks at her, incredulous. “I’ll owe you even more if you sleep in that shitty chair. It’s a queen, we’ll be fine.” Lexa rises, stripping out of her sweatshirt and cracking her neck, turning off the lights before sliding in on the other side.

“There weren’t any double rooms available,” she says, and she’s mumbly. She must be even more tired that Clarke had figured. She sighs when her head hits the pillow. “I didn’t even know you had my number,” she says, sleepy.

“Raven gave it to us. In case someone got locked out, or whatever.” Lexa hums. “We could be friends, you know. We’re not terrible people. And Octavia could use some help with her trigdastuff.” Clarke winces.

“Trigedasleng,” Lexa corrects, and then, “I know. She told Anya to commit suicide. I think what she wanted was to be handed a book.”

Clarke snorts, snuggling down into the blankets, her back to Lexa. “If we were friends we could be cuddling right now. I’m a prime fucking cuddler.”

“Go to sleep,” Lexa mutters, exasperated.

//

Clarke wakes up warm. Her back is pressed against Lexa’s--she’s always been a heat seeking missile when sleeping--and the blankets and mattress are holding her body warmth to her perfectly. She’s so toasty her headache isn’t even bothering her too much, a dull thump instead of a skull-cracking ache. She dozes until Lexa moves, sitting up. “What time is it,” she asks, voice sleep rough, and sees the glow of Lexa’s phone.

“Almost noon. We should get up.”

“Go ahead,” Clarke says, and Lexa goes into the bathroom first. Clarke props herself up against the headboard and turns the television on, clicking through the channels half-heartedly.

“I had them send up toiletries,” Lexa says when she comes out, her face damp. “There’s toothbrushes, more shampoo--on the desk there.” Clarke stands, snagging the bundle from the desk, and they brush their teeth side by side, taking turns spitting. Lexa hands her a washcloth and she scrubs at her face, removing the last of the makeup and the sleep grit from her eyes.

“I told them I’d be back Sunday,” Clarke says. “Can I hold the room until tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Lexa says. “I’ll tell them on my way out.”

“Wait,” Clarke says, “uh. You don’t have to go. I mean, you shouldn’t until I clean the car.” She pulls a face. “It can’t smell good right now. And, motels are like mini-vacations. We can watch shitty television, order room service, go to the pool. All on me.”

“We don’t have swimsuits,” Lexa says, and Clarke wiggles her eyebrows. “No, Clarke.”

“Okay, but seriously. I owe you, and… tell me I’m wrong, but you slept more hours last night than you have in a while.”

Lexa sighs. “There’s a reason I usually don’t sleep very long, Clarke. I have a lot of responsibilities.” That she neglected because Clarke is a sloppy drunk who makes poor decisions.

“You’re right. Let me just go downstairs and get a plastic bag for my jacket, and we can go.”

“Wait,” Lexa says. She bites her lip. “My charger’s in the car. I can do some work on my phone.”

“And the room service is on me,” Clarke assures her.

“This is a Motel Six. They don’t have room service.”

Clarke goes to the desk and digs around. She comes up triumphant, a fistful of menus in her hand. “They deliver,” she says dramatically, and Lexa cracks a smile. “Preferences?”

“Chinese?” Lexa asks. “I like vegetables and chicken.” She snags a room key from the table. “I’ll be back.” The door thumps shut behind her.

Clarke fishes out the right menu. “Cool. Chicken and vegetables it is.”

//

“Eggrolls are not a vegetable, Clarke.”

“Eat your cabbage, Lexa.”

//

At first, it’s good. They watch shitty daytime television and Lexa picks apart the court shows, reciting laws and statutes until Clarke accuses her of being pre-law and Lexa huffs, confirming, but as the day goes by Clarke’s commentary becomes half-hearted and her responses shorter, and Lexa retreats into her phone, scowling at whatever it is she’s doing, and Clarke feels shitty because she’d promised a mini-vacation but instead Lexa’s stuck with Clarke’s weak-ass attempt at handling her own grief.

She clicks the television dark and looks at Lexa’s face in the warped reflection. “I need a walk,” she says, and Lexa grunts in response.

 

She finds a bar and does three shots in a row, lets a guy tell her she’s too pretty to be in a dive like this, drinks the beer he buys her. He’s got her hand in his, feeding her some line about her blue eyes, when Lexa sits at the table beside him. “Go away,” she says, looking at Clarke. He sputters, and reaches out, and she does something to his fingers that makes him suck in a hard pained gasp, a little whimper. She releases his hand and he leaves, cursing them as bitches. Clarke takes his beer. “I have better things,” Lexa says, “to do than chase you around and keep you from making decisions you’ll regret.”

“Then don’t,” Clarke says, because she really is a bitch sometimes. Lexa doesn’t move, her eyes burning a hole into Clarke’s forehead as she avoids her gaze. “Gonna break my fingers too?”

“I didn’t break them.”

“Raven thinks you’re in the mafia. Or the secret police.”

“Raven can think whatever she likes. We are leaving this place.”

“And if I refuse?”

Lexa unfolds cash from her pocket, placing it on the scarred tabletop. “Then I call Raven and Octavia to collect you themselves.”

Clarke swigs the last of the beer and thunks the glass down. “You drive a hard bargain,” she says.

//

The walk back to the motel room is cold, and Lexa crowds her as they exit the elevator, going down the hall, reaching past Clarke’s hip to swipe the keycard. She pushes Clarke towards the chair and Clarke flops in it, fuming. “What gives you--” she starts, and Lexa drops a plastic cup in front of her, along with a bottle of vodka. “What?”

“You want to drink, drink. I’d prefer it if you used the cup.”

“Why?”

“Because it's tacky to drink straight from the bottle.”

“No, why did you--” Clarke gestures at everything in general. Lexa rubs a hand across the bridge of her nose.

“I don’t know,” she says, tired. “I’m going to sleep.”

“It’s not even eight.”

“I’m tired, Clarke.”

“Have a drink with me,” Clarke offers. She takes a slug from the bottle. “You can be classy, I’ll be me.”

“You’re not tacky,” Lexa says, but when Clarke splashes vodka into the cup she takes it, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I could be tacky. You don’t know.” Clarke takes another drink, face screwed up against the cheap burn. “I don’t know any drinking games for just two people. Except truth or dare.”

“No.” Lexa takes a longer drink than Clarke thought she would, like it’s water instead of essentially rubbing alcohol.

“Okay, Questions it is.”

“Questions?”

“Yeah, like you just drank, so it’s my turn. What’s your middle name?”

“I don’t have one.”

Clarke takes a drink. “Now it’s your turn.”

“I don’t think this is a real game.”

“You can always just go to bed,” Clarke says, shrugging, and Lexa tucks her feet under her.

“What’s your middle name?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Janet, for my grandmother. Now you drink.”

Lexa takes another gulp.

 

They burn through half the bottle before Lexa starts to list to the side, and Clarke sits next to her on the bed to prop her up with her shoulder. “Is it my turn?” Lexa shrugs. “Okay, uhh… I’m bisexual.”

Lexa blinks at her with unfocused eyes. “Okay?”

“That’s my secret.” Clarke takes a long drink and coughs. “Fuck.”

“I think we’re playing the game wrong,” Lexa says, her words running together and bumping into each other.

“Your turn,” Clarke reminds her, putting the bottle aside.

“I’m the rightful leader of Trigeda,” Lexa says, swirling the cup and sloshing over the side. “I’m currently planning a cop--a cup--” she coughs, swigging, “a coup.”

Clarke laughs, taking the cup out of her hands and finishing it. “Okay, we’ve had enough.”

 

They fall asleep with their feet touching, upside down on the bed. “We have a rotation,” Clarke slurs just before she passes out, “for cooking dinner. Thursday’s free, and it’s ten bucks a week for no cook no clean up every other day. Leftovers are first come first serve.” She doesn’t remember what Lexa had said when she wakes up, but on Tuesday when Octavia’s headed to the store Lexa hands her a ten, and just like that Lexa’s at the table with them every night, listening to the chatter and passing Clarke the salt.

//

Anya’s coldness intensifies, and Clarke actually hides behind Lexa at one point during a tense kitchen encounter, which at least makes Lexa crack a smile. “You’re joining us for Thanksgiving, right? Or is there a different tradition, in Trigeda.”

Lexa’s head whips around, surprised. “I thought you would not remember.”

Clarke shrugs. “I hardly ever black out. Plus, you and Anya speak trigedasleng all the time.”

“Obviously there is no Thanksgiving tradition, although there are many large meals at specific points in the calendar.”

“So you will be joining us.”

Lexa hesitates. “It is my understanding that it is a meal reserved for family, or community.”

“You literally live with us, I don’t think you can be more involved in our community.”

//

Anya sits next to Octavia at Thanksgiving and smiles at Clarke over the potatoes. Clarke drops her beer in Raven’s lap, unnerved, and when Bellamy tries to hit on Anya they all watch with appalled, fascinated horror. “Not a robot,” Raven mumbles when Anya eats a second slice of pie, “standby for a second hypothesis.”

They even join them for the football game in the living room, sitting next to each other with their backs against the couch, helping Octavia stumble through their language. Anya teaches Raven a handful of curse words and almost cracks a human expression when Raven immediately begins to talk shit about Bellamy with, if Lexa’s ducked smile is any indication, unerring accuracy. Anya murmurs something, too low and quick for anyone to catch, and Lexa laughs.

She helps Clarke do the dishes, the others dozing and Anya absconding back to her room with the rest of the pie, and Clarke’s got dishsuds up to her elbows and her fingers touching something gross when Lexa says, “Thank you, Clarke.”

“No problem,” Clarke says easily, “I just followed the directions on the website.”

“Not for the turkey. For you. For this.” Lexa frowns, poking at the cranberry sauce no one touched before throwing it into the garbage. “Anya felt we should have moved into an apartment, and I admit I shared her reticence.”

“But we’re not so bad, huh?”

“No,” Lexa agrees. “Not so bad.”

//

Clarke barges into Lexa’s room, pop music from Octavia and Raven’s room thrumming through the hall behind her. “Where’s Anya?” she demands, then squeaks, spinning around, a hand clapped over her eyes. “Sorry, sorry, oh my god.”

“Knocking is customary,” Lexa hisses, and if it wasn’t for the faint high pitched quality to her voice Clarke wouldn’t think she was affected at all by her housemate walking in on her lying naked in bed, her head thrown back and a hand between her legs. “You can turn around now,” she mutters.

Clarke turns, and Lexa has wrapped a sheet around herself, the material draping over her body, her bare shoulders still on display. Objectively, she’s aware she’s seen more of Lexa’s body, her exercise clothes are easily tighter and more revealing, but there’s something different, more intimate, about Lexa in navy blue linen, a flush high in her cheeks and her hair mussed from--

Clarke snaps her eyes to the ceiling. “I, um. I came--” she chokes, coughing. “I mean, I wanted to ask.”

“Yes?” Lexa asks, snappish.

“I honestly don’t remember.”

“Then maybe you can leave, and return when you have regained your senses.”

“And knock,” Clarke assures her, “I will definitely… I’m so sorry.”

“I do not wish to speak of it,” Lexa growls, and Clarke flees all the way to the bathroom in the hall, splashing water against her face.

She looks at herself in the mirror and groans, before shucking herself out of her clothes, leaving them crumpled on the tiled floor, and shoves the shower on, turning the dial to cold. She steps under the spray, goosebumps rising, and she honestly just meant to calm herself and maybe wash her hair so she doesn’t have to do it later, but even with the frigid water on her back she can’t help thinking of the lines of Lexa’s body, her body arching up as her fingers pump and twist, the way her teeth were sunk into her bottom lip, how the flush went all the way down her chest and the gentle sloping curves--

Clarke grinds on her palm, keeping her eyes squeezed shut and cursing her stupid libido and her stupid habit of never knocking because she’s so used to living with her best friends and how her orgasm is the best she’s had in months, the image of Lexa spread out on her bed burned into the inside of her eyelids.

//

She bursts into Octavia and Raven’s room and slaps at Raven’s shoulder until she turns the radio down. “I did a bad thing,” she says, gesturing wildly.

Raven reaches up and pulls Clarke’s towel up. “Keep the girls contained, Griffin.”

“I did a bad thing,” Clarke repeats, and Octavia rolls over from where she’d been half-napping half-reading.

“We’ve talked about this; it’s okay to shower daily. In fact, we encourage it.”

Clarke sits on the edge of Raven’s bed, her hands twisting in each other. “I did a bad thing.”

“I think she’s broken,” Raven whispers. “You’re dripping on my bed,” she sighs, sitting behind Clarke and producing a comb. She works through Clarke’s tangles, tugging as gently as she can. “Tell Momma Rae what’s up.”

“Anya’s car was blocking me,” Clarke starts, then stops. “Oh! Anya’s car is blocking me!” She leaves without another word, rushing down the hall and rapping against Lexa’s door.

“Come in,” Lexa calls out.

Clarke pokes her head in, her eyes fixed upwards. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Clarke steps inside, shutting the door behind her. Lexa’s sitting at her desk, fully dressed, and when she looks up her eyes go wide, shocked. “There is no need,” she stammers, “to--reciprocate, I assure you, I--”

“What?” Clarke looks down at herself still in a towel. “No! That is… not why I’m here.”

“Oh.”

Clarke gapes. “You thought I came here to flash you?”

“You’re naked,” Lexa points out.

“Am not.” Lexa arches an eyebrow. “No--I just showered, and then I remembered: Anya’s car is blocking me in, and I have to be somewhere later. I wanted to make sure her car would be moved before I have to leave.”

“There’s a comb stuck in your hair,” Lexa says, and Clarke touches it. So that’s what the tug was, when she was beating feet out of Raven’s room.

“Yes. There is. It is on purpose.” She lifts her chin. “Is Anya here?”

“Obviously not. She left her keys, I’ll be happy to let you out.”

“If I was here to flash you,” Clarke says, running out of anything important to say but not yet ready to leave, “you’d be lucky.”

Lexa stares. Her eyes dip down and then snap back to Clarke’s eyes. She blushes. “I can see that,” she murmurs, low. Clarke has another flash of memory, Lexa’s hips rolling against her fingers, the tendons standing out in her throat, the cut off moan Clarke heard before she’d realized what she’d walked in on. She wonders what Lexa would do if she let the towel fall. Lexa licks her lips and Clarke thinks Lexa’s wondering the same thing.

“I’m going to an exhibit,” Clarke says. “You should come.” It’s an impulse and an apology, all at once.

“It’s your turn to cook dinner,” Lexa says, and turns back to her books.

//

Clarke shoves a frozen pizza in the oven and sets the timer before going back to Raven and Octavia. She flops on the bed next to Octavia and puts her head on Octavia’s belly. “Mmarrgh,” she says, conflicted, and Octavia pats her head absently. Raven’s facedown on her desk, snoring.

“Do you want to talk about the Bad Thing?”

“No,” Clarke mumbles. “I shouldn’t.”

“Want me to go with you to your boring art shit?”

Clarke pinches her. “No, you asshole. I uh, I think I’m going to see if Lexa will go with me.”

Octavia puts her book aside. “Are you serious?”

“She’s not so bad.”

“I don’t think she’s bad, it’s just… I don’t know. She seems cold.”

“She helped you with your class, didn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Octavia sighs, “but--”

“And she’s not a bad housemate. She’s respectful, she’s clean, I’m pretty sure she’d stop Anya from killing us in our sleep if it came to it--”

“Clarke!” Octavia flicks her forehead. “Okay, god, stop. You’re right, she’s not so bad, go be her new best friend, eat her out under the moonlight, marry her and adopt a million Chinese babies, whatever.”

“You’re a jerk,” Clarke mutters, and levers herself off the bed with a last sigh, throwing the blanket over Octavia’s face as she leaves.

//

Lexa doesn’t look at anyone during dinner, and when Clarke’s doing the dishes she comes in, ostensibly to dry, but instead she stands very close to Clarke at the sink, a dishrag in one hand, and says, whispered. “I would appreciate it very much if you did not discuss what happened earlier. It is a private matter.”

Clarke hesitates, then nods. “Of course. It’s embarrassing, I get it. And it was my fault, anyway.”

“I usually lock the door. You caught me on an odd occasion.”

“So you--often?”

Lexa flushes. “And you do not?”

Clarke, in fact, masturbated while the pizza was in the oven, running the sink in the bathroom on full blast and muffling her noises in her fist, thinking about dropping that towel and straddling Lexa on her desk chair, or kneeling under it while Lexa murmurs about tort law, her glasses falling down her nose and her hand in Clarke's hair. “You’re right, it’s a private matter.” Lexa nods, pleased, and drops the towel on the counter. “Hey! You’re not going to help me with this?”

“It’s your turn,” Lexa says, starting to leave. Clarke catches her by the sleeve, dampening it with soap bubbles and tap water.

“Then go to the exhibit with me? Octavia and Raven would be bored, and I need a buddy.”

Lexa hesitates. “Anya will not return until tomorrow.”

“And you can’t go anywhere without her?” Lexa frowns. “C’mon, I owe you one.”

“How will me doing you a favor balance our accounts?”

“I’ll owe you two?”

“Fine. Find me when you are ready to leave.”

//

Lexa is dressed in an honest to god suit when Clarke finishes her makeup and wraps a scarf around her neck, looping it multiple times and tucking her nose into its folds. Clarke stares, because in her deepest wildest, most secret fantasies she’d imagined a cocktail dress and heels, but a black vest and a crisp white collar and a red striped tie transcends her brain’s ability to function, and she stands at the door and makes swallowing fishlike noises until Lexa’s right in front of her, peering. “Clarke? Is this too formal?”

“A little,” Clarke says, getting ahold of herself. “Uh… lose the vest?” Lexa strips out of her jacket, draping it over a hook by the door, and unbuttons her vest, discarding it to the side. “Hold on,” Clarke says, when she reaches for her jacket again. She steps close, and Lexa smells like the apricot scrub she uses for body wash and mint mouthwash, and Clarke tugs her tie until it’s hanging low and casual. “Can you wear your big boots? I mean, can you walk around in motorcycle boots?”

“In mine, yes. Are you sure?”

“It’s an art scene, Lexa, trust me.”

//

Lexa braids her hair while Clarke drives, complicated patterns until it’s all pulled away and kept neat against her scalp. Clarke likes her hair back, likes to be able to see the line of her jaw and have an unobstructed view of her eyes, made brighter by the darkness of her eyeliner. “You’re good at that,” she remarks, “I could never, with the car moving like this.”

“Maybe you’re an exceptionally smooth driver.” Clarke makes a turn, bumping against the curb. “Maybe I have very talented fingers.”

“Maybe you should read the directions I gave you so we don’t get lost.”

“We will not get lost. I know where we are. Turn left at the next street.”

Clarke complies, and manages not to hit the dividing strip. “You’re familiar with the art district?”

“I used to live here.”

“Really? Where?”

“On the East side. We moved before I started at the University.” Lexa rolls down the window, breathing the air in deep and wiggling her fingers against the outside of the car door.

“What made you move?” Clarke makes another turn when Lexa points, the wheel sliding through her fingers. Lexa is silent, and when she tells Clarke to find parking her voice is too tight.

“Hey,” Clarke says, when they’re walking towards the address, the lit sign coming closer. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry if I brought something up.”

“You didn’t know,” Lexa says, and on impulse Clarke grabs her hand, swinging it between them as they walk. Lexa allows it until they reach the front door and the crowd of people milling about, and then disengages.

“You’re probably going to be bored,” Clarke says. “Sometimes there’s free food, but the bar’s overpriced. I have to go upstairs to log my name so I get class credit, so feel free to wander around and be bored until I get back.”

Clarke almost jogs up the stairs, nodding at a few people she recognizes from classes, and scribbles her name in the logbook while she listens to her professor tell her the criteria for the extra credit assignment. It’s pretty basic, a work based on what she sees in the exhibit, and she’s pleased it’s so loosely structured. She makes short conversation and goes to find Lexa, wandering the gallery and idly thinking about what she could do for her own piece.

Lexa is standing in front of a painting that takes up almost an entire wall, a white canvas with a bright green streak, curved and arching. She’s looking up at it, thoughtful, and Clarke feels a glow of pride, because she can see the looks Lexa’s getting and she’s the one that gets to bump her shoulder against Lexa’s and feel the warmth of Lexa’s smile aimed at her. “You like it?” Clarke looks at the placard. spring day, it says.

“It doesn't look like spring,” Lexa says, and Clarke steels herself for the familiar refrains: a small child could have done that, people pay how much?, modern art takes no talent and is stupid, blah blah blah. “It looks like fall. Can’t you taste green apples when you see it?”

“You like it.” Clarke doesn’t hide her surprise, and Lexa turns her gaze back to the painting.

“I am impressed when artists create emotion through images, especially in the abstract. It reminds me that we are all the same. A hundred people in a hundred countries could look at this and feel the same emotion, think the same thoughts.”

“Not if either of them were Raven or Octavia,” Clarke teases, and Lexa smiles again. “I’m glad you found something you liked.”

“Of course. And the entrance to the kitchen is just there.” Lexa jerks her chin towards a door, very close by. “Nothing has come out yet, but I’m hopeful.”

Clarke laughs, and then tugs at Lexa’s sleeve. “Come on, tell me more about all this modern art.”

“You’re the art major,” Lexa says, trailing after her obediently. “You should be telling me.”

“I’ll tell you if you’re wrong.”

“You can’t be wrong about art, Clarke, it’s subjective.” They wander through, and Lexa murmurs in Clarke’s ear, her arm around Clarke’s waist to keep her close. Lexa doesn’t seem to notice, but she parts the crowd like Moses, walking like a soldier and carrying herself like a general. People fall away from her naturally, giving ground, and her lips twitch when Clarke pretends to correct her, making up ridiculously false facts about what they see.

“Okay,” she says. “C’mon. There’s something I want to show you.” She leads Lexa out of the main gallery and towards the back stairs. “Sshh,” she says, finger to her lips as the security guard passes by them, ambling on his pass. “We’re sneaking.”

“We literally have invitations,” Lexa says, but her voice is mild and she follows Clarke up the stairs.

Clarke winds them through the closed galleries, pushing the ropes aside, and somewhere in the dark Lexa takes her hand, her palm warm and dry and rough, the inside of her thumb and index finger thick with calluses. She hasn’t been back here in months, but her feet still know the way. She finds what she’s looking for easily. “This one is my favorite. It’s also my least favorite.” Lexa steps closer to the wall, peering, and Clarke aims the beam of her phone’s flashlight at the glass frame. It’s a map, of sorts, crossed with twine and layered with mementos: bus tickets, movie stubs, receipts from gas stations, gum wrappers, a crushed cigarette, a dirty napkin.

Lexa hovers her fingers above the glass. “It feels sad.”

“There’s a real story,” Clarke says, “about the artist, and why she wrote it, where she got everything. I’ve read about it, if you want to know.”

“I’d rather hear what you think of it.”

“It reminds me of my dad.” Clarke swallows, and when Lexa’s hand squeezes hers it’s too much. She steps back, breaking contact, and clears her throat. “What do you think of it?” She tucks her phone back into her pocket and can barely see Lexa by the emergency lights, just the shape of her body.

“I think it hurts. I think art is supposed to hurt.”

“Thank you for coming with me.”

Lexa’s head turns towards her, but Clarke can’t make out her expression. “Thank you for asking me to come.”

Clarke sighs, suddenly tired. “Let’s go. I’m beat.” She links her arm through Lexa’s and leans her head on Lexa’s shoulder. “Carry me,” she moans, something she’s said to Octavia a hundred times, and then she squeaks, because Lexa steps back and swings her up into a fireman’s carry. “What the hell!”

“Oh,” Lexa says, feigned surprise, “was this not what you wanted?”

“Put me down you asshole,” Clarke yelps, grabbing at the backs of Lexa’s thighs. “You know this isn’t what I meant.”

Lexa eases her down when they get to the stairwell, grinning under the harsh fluorescent bulbs, her hair mussed from Clarke kicking her legs, and Clarke yanks at her clothes, smoothing and then glaring. “Sorry Clarke. You know English isn’t my first language.”

“It’s fine,” Clarke says with as much dignity as she can, pulling her pants up from where they got dragged down. “You can make it up to me with a piggyback ride.”

“What?”

Clarke twirls a finger. “Well you were willing to carry me, you just got confused how. Because of your English difficulties, I’m spelling it out. Piggyback to the car. Turn around, chop chop.” She arches an eyebrow, challenging, and Lexa’s face sets and she turns, squatting slightly. At that point, it’s too late to take it back, and Clarke hops on, linking her feet around Lexa’s hips and draping herself along Lexa’s back, leaning her chin on Lexa’s shoulder.

Lexa carries her all the way down the stairs, past the people filing out of the gallery, and down the street, bouncing every so often to keep Clarke high on her back, and Clarke presses her cheek against Lexa’s shoulder, humming. “Hey wait,” she says as Lexa makes to cross the street towards her car. “Let’s get food.” She digs her right heel into Lexa’s side. “Hyeh!”

“I am not a horse,” Lexa says, but she turns right. “Where are we headed?”

“I saw a taco place while we were driving here? On third, so it’s just another block up and one over.” Lexa’s step falters. “We don’t have to.”

“No, it’s alright.” The first block she’s fine, but on the second she’s tense, her muscles tense and twisted into rocky knots under Clarke’s body. Her feet thump heavy on the ground as her pace slows, and Clarke only allows it for another ten seconds before tightening her legs.

“Stop.” She wiggles until Lexa drops her arms to her sides and slides down Lexa’s back. “What’s wrong?” Lexa’s jaw clenches. She stares at a spot on the ground and refuses to answer. “Okay,” Clarke says, soothing. She hesitates, but takes Lexa’s hand in hers, pausing to let Lexa pull away if she wants, but Lexa stands like a statue, the light from the streetlamp catching in her dark hair. Clarke takes a step back, applying the faintest bit of pressure: Lexa takes a dragging step, her toe scuffing on the concrete. Clarke takes another step; Lexa follows. Clarke walks backwards for ten feet, Lexa relaxing with every step, and then they walk together, fingers tangled.

When they reach the car Lexa lets out a big breath, noisy and relieved. “Sorry,” she says, quiet. “Bad memories.”

“It’s fine,” Clarke says, and she wants to hug Lexa but she’s still drawn up, tucked into herself even as she stands tall and composed, leaning a hip on the hood of the car. She swallows her reassurances and her questions and starts the car, pulling away and watching Lexa breathe out of the corner of her eye, Lexa’s hands flexing into fists and then flattening out again, over and over.

//

Clarke pulls into a Burger King, parking the car and turning the engine off. “I hate drive throughs,” she explains, fishing money out of her purse. “You want something?”

“I’ll come with you,” Lexa says, surprising her.

Clarke gets a fries and a soda, and on an impulse, a vanilla milkshake. Lexa wanders through the deserted seating area, empty so late at night except for a few tired stragglers, and she looks aimless, drifting past the condiments and plastic straws in paper wrappers, the napkin dispensers. Clarke grabs their food, filling her cup with Sprite, and Lexa falls into step behind her as they leave. “C’mon,” Clarke says, hopping up on the trunk and slurping loudly. She thumps the trunk beside her and Lexa sits beside her. “For you.” Clarke hands her the milkshake.

Lexa sips. “I feel like you’re accusing me of something,” she says.

Clarke snickers. “What? Could I be implying that you’re very vanilla?”

“I’ll have you know I snuck into several art galleries tonight.”

“Oh hold up then.” Clarke reaches for the cup, “I’ll have to exchange this for mint chocolate chip, you bad bitch.”

Lexa pulls the cup away, protective. “They don’t have mint chocolate chip,” she protests, and drinks.

“Pop the lid, I want to dip my fries in.”

Lexa leans farther away. “Fuck off, that’s disgusting.”

Clarke stabs a fry at her. “What? Have you even tried it? It’s delicious.”

“I don’t want to try it. Leave my milkshake alone.” Lexa pushes her away and they scuffle a little.

Clarke crawls over her lap, insistent. “Whose milkshake? I paid for it.”

“Clarke!” They tumble from the trunk, sliding off and fumbling to get their feet under them, and Lexa drops the cup, splashing milkshake on the asphalt. “Look what you did,” she grumbles.

Clarke bends over and swoops her fry through the biggest puddle, careful not to drag it on the ground. She pops it in her mouth and grabs the bag off the ground where it had fallen, digging in for another handful of fries. Lexa is looking at her, expression slack in disbelief and disgust. “This is a no judgement zone,” Clarke tells her, and sticks a fry into Lexa’s open mouth.

 

They split the remaining fries, the bag propped on the center console, and Clarke turns the radio on to some generic pop station, cranking it down to background music. Lexa crunches away next to her, seat leaned back and her feet propped on the dashboard. “Sweet potato fries are better,” she muses, and Clarke hums in agreement.

“Why didn’t you just say you didn’t want to walk that way?” Clarke asks, the questioning burning its way through her gut since Lexa went tense and unhappy under her.

“You wanted tacos.”

“Not more than I want you to be comfortable.”

Lexa grunts. She turns the radio off and shifts, building to something. Clarke gives her the last two fries. “This was a good night,” Lexa says, between bites. She licks the salt and grease off her fingers and sighs. “Thank you, Clarke.” It doesn’t feel quite like what she’d meant to say, like she chickened out at the last second, but it warms Clarke’s chest all the same.

//

“I bought chips,” Raven announces, dumping her bag on table and tossing a can of pringles at Octavia’s face. “What are we watching?”

“Whatever’s on,” Clarke says, tossing pizza slices on paper plates and balancing soda under her arm as she settles onto the couch. Octavia helps her spread the food out on the coffee table.

“Is Lexa joining us?”

“Studying,” Clarke reports, popping the tab on her soda and gulping until the bubbles make her wince and pull a face. “Already tried to invite her, but she’s got some exam tomorrow.”

“Shocking,” Octavia says, stabbing at the remote with two fingers until the television clicks on. “The only thing more surprising than Lexa joining us for movie night would be Anya joining us for movie night.” Raven snatches the remote from her, clicking through the channels rapidly.

“Ooh,” she says, “Batman!”

Clarke perks up. “The one with Anne Hathaway?”

“No.” Clarke deflates a little and takes a big bite of her pizza. She’s seen it before and she tracks the plot with half an ear, preferring to giggle at Raven’s muttered commentary and fight over the last pepperoni with Octavia. She comes away victorious, and Octavia rolls her eyes at her smug look.

“Maybe Lexa’s Batman,” Raven says, thoughtful. “And she’s mysterious because she hasn’t yet become the hero our University deserves. We already know she can kick ass.”

“She is soft-footed,” Octavia adds, teasing, “like a ninja. She scared the shit out of me yesterday, I almost threw my ramen at her.” She turns to Clarke, expectant, but Clarke is remembering how Lexa looked on a city block, her shoulders hunched, trying to face a personal demon because Clarke wanted a taco, of all things.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she mutters, and stands, snagging another slice of pizza as she goes. She walks past the bathroom, to Lexa’s door, nudging it open and sticking her head in.

“Hey.”

Lexa looks up from her books. Anya glares from the bed. “Hello Clarke. Do you need something?”

“No.” She holds out the plate. “I brought you guys pizza. There’s uh, one pepperoni and one cheese, so you know. Fight it out between yourselves.”

Lexa takes it. “Thank you.”

“That’s all,” she mutters, backing up, “so--happy studying?” She shuts the door, her last view of Lexa a bemused look down at the plate of food in her hands.

 

When she gets back Raven and Octavia look at her, heavy and judgmental. “You have a thing for Lexa,” Raven says.

“Shut up.”

Octavia pats her shoulder. “We’ll be here when it all goes down in flames.”

Chapter 2

“Hey.” Clarke raps her knuckles on Lexa’s doorframe, surprised the door is open. “Come with us to the county fair?” Lexa looks up from her desk, her glasses sliding down her nose.

“I have an exam on Tuesday.”

“It’s Friday. And we have Monday off.”

“I’m aware of the calendar, Clarke.”

“Great! So that’s the first part of your exam, right there.” Lexa stares at her. “You know… the date. And your name. I assume you’re aware of that also.” She coughs. “C’mon, Lexa, hang out with us. Ride a shitty ride. Eat a churro.”

“Okay,” Lexa says, shutting her textbook with a snap.

“Huh. I thought that would take more work. Ready in ten?” Lexa nods. “See you soon,” Clarke chirps, too cheery, and almost trips on her own feet. She closes the door as she goes, so Lexa can change, and when she turns Raven is six inches away. “Jesus!”

“Did you just do finger guns at your girlcrush?”

“Shouldn’t that brace make you more detectable, not less? You’re like a ninja.”

“She was wearing her glasses, huh?”

“Yeah.” Clarke blows out a sigh. Raven pats her shoulder, sympathetic.

//

“Anya is meeting us there,” Lexa says, her helmet dangling from her fingers as they walk out to the parking lot and Octavia’s car.

Raven chokes on her own spit. “Anya wants to go to a carnival?”

“She loves churros.” Lexa stops in front of her motorcycle. “Clarke, would you like to ride with me?” She tugs on her gloves and Clarke watches her hands curl into worn black leather, the fingers cut off. “You mentioned being curious.” She touches a handlebar, her voice carefully neutral. “I have an extra helmet; it’s good night for a ride.” She bends to retie a boot, the laces slapping against each other.

“Did you hear that?” Raven mumbles to Octavia.

“Was it the sound of Clarke’s panties dropping?” They fistbump, and Clarke takes a second to plot their gruesome murders. She’s pretty confident she could get Anya to help; the only tricky part will be not becoming a victim alongside them.

“I’d love to,” she agrees, stepping hard on Octavia’s foot. When Lexa stands she looks pleased. She tugs a helmet over Clarke’s head, the big black one with the tinted visor, her hands careful on Clarke’s hair. “How’s it feel?” She takes the extra helmet for her herself, an olive green hard plastic hat with padding and a dangling chinstrap.

“Heavy.” Lexa straddles the bike and Clarke takes advantage of the dark visor over her face to really appreciate how the engine rumbles between Lexa’s strong thighs, her hair tossed over one shoulder as she buckles her own helmet. It’s possibly the best thing Clarke’s seen in her entire life, and it doesn’t hold a candle to the feeling of sitting behind Lexa, pressed all along Lexa’s back and her hands flat against the planes of Lexa’s torso, tucked inside Anya’s leather jacket and feeling the muscles in her abdomen ripple as she steers with her weight, zipping between cars and around turns.

“What’d you think?” Lexa asks when they park, helping Clarke tug the helmet off and stow it. Her hair is flat on one side, and Clarke fluffs it back up, grinning. Lexa’s eyes are bright and her face is windswept and flushed.

“I loved it.” Adrenaline hums in her blood and she steps closer, Lexa’s smile going lazy and languid when she has to look up, Lexa’s boots giving her a few inches over Clarke in flats. Lexa’s just leaning down, her eyelids fluttering shut, when Clarke squeaks: “Anya!”

Lexa’s eyes slit open. “Not what I was hoping to hear.” She turns. “Oh.”

Anya is leaning against to the car behind them, arms crossed and her weight against the driver’s side door. There’s a man sitting behind the wheel, looking confused and intimidated. “The state fair?” Anya asks, shoving off and taking a single step forward to arch an eyebrow. The man tries to the door and she kicks it shut without looking. Clarke gives the man a sympathetic wave.

“Do you even know him?”

“No.”

“Clarke!” Raven and Octavia bound up to her, laughing. Raven links their arms. “I smell cotton candy!” They surge around her, grinning, and she catches Lexa by the wrist to pull her along with them, towards the corny music and faded shrieking.

 

Lexa doesn’t scream on rides. She points out, with unnerving accuracy, every safety violation in sight as they inch forward in the lines, then breathes nervously when the tired bored employee tugs once on their belts, and when Clarke feels the first drop in her belly, the ride careening around the first curve, she turns to look: Lexa is clutching at the side of the car but her eyes are exhilarated, wide and gorgeous. Clarke feels like she’s in free-fall, the Earth falling away and then rushing closer, and her scream wraps around them both, fierce and electric.

//

“It’s time for games,” Raven says, and Clarke knows she’s not sick of rides so much as she is in need of a break from walking, her leg free from its brace so she can fit in the seats.

“Sure,” she agrees quickly, sharing a quick look with Octavia. “Hey, the snack cart!” She turns to Anya. “We can wait while you grab something.” Anya hasn’t stepped foot on a single ride, glowering from just outside the lines, and Clarke’s hoping a snack will improve her mood. If that’s even possible.

Anya looks like the only thing she wants to grab is Clarke’s throat. “What.”

“Churros,” Lexa says, mild. “You love them. It’s why you came, obviously.”

Anya stands very still for three long seconds. “Obviously. Churros. My favorite.” She stalks to the stand, cutting in front of a small child and thrusting money at the woman behind the cart.

“She’s having a wonderful time,” Lexa says. Raven snorts.

“And you?” Clarke asks.

“I as well.”

“I’m going to win you a panda,” Clarke declares, and Lexa smiles.

“Are you.”

“Yes.” Clarke doesn’t know if she’s ever seen Lexa this relaxed, her limbs loose and easy, her fingers hooked in the pockets of her dark jeans. She smiles back and Lexa reaches out, taking Clarke’s hand in hers. Her thumb brushes Clarke’s knuckles. Anya returns, holding the churro like one might a dead rat. She thrusts it at Raven as soon as she’s in range.

“Here. It’s not the kind I like.” Raven makes a questioning noise. “Too much salt,” Anya grunts.

“Sugar,” Lexa murmurs, still looking at Clarke.

“Yes. Too much sugar.”

“No such thing.” Raven snatches it up and takes a huge bite, cinnamon sugar flying everywhere.

 

“It’s rigged,” Clarke insists when she fails to pop a single balloon. She pouts. “I’m going to win you that panda, I promise.” She digs out another bill and Lexa catches her wrist before she can hand it over to the game operator.

“I don’t want the panda.”

“Nobody asked you.” Clarke narrows her eyes at the wall of balloons, planning her next move. Lexa tugs her over to a different booth. “Oh right, because this one isn’t rigged.” It’s the pellet gun game, and Lexa takes the money out of her hand, passing it over the counter and hefting the toy rifle in one hand.

“Of course it is.” She stands straight and strong, the cheap wood pressed against her shoulder. She ignores the larger, easier targets and aims at the four inch tin targets shaped like tiny men high up on a shelf. She nails them, one after the other, pellets pinging in a staccato rhythm. Lexa places the rifle down with a click. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t be beat.”

“This isn’t helping Raven’s conspiracy theories, you know.”

“I know.”

“Which animal do you want,” the operator says, cracking her gum and waiting for death to release her from seasonal employment.

“Clarke?”

“I was supposed to win you a prize,” Clarke grumbles, and points at a stuffed whale, green with brown polka dots, cheap fabric and already frayed stitches. Lexa looks it over before handing it to Clarke.

“It looks like a sick tree frog.” One of the fins is noticeably misshapen. “It’s defective.”

“Many would pass it by,” Clarke says defensively, snatching it up and clutching it to her chest. “He might never be adopted if we don’t take him.”

Lexa softens. “You are ever so kind to broken things,” she murmurs.

“Oh my god.” Octavia breaks into their moment. “It’s a stuffed whale. Save your dramatic symbolism for your second date.” Clarke flushes, damning her fair skin, and spots of colour spread high across Lexa’s cheekbones. “Raven’s done for the day.”

“Am not,” Raven says from where she’s obviously leaning on a fence. “I could go another six hours. Fight me.” She shoots a sideways glance at Anya. “Please don’t fight me.”

“I’ll protect you.” Octavia brandishes a plastic sword, smacking Clarke’s shoulder in her excitement. “Oops.”

Clarke bats it away. “Where did you even get that?”

//

The walk out to the parking lot is jubilant, coasting on laughter and a good night and freshly made memories, Lexa’s hand in hers, and Clarke tries to put every second in her long term memory as it happens, desperate to remember how she feels in this exact moment, happiness right here, in the chatter of her friends and the chill air, Lexa’s sideways smirk at Anya and Anya’s rolled eyes, the lingering smell of old straw and cinnamon sugar.

A third of the way to the car Raven’s leg buckles and she yelps, stumbling as she tries to stabilize. She curses. Anya scoops her into a piggyback before Octavia or Clarke can get there. “Help!” Raven shrieks, “it’s happening! She’s taking me away to be murdered!” She flails at a passing stranger’s sleeve. “Call the police!”

“Shof op,” Anya snaps, “there is no shame.”

“Ha ha,” Clarke says reassuringly to the stranger. “Drugs are a hell of a thing.” He casts them all a faintly disapproving look and crosses the aisle to get away from them.

“I’m going to end up on the news,” Raven groans, but she hooks her good leg up over Anya’s hips and lets her arms dangle around Anya’s neck. “Remember me fondly.”

“I’ll send a good photo in.” Octavia gets bored of her sword and tosses it into the back of a pickup while they pass it. “Clarke will sing a dirge at the service.” Obligingly, Clarke hums a few bars of Danny Boy, and Lexa actually laughs, silvery in the night air. She looks surprised at herself.

 

“It’s not a bad thing,” Clarke tells her when they leave the others grouped around Octavia’s car, Anya demanding the right to drive. “To be happy.”

“Perhaps not.” Lexa doesn’t speak again until they’re both settled on the bike. “Thank you, Clarke.”

“It’s just a fair.”

“Not just.” Clarke leans her clunky helmeted head on Lexa’s back, and Lexa takes them the long way home, winding on the side streets, and Clarke watches the rectangles of light from the streetlamps race each other to the cracks in the sidewalks.

 

They’re not far from home when Clarke realizes where they are and tugs at Lexa’s waist. Lexa doesn’t slow and Clarke pokes her again. “Pull over,” she half-shouts, and Lexa parks by the curb, cutting the engine. Clarke hops off, leaving her helmet dangling from a handlebar and yanking Lexa’s off to balance it on the other. “Come on,” she urges, grabbing Lexa’s hand and tugging her across the street to a neighborhood park.

“Parks close at sunset.” Lexa’s boots slide on the tanbark as they reach a playground.

“Live a little,” Clarke says, releasing her hand to sit on a swing. Lexa hesitates, then sits next to her on the other swing. “This is a good playground. You can tell because the swings are high up.” She nudges herself into movement, starting to pump her legs.

“I have never been on a playground before,” Lexa admits, swaying a little but not kicking off.

“Where did you grow up, Amish Pennsylvania?”

“Not quite.” Lexa’s gone guarded again, and Clarke sighs.

“Well if you don’t want to swing, get off and push me.” Lexa scoffs, but it’s enough to get her moving, and soon she’s swinging higher than Clarke. “Liar,” Clarke accuses.

“It’s just physics.” Lexa’s smug again.

“Close your eyes,” Clarke advises. “It’s better, trust me.” She doesn't take her own advice, preferring to watch Lexa’s eyes obediently close, her smile go soft and wondering. “Now for the best part.” Clarke waits until Lexa’s looking before jumping, feeling the fraction of second of freefall before she thumps to the ground. Lexa’s swinging still, watching her, and Clarke wiggles her fingers. “I’ll catch you,” she says solemnly, and Lexa snorts.

She jumps, her lithe body stretched out towards the stars, and Clarke doesn’t really know why but she steps sideways, placing herself in the path of Lexa’s landing. Lexa collides with her in a jarring impact of elbows and solid mass, and they go down hard. Clarke’s teeth clack together as she hits the tanbark, Lexa on top of her. Lexa yelps, then groans. “Not my best idea,” Clarke admits, Lexa’s hair in her mouth and a rock digging into her spine.

Lexa goes up on one elbow, her legs bracketing Clarke’s hips, their chests pressed together. Their faces are inches apart. “That sign over there says no jumping.” Her breath ghosts over Clarke’s lips.

“We’re already here after dark. Label us bad bitches and add it to our criminal records.”

“I actually have a criminal record.” Lexa leans a little closer.

“Mine’s sealed,” Clarke says, and tilts her lips into Lexa’s. Lexa doesn't move, frozen, and Clarke licks at her lips, testing the seam with her tongue before drawing away. Lexa bears down, her body a heavy welcoming weight, and their second kiss is electric. Clarke frees her arms from where they’re under Lexa’s chest to run them up Lexa’s back, pulling her closer, tangling her fingers in Lexa’s hair, tugging gently and then hard when it makes Lexa moan, her mouth going slack enough for Clarke to test the sharpness of her teeth, feel the ridges on her the roof of her mouth.

“Clarke,” Lexa pants, sex rough and graveled, and Clarke shivers. Lexa drops a thigh between Clarke’s legs, rocking, and Clarke rips Anya’s jacket off her, tossing it carelessly aside and going to work on the buttons of Lexa’s button up, Lexa’s mouth trailing fire down her neck. She gets Lexa’s shirt open to her breastbone and her triumphant cry is cut short by a groan--Lexa’s wearing an undershirt.

“Jesus wept,” she grumbles and Lexa laughs again, open and joyous, and it’s amazing but not quite in line with the noise Clarke's looking for, so Clarke latches her teeth on Lexa’s collarbones to make her moan again. Clarke’s hips are riding Lexa’s thigh, faster and with less deliberate rhythm every second, and she sets her attention to undoing Lexa’s jeans while Lexa reclaims her mouth. Clarke gets her unbuttoned and unzipped with fumbling fingers, going one handed to use the other to pull Lexa’s head sideways by her hair so she can bite at Lexa’s earlobe and tug hard.

“Jok,” Lexa chokes, “Clarke, beja--” Clarke presses two fingers against Lexa through her underwear and Lexa’s babbling breaks into nonsense, wet and burning through the fabric against Clarke’s soft probing. She yanks Clarke’s blouse open with a jerk of buttons and ripped threads, biting above the cup of Clarke’s bra and Clarke’s just swiped her fingers once through Lexa’s drenched silky center when they’re blinded by a bright white light. Lexa jerks off her, the denim scraping Clarke’s hand as she tears herself away. They blink rapidly, head turned and squinty, and there’s a cop standing there with a big black flashlight aimed straight at them.

Clarke doesn’t know what she looks like--although she can imagine, her shirt ripped open and her bra twisted, her fingers shining--but Lexa is wrecked, swollen lips and hickeys blooming on her throat and collarbones, her eyes completely blown and her chest heaving, her jeans undone and riding low.

“Park’s closed,” the cop says dryly. “Do I need to check ID?”

“No.” Lexa is composing herself incredibly quickly. “We’re both adults, and we haven’t been drinking.” She tugs at her shirt once before giving it up for a lost cause, helping Clarke to her feet. Clarke has the absurd urge to offer her hand to the Officer for a handshake, except her right hand is still wet from the sweet soft clench of Lexa’s body. She’s sucking on her fingers before she can think it through, just trying to clean herself up, and freezes when she sees them both staring at her, the cop disbelieving, Lexa with her mouth dropped open. Lexa makes a choking noise, deep in her throat. Clarke goes bright red.

“Find a room,” the officer suggests.

“Of course.” Lexa grabs Clarke by the upper arm. “Thank you, Officer. We apologize for… getting carried away.” She snatches up her jacket and drags Clarke out of the park and across the street, until they’re back by her bike. She steps away, doing up her shirt as best she can, breathing harshly and dragging a hand across her face. She doesn’t slow or soften until she turns and sees Clarke standing still.

“Here,” she murmurs, offering Clarke the jacket and helping her shrug it on. “Sorry. About your shirt, I mean. I can pay to have it replaced.” She fidgets, then picks up the helmets. “We should go. The others will be wondering what kept us.”

“Really?” Clarke props her hands on her hips. “We almost have public sex and your only comment is that ‘they’ll wonder what kept us’?”

Lexa’s brow creases. “What do want me to say?”

“Uh, anything about how you feel? Where we should go from here? If you even like me?”

“Of course I like you. You think I’d--with someone I didn’t even like?”

“How should I know? Because you're so forthcoming with your thoughts and feelings?”

Lexa takes a short hard breath. “Let’s just go home.” She tries to hand Clarke the helmet. Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. “Clarke.” Clarke refuses to look at her. “You’re acting like a child.” Clarke pulls out her phone and dials Octavia.

“Clarke? Where are you guys? Anya wouldn’t let us get pineapple on the pizza.”

“I need a ride.” She texts Octavia her location.

“Onya,” Lexa is murmuring behind her, and then a quick sentence in her language.

“What? What happened--hey! What--” Sounds of a faint scuffle echo over the line, and then phone beeps twice, disconnected. Clarke squints at the screen, frowning, and calls her back. It goes straight to voicemail and she turns to look accusingly at Lexa, who has her own phone in one hand.

“Are you ready yet?” she asks, calm. Clarke heroically resists flinging her phone at Lexa’s face. She opens an app, stabbing at the screen. “Clarke.”

“I’m calling an Uber.” She turns her back on Lexa. “I don’t want you to have to drive home with a child you may or may not like--” Lexa snatches her phone away. Clarke huffs. “Are you seriously going to make me ride with you if I don’t want to?” Lexa’s jaw flexes once, twice. She gives Clarke her phone back and stows the helmets while Clarke arranges and pays for a ride, then straddles her bike, her movements jerky and furious. Clarke waits, but Lexa doesn't start the engine. “What are you waiting for?”

“Your Uber,” she snaps. “I’m not going to leave you here.”

“It’s ten minutes away, I think I’ll live. Put your helmet on and go home.”

“I have every intention of going home. In ten minutes.” Clarke rolls her eyes so hard they twinge.

They sit in stony silence for twelve long minutes. A car pulls up, the sticker prominent in the windshield, and the passenger window slides down. “Hey,” Clarke says, stepping close and checking the driver against the picture on her phone. “Give me a second,” she tells him, a friendly looking middle aged man. She shrugs off Anya’s jacket. “Here.”

“Are you serious?” Lexa gestures at the ruin of her shirt. “Wear it until you get back.”

“I don’t want to.” She throws it and Lexa catches it, automatic.

“Clarke,” she hisses, “wear the fucking jacket.”

“Excuse me,” Clarke says, leaning back to the window. “Are you a sexual predator?”

The man blinks at her. “No?”

Lexa snarls. “Are you asking her or telling her?”

“I’m not a pervert,” the man says. “But, uh, you could call for someone else?”

“You’re fine.” Clarke slips into the backseat and hears the bike roar to life. She catches sight of Lexa and frowns. “Hold on,” she says, and rolls the window down. “Are you crazy? Put on a helmet.”

Lexa looks straight ahead. “Wear the jacket.”

“Are you--I might be cold for a half a minute, you could die.” Lexa refuses to answer, or to look at her. “I don’t want the fucking jacket, Lexa!”

“Then leave it in the goddamn car,” Lexa snarls. She flings the jacket through the window and peels away, her tires screeching on the road. Clarke yanks the jacket off her face where it landed and fumes.

“Uh,” the driver says again.

“Sorry.” Clarke sighs, giving him the address, and they pull away from the curb. She hears the bike come back around them, rumbling away.

“Your… friend is following us.”

“Yeah. I figured she would.”

 

“Sorry,” she says again when they reach the house and slow to a stop. “I don’t have any small bills for a tip.” She brightens. “Do you have a girlfriend who’d like a very nice leather jacket?”

“No,” the driver says, apologetic.

“Daughter?”

“Sorry.” The driver checks his rearview mirror. “You sure you’re okay? I could walk you in.” Lexa’s standing on the front steps, her fists clenched.

“No, she’s not--we live together.”

“I can drop you somewhere else,” he offers, and Clarke sighs again.

“Thanks, I’m okay.” She slides out, waving as he leaves. She sits on the curb, feeling goosebumps rise, and after a moment Lexa’s boots step in front of her.

“Waiting for Octavia to carry you in?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Anyone ever tell you that you can be a real bitch? I thought we should talk out here, away from…” she gestures towards the house.

Lexa sits beside her. “It’s been said.”

“What?”

“That I’m a bitch. I disagree.”

“Of course you do.” Clarke fights the smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “I had a bad breakup, you know. In the summer.”

“I remember.”

“I don’t think--I’m not ready for a relationship. Not yet.”

“I understand.” Lexa braces her elbows on her knees. “I’m in a… similar state.”

“So maybe,” Clarke says, smiling hopefully, “we just--stay friends?”

Lexa’s frowning, almost confused. “We’re friends?” Clarke’s smile disappears. She stands.

“Every time I think I get somewhere with you--you just--argh!” She storms to the door, thankful she doesn’t have to fumble with her keys, the doorknob turning easily under her hand.

“Clarke, come on--wait--” Clarke stomps through the living room, ignoring Octavia's questioning look and the pizza falling out of Raven’s surprised mouth, and slams her bedroom door behind her.

//

She staggers out of her room the next day at noon, yawning, and Octavia hands her a mug of coffee. “Bless you,” she mumbles, falling into a chair and sipping eagerly. “Where’s Raven?”

“Sleeping. She was up all night having epiphanies about whatever she’s reanimating in the garage.” Octavia crosses herself. “May it be mechanical and not biological.”

“Amen,” Clarke agrees.

“Lexa and Anya are out. She left you this.” Octavia passes her a pastry bag from the bakery two streets over and a note.

“This is empty.”

“It had chocolate and you were asleep. There’s Captain Crunch left in the pantry. I think.”

Clarke unfolds the note, a single index card folded in half: I do like you in black ink, so neatly printed it might as well have been typed. “Is there any chance you didn’t read this?”

“Not a single one. Should I tell Lexa you like-like her back at recess today?”

“I gave Anya’s motorcycle jacket to a an Uber driver.”

There’s a short silence. Clarke takes another long drink of coffee. “Do you want me or Raven to deliver your eulogy?”

“Bellamy.”

Octavia gasps. “You bitch.”

Clarke glares. “Yeah well you ate my chocolate… whatever.”

//

Clarke supposes if there’s one advantage to almost fucking her housemate on a children’s play structure and then spitefully giving away her other housemate’s expensive clothing it’s that she gets a lot of work done, holed up in her room and avoiding dealing with the consequences of her actions.

 

Octavia bangs on her door late-ish Sunday night, hollering about half-price appetizers until Clarke emerges, and they brave the garage to drag Raven out. “Applebee's freaks me out,” she mutters while Octavia’s parking poorly across two spaces and flipping off the driver behind them. “It’s like half families with small children, one third jello shots.”

“What the remaining fourth?”

“That’s not how fractions work, Griffin, but I’ll have you know that what remains is… rats, probably.”

“Okay,” Octavia says when they’ve seated and ordered and gotten their drinks. “Spill.”

Clarke sighs, and beckons a server over for a jello shot. She shoots it like a champ, and then has another, slugging it back, sucking the jello between her teeth. “I fingered Lexa on a swingset.” She passes the server some money. “Keep the change.”

“Don’t worry,” Raven tells him, “Lexa is an adult. No need to call the police. You could have phrased that better,” she adds, after he leaves.

Clarke shrugs. “I highly doubt that’s the weirdest thing he’s heard.”

“So you had sex. Why’d you have to take an Uber home?”

“We didn’t have sex. We got busted by a cop, and then we had an argument.”

“About what?” The waiter is back with buffalo wings, and Raven eats two before he can even set the plate down, moaning pornagraphically.

“I don’t even know. And then I gave the jacket to the Uber driver and she said we weren’t friends.” Clarke frowns. “Sort of. She was like, surprised I thought we were friends.”

“Maybe…” Octavia bites her lips. “You know I didn’t have friends for a long time, right? Until I met Clarke.” Raven slings an arm around her shoulder, reassuring. “And when you don’t have that, but you know what it is and you see other people have it, it’s just like… it’s something you saw on TV, or read in a book. It doesn’t feel real, even when it’s happening to you. Especially at first.” She frowns. “That wasn’t as clear as I’d like.”

“I get it.” Clarke stabs a wing with her fork. “I think you're right. I’ll talk to her. So tell me about you guys? Anya brought you pizza?”

Octavia rolls her eyes, clearing her throat and shaking away her moment of emotional vulnerability. “When she went to bathroom while we were waiting Raven followed her.”

“To make sure she wasn't putting rat poison in the sauce!” The waiter swings by, refilling their sodas. “Plus I wanted to hear her pee.”

Octavia watches the waiter leave. “I don’t think we can come back here.”

“Well she left before I could test the robot hypothesis further. I think the toilet joke was too much.”

“She did carry Raven,” Octavia points out, “and she wasn’t a bitch about it. I don’t know, she’s not too bad. Maybe.”

//

“You’re up early,” Lexa says on Monday morning, coming in from her run. Anya strides past her without a second look at Clarke, taking the full mug of coffee out of her hands without breaking pace. Lexa nudges the front door shut with her heel and pulls her headphones out.

“Hey,” Clarke says, three full seconds later. “That. Mine.” Lexa comes into the kitchen, clinking in the dishrack for a clean mug and pouring her another cup. “Thanks. I don’t think I’m awake yet.”

“Mm.” Lexa opens the fridge, coming up with a bottle of water and drinking long, one arm resting on the open door. She’s sunkissed and shining with sweat and her head is thrown back and Clarke can see the indents of her teeth from Friday night in Lexa’s throat, rippling while she swallows. It’s knocks all of Clarke’s plans and rehearsed lines out of her head.

“Octavia thinks you don't have any friends,” she blurts.

Lexa replaces the bottle in the fridge and shuts the door, thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Truthfully, Clarke had expected an argument. “What about Anya?”

“Anya is not my friend.” The response is immediate and sure, and Clarke doesn't have stake in whatever weird theories Raven’s been cooking up but she thinks Lexa is strong and brave and lonely and she can’t believe no one else in the world has ever noticed.

“So you were surprised? When I said we should stay friends. You didn’t know we already were.”

“We do not act like you or Octavia. Or Raven.” Lexa drums her fingers on the counter.

“Of course not. I’ve known Octavia since high school. That special weird familiarity takes years.”

“And Raven?”

“I've known her even longer, Plus, Raven's an anomaly. You can’t use her as a baseline for anything.” Clarke nudges her mug across the table and Lexa takes it, sipping. “Okay.” Clarke stands. “You probably need to shower and plug Anya in for a charge, and I’m going back to bed until a reasonable hour.”

“Clarke, it’s almost nine.”

“Shut up.” Clarke extends a hand. “Let’s make it official: friends?”

“Friends,” Lexa agrees, taking her hand. She tugs sharply, sending Clarke falling into her chest, her arms around Clarke in a hug.

“What the hell, Lexa--you’re gross!”

“It’s been three days,” Lexa says, and Clarke can feel Lexa’s heart pressed against hers, still beating quick from her run. “As a friend, I must tell you: time for a shower, Clarke.”

//

“I wish to seek your advice,” Lexa says one night, the week before finals and the end of the semester, the winter holidays. She’s standing at the stove, poking at the stir fry. Clarke has paint up to her elbow on her right arm, sticky and peeling between her fingers, but she’s lounging in the kitchen on a break, Raven and Octavia holed up in their room with the stereo turned all the way up, desperately cramming. Clarke has no idea what Anya’s doing; stabbing her small dolls of Raven and Octavia and bemoaning her lack of skill at the Dark Arts, probably. Clarke’s been weighing the odds of Lexa letting her sneak a bite from the frying pan for ten minutes before Lexa speaks.

Clarke’s first instinct is to poke fun at Lexa’s phrasing, so formal, but she remembers English really isn’t Lexa’s first language and it’s probably not easy for her, to ask for help, so she swallows back being an asshole with considerable effort. “Speak and be heard,” she says instead, and then winces. “Sorry. What’s up?”

“It is complicated. I cannot break confidences. But… there is a matter I believe Anya should address. The window for doing so draws near, and I am not sure how to speak on the subject without overstepping.

Clarke chews her lip, because it’s not a lot to go on but it’s clearly important, and she wants to help. “Have you tried to talk to her about it yet?”

“We don’t talk much,” Lexa says, which is the biggest understatement Clarke has ever heard in her life. “What do you do when you speak with Octavia on delicate matters?” Lexa puts the spoon down and tugs Clarke to the sink, starting the water and picking the paint off her arm with the aid of dishsoap and power of will.

Clarke watches the paint peel away, her skin incredibly pale against Lexa’s tanned fingers. “I just sort of power through. I tell her I love her first, and after I apologize if I made her feel shitty or crossed a line. Sometimes she throws things at me, sometimes we hug. Sometimes both.” Lexa frowns. “Sorry, but there’s no magic script. It’s just messy and terrible and sometimes you cry.”

“I highly doubt we will cry.”

“How would you know? You’ve never tried it. You probably won’t even get out the first word. You’ll just say ‘Anya’ and the waterworks will start.”

“I,” Lexa says, drawn up and affronted, “the waterworks--” Clarke giggles and Lexa rolls her eyes, toweling Clarke’s clean arm briskly. “Go get the others. Dinner’s ready.”

“Tomorrow Octavia’s brother is coming. We’ll take him out, give you guys the house. You can talk to her then.” Lexa looks at her, grateful and smiling, and Clarke seizes her opportunity. “Let me taste.” She reaches over the stove for a little piece of chicken and Lexa smacks her hand with the rubber spoon. “Tyrant,” she mutters, sucking on her stung fingers. She goes down the hall and thumps a fist on the door. “Hey! Food!”

“Okay!” Octavia hollers. Clarke goes to Anya’s door and it opens against her knock. She’s seen their room half a dozen times already, but every time she can’t help casting a look around it, so curious. It’s how it always is: incredibly neat, a bunkbed set against one wall, a desk against the other, the closet firmly shut, shoes laid out neatly under the lowest bunk. Anya lounges on the top bed, twirling a butterfly knife in one hand and glaring at the ceiling.

“No luck with the hoodoo, huh?” Clarke asks sympathetically. Anya cuts her a look and she coughs. “Dinner’s ready.” Anya swings down to the ground in a single graceful movement, the knife disappearing up her sleeve.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she murmurs lowly as she passes Clarke in the hall, “I would want the pleasure of killing you with my own hands.”

//

When Raven first opens the door and gasps, Octavia and Clarke and Bellamy crowding close behind her to get out of the cold wind and Clarke steps up to peer over her shoulder, her first thought is something ridiculous--that they’ve obviously been hit by some kind of odd weather pattern; perhaps an indoor tornado. She pushes her way inside, the others hot on her heels.

“Holy shit,” Octavia says, “have we been robbed?” The room is in shambles: the table is lying in a heap of broken wood and splinters, the floor lamp is smashed, the light bulb shattered, everything that was on the table is strewn on the floor, including chunks of ceramic plates and shards of glass; there’s a fork stuck into the kitchen wall next to the lightswitch.

“I’m calling the police,” Bellamy says, and it jars Clarke out of her shocked stupor.

“Lexa? Lexa!” Summoned, Lexa appears in the mouth of the hallway. She’s holding a broom and she blinks at them, surprised.

“I thought you’d be out until later.” She looks around the room. “Ah. I should have texted you to stay away until I’d cleaned.”

“Am I still calling the police?” Bellamy asks. “Because she seems very calm.”

“There is no need for the police. Anya and I had… a discussion.” She steps out of the shadows of the hall. “It became spirited.”

“Holy shit,” Octavia repeats, because Lexa’s hair is a tangled mess, half falling out of a ponytail, and one eye is fast on the way to swelling shut. There’s blood on her forearms; her knuckles are split.

“Really yo-yo-ing on the police thing,” Bellamy mumbles.

Clarke sees red. She storms through the room, kicking debris out of her way. “Where is she? I’m going to kill her.”

“Who?” Lexa has the audacity to ask. Clarke shifts gears.

“Nevermind. You’re first. I’m going to kill you first. Won’t be hard, Anya’s apparently already started the job for me.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I’m not making any sense? I’m not making any sense? Our house is war zone, Lexa, and you’re the walking wounded. What the fuck happened?”

“I took your advice, to talk to Anya.” Lexa surveys the destruction. “I did… adapt it. A little.”

“A little,” Octavia giggles, with a faint edge of hysteria. Clarke throws her a glare and Octavia claps a hand over her mouth.

“Talking is very well,” Lexa continues, “but Anya and I communicate better through--”

“Attempted murder?”

“Action.” Lexa frowns. “I’ll clean it up. I have already ordered replacement furniture. It will be here by Thursday.”

“Okay,” Raven says suddenly, before Clarke can cap her anger and channel it into words. Her voice is loud and serious and cutting, and it makes Clarke and Lexa turn. “Is the couch unscathed?”

“Yes,” Lexa says.

“Good. Sit on it.” Lexa’s mouth goes flat, mulish, but she casts a last look at the destruction around her and sighs. She sits. Raven limps in, shutting the front door behind her.

“I get that you’re a private person, and you’ve got secrets, and all jokes aside, it’s your business. But you made some of it our business, because we’re living with people who apparently think assault and battery is an okay after dinner activity.”

“There’s no such thing as assault and battery,” Lexa says, almost on automatic. She stops herself, shaking her head. “Sorry.”

“Where’s Anya?”

“She is on… personal business. She will be back after the winter holiday.”

“Do you need to file charges against her?”

“What? No!” Lexa stands. “I understand this appears alarming, and it was not my intention to make your home feel unsafe. The details are between Anya and myself, but this was not a unbalanced attack on either one of us.”

“Lexa,” Clarke says, soft and almost pleading, and Lexa scrubs a hand over her face before slumping back onto the sofa.

“We--as you know, Anya and I came to this country several years ago. We had--there were others, with us. There was a break in, in our apartment. They were murdered.” Her face ripples: grief, fury, and then a forced blankness that’s somehow more heartbreaking than if she’d burst into tears instead. “Anya and I argued on how to honor the dead in our own traditions.”

Octavia’s hand shoots into the air. “Winter mourning rituals,” she says, almost excited, then catches herself. “Sorry, I’m still in class mode.”

“You asked Anya to mourn someone,” Clarke says slowly, “so she… tried to kill you.”

Lexa sighs again. “Things were said,” she says evenly, “the violence was mutual.” She looks at Raven and speaks directly to her. “I apologize for whatever the situation or circumstances may have triggered.”

Raven nudges the armchair, causing the top half to swing brokenly from the bottom. “My new chair better be the best thing my ass has felt since I sat on Abby Griffin’s lap.”

“Hey! You were six,” Clarke hisses, “let it go, you are so inappropriate.” She can’t bring herself to be truly angry, however, because the tension is broken, Octavia grinning as she reaches to high five Raven, Bellamy rolling his eyes and going into the kitchen for trash bags to start picking up the worst of the debris.

“It was my sexual awakening,” Raven is telling Lexa, earnest, but their bodies have eased towards each other, some understanding passing. “Now go to the bathroom and let Dr. Griff patch you up. Late night ice cream runs are on you for a month.”

 

Clarke props Lexa on the closed toilet lid and digs under the sink for the first aid kit. “That wasn’t the whole story,” Lexa murmurs while Clarke yanks open an antibacterial wipe.

“No shit. Not even Anya would take a suggestion for holiday activities and go straight to bodily harm.” Lexa stays quiet, watching Clarke clean her arm and then frown, fishing out a pair of tweezers and lifting Lexa’s arm towards the light. “What are these from?” Clarke asks, digging out tiny slivers of glass.

“Drinking glasses.”

“You don’t have to tell me the whole story.” Clarke drops the tweezers in the sink and unravels a length of gauze. She starts at Lexa’s wrist and works her way up. Lexa snorts, disbelieving. “I mean it. When I share stuff with you it’s because I want to, not because I think you should owe me, or something. It’s not quid pro quo. If you want to tell me, I want to hear, but I’ll respect your boundaries. As long as the boundaries don’t try to kill you.” She finishes with Lexa’s arm and gives it a neat pat. “Knuckles next.”

“They’re fine.”

“They’re not bleeding, but I want to clean them. Humor me, okay?”

Lexa watches her, not wincing when Clarke splashes rubbing alcohol across her split skin. “They,” she says, and she sounds like she swallowed the glass that sits bloody on the counter, her voice shredded. “We--I lost someone,” she forces out, “I lost her.” Her face starts to crumple and she sucks in a harsh breath, shoving herself to her feet.

Clarke catches her when her legs buckle. “Lexa,” she murmurs, and Lexa presses her face into Clarke's chest and shakes. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say.”

“My fault,” Lexa chokes, trembling with shaky breaths and silent sobs, dampening Clarke's shirt. “It was my fault.” Clarke pulls her up and wrapping her up in an embrace, Lexa in the crook of her shoulder and shuddering.

“What’d I tell you,” Clarke says, smoothing Lexa’s hair to the side, “waterworks.” It’s forcibly light and she worries she’s gone too far but then Lexa snorts, snotty but real, and straightens. She rips off a piece of toilet paper and blows her nose.

“Don’t think poorly of Anya,” she says, stopping with a hand on the doorknob. “You may not understand, but this was the best possible outcome for that conversation. Next time we will stage it in a more appropriate setting.”

“You love her,” Clarke realizes. “When you said she wasn’t your friend, you meant she is your family.”

“It could be seen that way.”

“Really?” Clarke reaches past Lexa’s shoulder, holding the door shut. “You can’t even say it? You care about her. You love her.”

“Love is weakness,” Lexa says, cold, and she knocks Clarke’s hand away to open the door. She closes it behind her and Clarke turns, looking at Lexa’s blood on the counter, the glass glinting at the bottom of the sink. Her own face is oddly flushed in the mirror, caught between empathy and anger and frustration, and she growls at her reflection before starting to pack up the first aid kit, her movements rushed and jerky.

//

“So what are your winter holiday plans?” Clarke is barging in without asking again, but she’s leaving in the morning and she doesn’t want to go with things so unfinished and awkward between them, not after they’d agreed to be friends and she’s felt Lexa’s blood on her fingers, warm and sticky and alive.

“Didn’t you learn your lesson about knocking?” Lexa is sitting in the middle of her room, legs crossed and eyes closed.

“I hesitated before shoving the door all the way open. And if you don’t triple check the door is locked before getting down with Little Lexa, I’m a racoon.”

“Little Lexa,” Lexa repeats, dry. Her eyes open. “Please don’t ever say that again.”

“Sure, if you tell me what you actually call her.”

“She doesn’t have a name,” Lexa says, amused despite herself.

“Winter plans,” Clarke says again, so they can stop talking about Lexa’s vagina. “What are yours? Are you going to go visit Anya?”

“I do not believe that would be welcome. I think I will stay here, enjoy the quiet.”

“What,” Clarke protests. “No, it’s Christmas! Or… whatever you call it, if you don’t celebrate. Your culture doesn’t have like, a Yule or something?”

“Not anything I feel the need to mark.”

“You could come with me,” Clarke blurts. “Raven and Octavia and Bellamy come over for Christmas and New Year’s, but otherwise it’s just me and my mom. You’d be doing me a favor.”

“Raven and the others don’t celebrate with their own families?” Lexa asks, and it’s not a no.

“We kind of are each other’s family, at least for the big day. My mom really liked Finn, it’ll be nonstop questioning if I don’t show up with someone on my arm.”

“So now you want me to pretend to be, what? Your girlfriend?” Clarke waggles her eyebrows and Lexa snorts. “I told Anya I would stay put until she returned.”

“So we don’t tell her. What’s a secret between friends?” Clarke doesn’t miss the softness that spreads over Lexa’s face, like no one in the world has ever called her a friend more than once and meant it. “Come on. Christmas or Yule or Kwanzaa, no one should be alone this time of year.”

“Maybe I like being alone.”

“Cool, be alone in my mom’s guest room.”

“Clarke,” Lexa starts, and Clarke holds up a hand.

“No pressure, okay? But if you want to come hang out and get free food and keep me company on the drive, and maybe do something semi-rebellious for the first time in your life, I’m leaving tomorrow morning. If not, I’ll see you after the break.”

“I’ll think about it,” Lexa allows. Clarke walks in and sits across from her, copying Lexa’s posture. “What are you doing?”

“If you don’t come, this is the last time I’ll see you for weeks. What are we doing?”

“I was meditating.”

Clarke wonders if making two circles with her thumbs and forefingers and humming would be offensive. “Okay, show me.”

“Close your eyes,” Lexa murmurs, “and clear your mind. It shouldn’t take you very long.”

“Bitch,” Clarke mutters, but she closes her eyes and tries to think about nothing. It’s silent except for their breathing, and she matches hers to Lexa’s easily. Lexa’s carpet is fairly comfortable and the room smells like the candle burning on the windowsill, something woodsy and sweet without being cloying, and she’s almost enjoying herself when her stomach rumbles. Her eyes snap open and meet Lexa’s, grey and amused. “Sorry.”

Lexa stands, and offers Clarke a hand up. “Lunch?”

Clarke takes it, grasping Lexa’s forearm and feeling her muscles tense as she tugs Clarke up. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“Yes you did.”

“Yeah, I did. So are you coming?” Lexa rolls her eyes, turning away, and Clarke bounces after her down the hallway towards the kitchen. “Hey! Lexa, are you coming?”

“What happened to no pressure?”

“There was no pressure for almost two whole minutes, give me a medal.”

Lexa pops open a package of oreos and offers it to Clarke. “I’m fresh out of medals, I’m afraid.”

Clarke crams two cookies in her mouth. “It’s okay, I don’t need a medal. You can come to my house for Christmas instead.”

“I’m going for a run,” Lexa says, eating a single cookie and handing Clarke the package. “Do you want to join me.”

Clarke makes the sign of the cross with two fingers. “Get the fuck out of here, Woods.” She wanders into the living room, where Raven is curled up in her new armchair, cooing.

“I’ll think about you every day,” she whispers into the back cushion. Clarke flops into her lap and shoves a cookie in Raven’s mouth.

“Stop being weird.”

“Clarke, this is the best chair in the entire world. I can’t even be mad at Lexa for being destructo-girl, that’s how good this chair is. It has a seatwarmer and a massage function. I want to marry this chair.”

“You have to leave,” Clarke reminds her, casting a pointed look at Raven’s duffel by the wall. “You shouldn’t wait until it gets dark.” She shifts her body weight sideways, freeing Raven, and Raven stands, sighing. “Text me when every night, okay? And… just be careful.”

Raven kisses her cheek. “I’ll be fine, Mama Bear. I’ll see you at Christmas.”

“Okay,” Clarke says quietly, because she knows part of Raven’s holiday ritual is driving a windy path and stopping at odd places, sleeping in motels and taking pictures, but she also knows part of the ritual is getting drunk off cheap vodka and getting stuck in old memories. “Bye,” she calls out as Raven leaves, waving, and then she pokes at the remote of the chair, groaning as the massage function clicks on and tugging a blanket over her legs.

She must fall asleep, because she only vaguely remembers Octavia ruffling her hair and Bellamy tucking the blanket under her chin, and the next thing she knows Lexa is murmuring her name, kneeled next to her. Her headphones are around her neck and Clarke can hear something fast paced with quick beats, tinny and echoing. “Mm,” she mumbles, reaching out and tugging at the end of Lexa’s braided ponytail. “Everyone left already.”

“Come on,” Lexa says, pulling her to her feet. They totter to Clarke’s room, and Lexa nudges the piles of clothing and art aside to drop Clarke onto her bed. “I’ll wake you for dinner,” Lexa says, and Clarke mutters something and smashes her face into her pillow, drooling.

 

When Lexa returns Clarke is already half awake, and she stretches once on the bedspread, until her shoulders and ankles crack, watching Lexa watch her with sleepy eyes. Lexa yanks her gaze away, turning to the wall, and then stops, surprised. “Oh,” Clarke says, suddenly very much awake and shooting into an upright position. “That’s… that’s not finished.”

It’s a painting on an easel propped against the wall, half-finished, of Lexa’s body in purple and blues so dark they’re almost black, from that night at the playground, jumping off a grey swingset, her hands stretched out to stars painted in violent bursts of neon: red and orange and yellow.

“You’re very talented,” Lexa says, wondering. “It’s beautiful.”

“I was going to turn it in for my semester project.”

“Why didn’t you?”

It felt too personal, Clarke wants to tell her, and not personal enough, because she can’t quite get the lines of Lexa’s face just right, the expression of strength and yearning and wistfulness as she leapt just because Clarke told her she should; it didn’t capture what she felt when Lexa said she’d never been on a playground before or what her body felt like when she leaned her hips into Clarke’s, her fingers cradled on Clarke’s jaw. It felt like too much and not enough, and she wasn’t ready to show it to a class of her peers. “I didn’t finish it,” she says instead, and Lexa nods.

“Can I see it? When you’re done.”

“Sure.” Lexa nods, once, still peering at the painting. “I turned in this other thing, instead. Raven’s workshop, in the garage.” Not very daring but she’d liked it, done in greys and browns and smudged, out of focus except for Raven at its center, tinkering with a fierce grin on her face and leg stuck to the side, the brace sharp and pointed, her wrench pointed like a gun.

“When are we leaving tomorrow?” Lexa asks, and Clarke bounces up to catch her in a hug, grinning.

“And will you be my fake girlfriend?”

“Don’t push it.”

//

Clarke drives, careful in the fresh snow, the windshield wipers squeaking, and Lexa clicks through the music on Clarke’s phone, hooked up through the aux cord. She settles on a Halsey song and Clarke snorts. “You’re so gay,” she says, fond, and Lexa ignores her.

They stop at a Denny’s for lunch, and Lexa makes Clarke eat half of her sad wilted broccoli alongside her hamburger, then lets Clarke steal the other half of her turkey sandwich. “I told you to eat breakfast,” she says.

Clarke opens her mouth so Lexa can watch her chew and Lexa grimaces. “Eat your carrots, Lexa.”

//

Clarke detours to the beach, arriving just as the sun begins to set. “It’s December,” Lexa says when she parks, but she follows Clarke out onto the sand.

“Don’t be mad,” Clarke starts, digging in her pocket, and Lexa sighs heavily.

“What have you done now?”

“So I know it’s personal, and I’m not digging, I swear. And you can tell me to fuck off at any time.” Clarke pulls out a crumpled daisy, picked from outside the Denny’s. Half the petals rubbed off while it was in her pocket, and she tries to make the remaining ones look as presentable as she can. “My final ended really early, you know, because it was just turning in the artwork, and I was waiting for Octavia to be done so I went to the liberal arts building, and some of the professors were in their offices, so--”

“Clarke.”

“I talked to Pike and I asked him about those winter rituals, the mourning ones, and he told me about one, and I thought we could--if you want--?”

Lexa takes the flower out of her fingers. “I see.”

“Like I said,” Clarke says nervously, “tell me to fuck off whenever.”

“Come on,” Lexa says, walking towards the water and shucking her shoes and socks. “Tell me what you learned.”

“He uh, he said that you take a necklace of flowers, and walk into ocean, and the tide carries the flowers away.”

“It is much too cold,” Lexa points out, “to wade into the ocean.”

Clarke huffs. “No one ever accused me of thinking things all the way through, okay?”

“It was very kind,” Lexa says, as they stop at the water’s edge, the surf lapping and fading away, their feet sinking into the soft damp sand, “of you to think of me.”

“Friends,” Clarke reminds her.

“Yes,” Lexa agrees. She kneels, placing the flower into the shallow water and watching it bob with the waves. “Her name was Costia.” She touches a finger to the petals, then stands as it sweeps away, coming closer and then farther and farther away every second. “We met when I was twelve. We were seventeen when she was killed.”

Clarke does some swift mental math. “Five years ago?”

“Yes. Tris was my cousin, she was twelve. Anya and her were… close.”

“Is this you meant for her to do? When you argued?”

Lexa takes another step, shivering as the chilled water laps around her ankles, dragging at the hem of her jeans. “No. This ritual, it is not quite ours.” She smiles at Clarke. “There are many different clans within my people.”

“Fuck,” Clarke mutters, the one time she tries to be culturally sensitive and she fucks it all to hell. “Sorry.”

“Anya and I are of the woods,” she says, “not the sea.”

“What are your rituals?”

“They involve fire, mostly. Not suited for a city.” She walks out of the water, towards her shoes.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says again.

“It was a sweet gesture.” Lexa sits, tugging on her socks. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” Clarke sits next to her and leans her head on Lexa’s shoulder.

“What was she like? Tris?”

Lexa’s hands still on the laces of her shoes. “She… I held her when she was born. She fought very well. She worked hard. She made Anya laugh.”

“Then she was very special,” Clarke says, and the hard line of Lexa’s face softens.

“She was.” They watch the sunset for a while, playing pretty colors through the clouds and across the water. “Costia liked poetry,” Lexa volunteers suddenly. Clarke goes still, not wanting to break whatever there is, that’s letting Lexa share about herself so readily and so fully. “She spoke four languages. She kissed me in an orchard.”

“First kiss?” Clarke asks.

“Yes. We were fourteen, I was trying to tell her that I liked her.” Lexa’s shoulder shakes under her head and Clarke worries she’s crying but she’s almost laughing softly, almost a giggle. “I wrote her a poem.”

Clarke gasps. “No.”

“I did.”

“What kind?”

“Freeform, of course. I would not allow our love to be structured by something as pedestrian as syllable count and rhyming.” Clarke smiles, trying to imagine a small teenage Lexa with sweaty palms and a stutter, reciting a poem under the shade of an apple tree.

“Did she like it?”

“I don’t know. I was so nervous, I forgot the entire thing just as I started. I think I got out the line about her eyes.”

“Did you say they were chocolate orbs?”

“No, I compared them to chestnuts, I think, and my heart to a horse’s gallop. She was fond of both.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says, wishing she had something else to add. She’d hated it when it was all people said to her after her father’s funeral, sweating in a black dress and her pinching black heels, standing at the door to her house and shaking people’s hands as they filed in with flowers and casseroles and that mantra: sorry for your loss, I’m so sorry for your loss, sorry, sorry, sorry.

“I thought I’d never get over the pain.”

“And it’s almost worse,” Clarke says, “when you do.” Lexa’s head moves, looking down at her in surprise. “The first day I woke up and didn’t think about my dad until dinner, I cried for an hour, just because it’s like… when you stop remembering them every second, and it stops hurting, it’s like they’re really gone. Forever.”

“Love is weakness,” Lexa says, and Clarke shakes her head, her cheek rubbing on Lexa’s hoodie.

“Love is strength. I could never give it up.”

“Then you will never stop hurting,” Lexa says, and her voice is steel but her arm is gentle when she curls it around Clarke’s shoulder, and they don’t move until the sun’s gone, the moon glittering on the horizon.

Notes:

no beta, and I'm posting after a double all nighter, so I'm sure the mistakes are plentiful and embarrassing--please, feel free to tell me and I will fix them asap.

 

tell me what you think and catch me on tumblr as sunspill

Chapter 3

Summary:

christmas and sin and new years

Notes:

still no beta, I'm doing the best I can.

 

also, this is the most sexually explicit scenes I've ever written, so.

Abby isn’t home, but she did leave the porchlight on and a post-it stuck to the fridge with her work schedule scrawled next to a grocery list. Clarke looks it over before crumpling it into a ball and sticking it into her pocket. She checks her watch--they’d stayed too long at the beach, and then opted to strive straight through the night. It’s almost six, and her mom will be home by seven.

“You hungry?”

“A little,” Lexa admits, and Clarke rummages in a cabinet for a package of ramen.

“Oriental or chicken? Nevermind, we’re having chicken.” She slaps it into a pot of water and cranks the stove on. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.” She pads upstairs, avoiding the squeaky step, and Lexa follows as she points. “Bathroom, mom’s room, my room, guest room.” She digs in the linen closet and Lexa takes the sheets from her, making the bed with military precision.

“Thank you,” she says, quiet and polite, and it’s so annoyingly awkward Clarke flings herself across the mattress, rolling around and pulling up the neat corners of the sheets. Lexa gapes at her, and then rolls her eyes. She flops next to Clarke and yawns. “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

“My mom will be home during the day, until the evening, back in the early morning. She has Christmas Eve and Christmas off.”

“Is it usual for her to work long hours during your breaks?”

Clarke shrugs, trying to play it off. “I think it’s awkward, for us to be together. It’s easier for her to go to work than deal with it.” Lexa hums faintly.

“Family is complicated.”

“Yeah.”

“I wouldn’t really know, since my mother is dead.”

Clarke inches until their shoulders are touching. “I’m sorry.”

Lexa shrugs. “I don’t remember her. If she were alive, perhaps we could have some sort of relationship. However that is not possible for me. Because she’s dead.”

Clarke groans. “Okay, god, I get it. Since when are you in favor of emotional communication?”

“Maybe you're rubbing off on me,” Lexa mumbles. Clarke yawns so hard her jaw cracks.

“We should get up. We’ll fuck up our sleep schedules.”

“Yeah,” Lexa agrees, but her eyes are drooping shut and her body is warm and Clarke rolls over to tuck herself into Lexa’s side, sighing.

 

“Clarke,” Lexa is hissing, and her elbow digs into Clarke’s side. She wakes with a jerk.

“Huhwha?”

“Hello Clarke,” her mother says, and Clarke rockets upright.

“Mom! Hey--what’s that smell?”

“It used to a pot,” Abby says from the doorway, an eyebrow arched high. “Now it’s a smoking ruin. You’re lucky I got home before the fire alarm went off.”

“Oh my god,” Clarke groans, remembering the ramen. “Sorry, we fell asleep.” She shoots an accusing look at Lexa.

“How is this my fault,” Lexa says, affronted.

“You’re the responsible one,” Clarke mutters, getting off the bed to hug her mother. “Sorry mom. We were more tired than we thought, I guess.”

“And who’s this,” her mother questions, casting a sideways look at Lexa, who rolls to her feet easily, offering a hand. They shake, sizing each other up.

“My girlfriend,” Clarke says, grinning at Lexa and expecting a refusal. She’s hoping it’ll break the tension, and make the tightness in Lexa’s face fade to familiar exasperation, but she really should have known better. Lexa has always been nothing if not competitive and unwilling to back down from a challenge.

“Yes,” Lexa agrees, smooth, and Clarke chokes on her own spit. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Griffin.”

“Likewise. Clarke, if you’d join me in the kitchen for a moment?”

“Yes,” Clarke agrees. She kicks at Lexa on the way out and Lexa steps aside easily, smirking.

 

“I didn’t know you were dating someone new,” her mother says, and Clarke opens the kitchen window, flapping at the remnants of smoke. The pot is in the garbage can, and she gathers the bag up, cinching the elastic.

“Uh, yeah.”

“How did you meet?”

“Through Raven,” Clarke says, which isn’t a lie, and then she escapes to the side alley, chucking the bag into the big plastic can. When she comes back in her mom’s still waiting.

“And how long have you been dating?”

“Um… not long.” Clarke leans out of the kitchen. “Lexa!” She’s not suffering through this alone.

“How old is she?”

“My age. She’s a law student.”

Lexa pads in, tying her hair back. “You bellowed?”

“Just want you to join us as my mother interrogates our relationship.”

Abby scoffs. “If you called me once in awhile, I wouldn’t be so out of the loop.”

“I tell her the same thing,” Lexa says, shameless, and Clarke glares.

“Lexa, I hear you’re a law student?”

“My degree will be in political science, but yes, I intend to continue to law school.”

“Really?” Clarke asks, surprised, and then: “uh, I thought we weren’t telling people yet. Until you graduate.” It’s a terrible save that makes no sense, and Abby looks between them, suspicious and confused.

“Your mother isn’t just anyone, Clarke,” Lexa says, She opens the fridge and comes out with a carton of eggs. “Please, Mrs. Griffin, allow me to make breakfast while you and Clarke catch up.”

“No!” Clarke yelps. “I mean. You know I love watching you cook, babe.”

Abby sits at the island, flicking through the mail. “Do you live on campus, Lexa?”

“My roommate and I live off campus, in a house.”

“Oh, just like Clarke.”

“Yes,” Lexa says, smirking again, “just like Clarke.” She hands Clarke a bell pepper.

“No thank you,” Clarke says. Lexa hands her a knife. “Oh, okay.” She slices, listening to her mother and Lexa patter away, exchanging small niceties and shallow get-to-know-yous.

“I think that’s good,” Lexa says, colored with amusement, and Clarke realizes she’s chopped the pepper into tiny slivers. “Babe.” She dumps it into a pan, shaking it as they hiss against the eggs.

“Do the spicy thing,” Clarke says, forgetting about her mother as she smells food cooking, her stomach rumbling.

“Spicy thing?”

Clarke pouts. “You know what I mean. Where you make it spicy but not burn your mouth spicy.”

“You mean the jalapeno thing,” Lexa says, and Clarke shrugs.

“Whatever. Get it in my mouth, Woods.” She hangs her jaw open and Lexa pokes her tongue with the fork, teasing.

“If you don’t have jalapenos, the spicy thing will not be happening.”

“There’s a can in the pantry,” Abby says, and they jolt, surprised.

“Of course,” Clarke says. She retrieves it and then shakes the can, confused. “Where’s the poplid?” Lexa smiles, just like Clarke knew she would, and Clarke bangs it on the side of the sink to make her laugh.

“You’re not as cute as you think you are.”

“Don’t lie.” Clarke finds the drawer with the can opener and cracks it open over the sink, draining it before putting it in Lexa’s waiting palm.

“I think I like Lexa’s influence on you,” Abby says when Clarke’s setting the table and pouring the coffee.

“Me too,” Clarke says.

//

“You’re a dick,” Clarke tells Lexa after Abby has gone upstairs to sleep and they’re loading the dishwasher, the plates rattling as Lexa snaps it shut.

“You started it.” Lexa finishes her coffee, setting the mug in the sink with a clink, and cracks her neck, sighing. She’s in a long sleeved knit shirt that hangs loosely off one arm more than the other, showing her collarbones and the dip of her shoulder blade. “I never back down from a challenge, Clarke.”

“Joke’s on you, my mom’s in love. You’re going to challenge yourself all the way down the aisle.”

“There are worse things,” Lexa says, and Clarke watches her flex her toes against the hardwood floor as she across the mantle, peering at the photos from Clarke’s childhood, and she looks so relaxed in Clarke’s home and she just shared the least passive aggressive meal with Clarke’s mother that’s been served in their home since her father died, and Clarke grabs her in a backhug, smushing her face against Lexa’s neck.

“Thanks for coming with me.”

Lexa’s hands come up, cradling hers. “It has been very pleasant, so far.”

“Yeah, it’s only been like four hours. Give it time.” Clarke looks out the living room window. “It’s snowing!” She bounces to the window, pressing her hands and nose against it and blowing it foggy before wiping a palm across the glass.

“You like the snow?” Lexa’s warmth appears at her side, reassuring.

“When I’m home I do. Because I don’t have to shovel it.” Clarke hesitates. “My dad loved the snow. I hated the first few winters after he died, but now it just reminds me of the good times.”

“I’m glad,” Lexa murmurs. “Do you want to go outside?”

“Maybe later,” Clarke says, and turns, catching Lexa off guard, pressing their lips together, gentle. She pulls away after just a second, flushing. “Sorry. Got caught up in the holiday cheer--” Lexa kisses her, her hands dropping to Clarke’s waist, and Clarke opens her mouth immediately, moaning softly when Lexa dips her tongue against her teeth. She pushes Lexa’s shirt up to get her hand on Lexa’s bare skin, feeling goosebumps as she spans Lexa’s ribcage with a palm, running it back towards the small of her back and pulling Lexa closer.

“I thought you weren’t ready for a relationship,” Lexa mumbles against her lips.

“Neither are you,” Clarke replies, and bites across the arch of Lexa’s jaw, down her throat, pulling the neckline of her shirt down to suck a bruise into her collarbone. Lexa’s hands go to the backs of her thighs and she growls, lifting Clarke up and urging her legs to lock around her hips. “Fuck,” Clarke says, leaning her head back against the wall. Lexa pushes her against it and starts a targeted assault of teeth and tongue to just below her left ear. “You’re so strong it’s annoying.”

“Shut up,” Lexa says, breathing hard, “do you ever stop talking?”

“Make me,” Clarke challenges, and Lexa yanks her shirt up and her bra down, closing lips around a nipple. Clarke arches, helpless, and whines, high pitched and pleading. Her hips jerk up, seeking friction, and Lexa moans again. She kneels, urging Clarke’s legs back down to the ground. Clarke makes a protesting sound, but then Lexa’s fingers are undoing her pants and she’s fully on board, disengaging only long enough to kick off her jeans and yank off her socks. When Lexa reaches for her she puts both palms on her chest and pushes her back.

Lexa’s lips are red, paler where Clarke sank her teeth into them, and she’s flushed, her eyes dark and dilated. She’s frowning, but it shifts into something awestruck and hopeful when Clarke nudges her back, stripping off her shirt and undoing her bra one handed, sliding her panties down her legs and stepping out of them. Naked, she backs Lexa up until her calves hit the edge of the sofa and she unbalances, falling into a sprawled sitting position. “Clarke,” she murmurs, looking up, her face soft and slack and worshipful, and Clarke slides into her lap, bearing her down into the cushions. She tugs Lexa up only to get her shirt off before lying her back down and mapping her chest, her breasts, her ribs, with licks and sucking kisses, until Lexa’s writhing, her breath sucking through her teeth.

Lexa’s hands land on her hips, and she tries to slide a thigh between Clarke’s legs but Clarke nips her throat, warning, and Lexa groans. “Clarke--”

“What do you want,” Clarke mumbles, kissing her way across Lexa’s face to find her lips again. She breaks their kiss after only a moment, nipping at Lexa’s earlobe. “Tell me.”

“I don’t--” Lexa bites her lip, her breathing moving from aroused to almost panicked, “I’m not--”

“Ssh,” Clarke says, running a hand down Lexa’s side, soothing. “It’s okay.” They kiss again, and Clarke dots her chest with bitemarks, the underside of her breasts and all the way down to around her bellybutton, smiling into Lexa’s skin when she squirms. Lexa urges her up, her hands dropping to Clarke’s ass and squeezing, and Clarke thinks she wants to kiss again but she’s hardly brushed their mouths together before Lexa’s hands return to the backs of her thighs, pushing. “Wha--”

“I want,” is all Lexa chokes out, her body rolling in slow grinding waves under Clarke’s, “please,” she murmurs, her breathing wet and needy, and Clarke finds herself with her knees on either side of Lexa’s head, her shins biting into Lexa’s shoulders and her elbows braced on the arm of the sofa, her spine bowed and head thrown back as she shakes apart on Lexa’s tongue, a litany of curses falling from her lips between pleas. Lexa twists, almost unseating her, and contorts to slip a finger inside her, crooked alongside the thrusting motion of her tongue and Clarke spasms, riding Lexa’s face until her vision goes narrow and her legs numb. She comes with a yelp, surprised by the force of her orgasm, and Lexa keeps licking into her, gentle and unrelenting, until she jerks up and away, oversensitive and still twitching. She almost pitches face first into the carpet, her body going abruptly boneless, and Lexa catches her, hands on her sides, and eases her back to curl up on Lexa’s chest, until her breathing finally eases and normalizes.

“Jesus Christ,” Clarke says, her voice wavering. “I think you killed me.” Lexa practically purrs under her, their skin sliding together as their sweat dries, and her jeans are rough on Clarke’s skin. There’s a muffled noise from upstairs and Lexa freezes, panicked. “S’okay,” Clarke says, smashing her face into Lexa’s boobs, “she leaves the television on while she sleeps.” Lexa relaxes, and then squirms when Clarke licks the underside of her breast, sloppy and wet, and Clarke realizes Lexa isn’t only still dressed from the belt down, but probably desperately needs release. She trails her nails down Lexa’s hipbones, and when they dip under her waistband Lexa shivers, a whine escaping her lips, and Clarke knows she was right.

“You don’t have to,” Lexa says, even as her hips lift up as Clarke undoes her button and yanks at her zipper.

“Shut up and take off your pants,” Clarke orders, and it’s awkward because Clarke refuses to get off her all the way and the couch isn’t that wide and Clarke gets distracted by the sharp jut of Lexa’s hipbones and stops the downward progress of her pants to taste them, but eventually with a lot of flailing and the non sexy type of cursing, Lexa is naked under her, and Clarke lays on top of her, spending a minute trading lazy kisses and feeling their whole bodies pressed together, all that soft warmth and the minute play of Lexa’s muscles under her tanned skin. Clarke sneaks a hand down, cupping, and Lexa jolts, shuddering.

“Fuck,” she says, and it’s the last English word she gets out besides Clarke’s name, going into broken syllables of trigedasleng and then into wordless begging as Clarke props one leg up on her shoulder and licks straight into her, no teasing, sucking up to her clit and starting her with two fingers, obscene noises drowned out by Lexa’s gasping keens.

“You’re too loud,” Clarke says, coming up for air and panting into Lexa’s inner thigh. She blows a stream of air across Lexa’s clit and Lexa moans, even louder. Clarke crawls up her body and kisses her, Lexa sucking herself off Clarke’s tongue and making a sad noise of loss. “Sorry,” Clarke whispers against her lips, “but I think the tv won’t be loud enough to drown you out once I really go to town.” Lexa’s eyes slit open, looking annoyed, probably because she doesn’t want her cunt to be compared to a town, but they roll back up as soon as Clarke drops her thigh against her center and rocks, leaning her weight in.

“Will you?” Clarke starts, her heart pounding, and Lexa starts riding her leg before Clarke can figure out how to ask, her lip sucked between her teeth, her fingers gripping on Clarke’s hips. Clarke pulls them off, planting Lexa’s palms on the arm of the sofa, on either side of her head. She sets her weight firmly and Lexa pushes with her hands, grinding harder and faster. “C’mon,” Clarke murmurs, and Lexa moans at the sound of her voice. Clarke drops three fingers into Lexa’s slack mouth and Lexa sucks at them, eager, Clarke’s thumb holding her jaw shut.

“You can do it,” Clarke coaxes, and Lexa’s hips lose all rhythm, writhing desperately. Clarke tangles her free hand in Lexa’s hair, yanking hard and speaking with her teeth against Lexa’s throat. “Baby, come on, come on, show me--” Lexa’s whole body jerks into a bowstring, her teeth sinking into Clarke’s fingers, and she groans, long and low and prolonged, before collapsing back into the couch, shuddering. Clarke’s fingers slip out of her mouth, wet and stringing drool; she wipes them on the back of the couch. She lifts herself up and Lexa twitches, sensitive; Clarke drops a kiss to her chest, reassuring. Clarke’s wet again, from watching Lexa ride her into orgasm, shameless, but she doesn't think either of them are up to another round.

“Fuck,” Lexa says, her voice shredded, her eyes still closed. She reaches out blindly, cradling Clarke close, and they cuddle. Clarke mouths absent minded at Lexa’s arm, over the tattoo that curls over her bicep.

“When did you get this?”

“When I was fifteen,” Lexa says, her own fingers trailing through Clarke’s sweaty hair. “It’s my clan marking. Anya has the same, with minor differences.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes. It was not done with a gun, so it takes longer and hurts more.”

Clarke hums, trails her fingers across Lexa’s belly. Her fingertips catch on small scars and divots. She pauses at a smattering of pockmarks, a long slicing arc that cuts across her hip and up her side.

“What’s this from?”

Lexa shifts under her. “We should get cleaned up.”

“Sure,” Clarke agrees, because she still feels loose and relaxed and too good to ruin Lexa naked under her, her toes rubbing against Clarke’s calf. “Be my shower buddy?”

“If you insist,” Lexa says, but she smiles as she gathers their clothes and they sneak up the stairs naked, tiptoeing past Abby’s room into the bathroom and she laughs when Clarke spreads suds across her chest and she makes Clarke melt into a puddle, her knees actually buckling when Lexa uses her long fingers to massage the shampoo into her hair. By the time they get out the air is heavy with steam and they realize they forgot to grab extra clothes, so Clarke dumps everything into the hamper in the corner and they wander back to her room wrapped in towels, curling under the thick blankets and dozing off, Lexa’s face against Clarke’s ribs and Clarke’s hands tangled in her hair, their legs twined.

//

Clarke wakes up to the view of Lexa’s naked torso, the blanket twisted around her waist. Lexa turns on her side and Clarke reaches out to trace the tattoos down Lexa’s spine. She’s seen them before, when Lexa wears a tank top, and more recently in the shower, but she’s got time now, to peer at the little black marks, the full circles, the infinity curves at the base of her neck. Lexa stirs under her exploring fingers, and Clarke murmurs: “How old were you when you got these?”

“Sixteen.”

“Did you get them when you were in Trigeda?”

“No, after we came here. Anya did them.”

“What do they mean?” Lexa rolls over, her hair mussed, her eyes sleepy.

“Can we talk about something else?” she asks, and Clarke remembers that she doesn't have to right to ask, not really. They’re not in a relationship and Lexa doesn’t owe her that intimacy. Not yet. But she is curious.

“What would you be doing now, if you were…” ‘Home’ doesn’t feel like the right word, even if Clarke suspects that’s how Lexa thinks of Trigeda.

“Winter is a quiet time for the Trikru,” Lexa says, thoughtful. “Most of our celebrations are in the spring, for rebirth, and the fall, harvest season.”

“Summer?”

“Then too. Marriages are common in the summer, festivals. Winter, however…”

“Is for mourning?”

“Yes, but it’s not as solemn as it may seem.” Lexa pursues her lips. “The flowers must die before they can bloom again,” she says, like she’s quoting something. “It’s a time for remembrance.”

“And to set shit on fire?” Clarke grins. “See, I do listen.”

“Fire is cleansing.” Lexa’s face crinkles in an answering smile. “Crops grow stronger from the ashes.”

“So do people,” Clarke says, and blames the sex for being so sappily poetic.

“Yes,” Lexa agrees, her expression soft. She nudges her face against Clarke’s rubbing their noses together before Clarke gets impatient and claims Lexa’s mouth in a kiss. It’s just starting to get heated, Lexa moving to cover Clarke’s skin with her own, when the door opens. Lexa rolls away immediately, yanking the covers over her head, and Clarke grabs a pillow to her chest.

“Mom!”

“Girls,” Abby says after a long, awkward pause. “I’m heading to work.” Clarke cuts her eyes to the clock on the nightstand and winces--it’s almost seven, they’d slept for too long. “Can you swing by the store before tomorrow? Or should I do it after my shift?”

“No,” Clarke assures, her voice still unnaturally high. “We can do it--the shopping! That it. Not some… other… it.”

There’s another awkward pause. “We’ll talk later,” Abby says, ominous, and doesn’t shut the door behind her. As soon as she hears the front door shut Clarke flops on her back, groaning.

“You can come out now,” she says, and Lexa’s face peeks out from under the duvet.

“That was embarrassing,” she grumbles.

“First time someone walked in on you?”

“Yes.” Lexa stands, the sheets falling away, and stretches in a long arch of her body, completely naked, lovebites bruising blue and black on her throat and chest. Clarke licks her lips. “No,” Lexa says without looking at Clarke’s face. “We need to go to the store.” She yanks a blanket up and wraps it around her body. “I’m going to get dressed.”

“Okay.”

“As are you.”

Clarke groans again. “Fine. Tyrant.”

“Not if everything goes to plan,” Lexa says mildly. Clarke throws the pillow at her.

//

“Did you get the list?” Lexa asks as they’re thumping through the entryway in winter boots, wrapping scarves around their necks and ears. Lexa yanks a beanie over her hair and looks at Clarke expectantly.

“Shit,” Clarke mutters. There’s no way she’s going all the way upstairs to dig through the hamper for a post-it. She goes into the kitchen and does a quick survey of the cabinets and the fridge. “It’s fine, I’ll figure it out.” She’s on her way back to the door when the couch catches her eye and she freezes.

“Clarke?”

“I’m coming, jeez. Just--remind me to clean the couch when we get back.” She doesn’t think she can survive her mom ever sitting on it again unless she gives it a thorough shampoo.

“I will,” Lexa says after a brief pause, fervent agreement.

//

“No, Clarke,” Lexa says, not for the first time, and Clarke puts the Cocoa Puffs back on the shelf with a pout.

“They could have been on the list. You don't know.”

“They were not. Nor was the family size bag of Swedish fish, nor the one pound gummy bear.”

“Okay,” Clarke relents, “but we do need the marshmallows, for the yams.”

“Yams,” Lexa says, latching onto the exact wrong part of Clarke’s sentence. She aims the cart towards the produce section. “Go get milk,” she orders Clarke as she wheels away, “and butter.”

“Okay.” Clarke reaches for a box of Lucky Charms.

“No, Clarke,” Lexa calls back without turning around. Clarke sticks her tongue out after her.

The elderly woman surveying bran cereal chuckles, and when Clarke looks at her she smiles. “Young love,” she sighs, “it’s great, isn't it?”

“Uh.” In a panic, Clarke snatches a box of Grapenuts off the shelf and clutches it to herself. “Yes.” She scurries towards the dairy aisle.

 

“Why,” Lexa says when Clarke finds her picking out a turkey. Clarke tips her arms out, letting milk and butter and eggs and heavy whipping cream tumble into the cart. She shakes the box of cereal at Lexa.

“Fiber is… important?” Lexa rolls her eyes. “Trust me. I’m pre-med, you know.”

“I didn’t, actually.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’m a double major.” Clarke pokes at one of the turkeys. “I like this one. It’s cute.”

“Cute,” Lexa repeats, but she takes the one Clarke wants and loads it into the cart.

 

They scuffle at the checkout line, and Lexa twists Clarke’s arm up behind her back, pinning her against the cart before handing over her own credit card to the checkout clerk, a thin faced teenaged boy who looks like he can’t decide whether or not to swipe the card or call for security.

//

“How does it look?” Clarke steps back, reviewing the couch with critical eyes.

“Clean,” Lexa says, approving.

“Did you finish putting the groceries away?”

“Yeah.” Lexa reaches out, touching the fabric. “How long until it dries, you think?”

“I don’t know, a few hours. What do you want for dinner?”

“Nothing you’d make,” Lexa says, and dodges Clarke’s arm. “Let’s go out,” she says, and Clarke is surprised.

“Or you could… eat in.” Clarke wiggles her eyebrows, and Lexa’s brows crease, confused. Clarke points at her crotch and Lexa’s mouth drops open. Clarke dissolves into giggles, and Lexa shoves her.

 

They go to a diner for take out. Lexa makes her order a salad, and Clarke makes Lexa stop at a McDonald's for chicken nuggets and ranch dressing. Clarke pulls over into a closed stripmall’s parking lot and they eat on the trunk again, until Clarke says her ass is numb and pulls Lexa over to the snowbank to use the clean snow to make the tiniest snowman Clarke has ever seen in her life. Clarke makes Lexa stick the twigs in for arms, and Lexa kisses her under the flickering streetlamp, her nose numb and Lexa’s lips dry and cold and chapped against her own, snowflakes melting on their eyelashes.

//

Lexa makes them breakfast and then goes for a run, avoiding Abby’s gaze the entire while, and as soon as it’s just them Clarke pokes her eggs around the plate, rambling about classes and Octavia and Raven.

“Clarke.”

Clarke sighs. “I’m an adult,” she reminds her mother.

“I’m aware. So you’re happy, with Lexa?”

“Yes.” Clarke stabs a sausage--tofurkey, because Lexa is evil.

“And it’s serious?”

Clarke squirms. “Mom, come on.”

“Fine, fine. But I would appreciate if you wouldn’t fornicate under my roof.”

“Mom!”

Abby shrugs, dumping her plate in the sink. “You’re still my little girl, after all.”

Clarke does the dishes alone, frowning as the sink fills up and thinking about her and Lexa and serious, all the things Lexa won’t say and the commitments Clarke won’t make. She’s scrubbing at a pan when Lexa comes back, sweaty and steaming and kissing Clarke up against the sink, the fridge.

“Did your mom go to sleep?” she asks, and Clarke nods, and if Lexa notices her hesitation or her unusual quietness it doesn’t stop her from pulling Clarke’s pants down, pushing her panties aside and eating her out on the dining room table, urging Clarke to pull her hair, keeping one hand curled around Clarke’s ankle.

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” she tells Clarke after Clarke is slumped and gasping, and it makes Clarke bark out laughter, surprised to discover this side of Lexa, playful and sexy and a little dirty, leading Clarke up the stairs so Clarke can press her against the tiles of the shower stall and fuck her really slow and wet with three fingers, until Lexa begs her to add a fourth.

//

“What about this one?”

Lexa purses her lips. “It has a bald spot.”

“Yeah, we’ll put it against the wall or something.”

“We can do better,” Lexa says, and Clarke groans.

“You don’t even celebrate Christmas!”

“If we’re going to do something, we’re going to do it right.”

“My ass is fucking freezing. If you don’t pick a tree soon I’m leaving you here.” Clarke stomps up the mountain side, muttering to herself. “Of course she has to cut her own tree down. The pre-wrapped ones in the parking lot just aren’t good enough for her.”

“I’m quite at home in the woods,” Lexa calls after her, teasing, “I’d be fine.”

Lexa finds one that meets her ridiculous standards, and Clarke won’t admit it, but it’s worth dragging her ass all over a mountainside and a half hour windy drive to watch Lexa strip off her jacket and bend low, sawing at the drunk and wiping sweat off her brow when she stands. “Hold on,” Clarke says, “there’s a bald spot.”

Lexa’s head whips around. “What?” She rushes to Clarke’s side, squinting down at the tree.

“Yeah, too bad. You’ll have to cut down another. You should probably do it shirtless, to avoid overheating.” Lexa rolls her eyes. “Heatstroke is serious, Lexa, trust your doctor.”

Lexa hefts the tree over one shoulder with a grunt, and Clarke licks her lips. “You’re not a doctor yet.”

“Okay, so in like five years you’ll cut it down shirtless for me?”

Lexa goes silent, the only sound her shoes crunching in the snow as she makes her way down to the car and the pay station. “It is unlikely I will be in this country in five years.”

“Oh.” Clarke winces, following Lexa quietly. She should have known better than to make a joke about a longterm relationship between what could only, at best, be referred to as a friends with benefits situation.

“Things are not settled,” Lexa continues after they pay and they’re standing up on the car, strapping the tree down with bungee cords and twine. “My timeline is always in flux. But I hope it will not take five years to stabilize Trigeda.”

“Right.” Of course, Clarke thinks, Lexa is probably eager to return to her country, as soon as its government is fair and stable.

//

Things are odd in a strange way, after that, and Lexa sleeps in the guestroom for the first time and tells Abby she’s spending the day calling family, which Clarke is pretty sure is a lie, but it does allow Abby and Clarke to decorate the tree together on Christmas Eve, unwrapping the glass ornaments from bubble wrap and Clarke snickering over the ugly paper cutouts and crumbling macaroni projects from grade school.

“Ta-daa,” she trills, plugging in the lights and watching the tree light up. Her mother pours them two cups of hot chocolate, her dad’s old recipe, and Clarke adds a splash of Bailey’s and they sit together on the couch, A Wonderful Life playing at low volume.

“I’m glad you came home for Christmas,” her mother murmurs.

“Me too.”

“I think your father would have liked Lexa.” Clarke swallows, and takes her mom’s hand in her own.

“I think so too.”

 

Clarke raps on the guest door after her mother has gone to bed. “Lexa?”

It opens. “Clarke.”

“Come see the tree?” Lexa hesitates, and Clarke sighs. “Lexa, it’s fine. You’re not intruding, or whatever, and sure you don’t celebrate, but you helped pick out the tree and there’s extra hot chocolate. Griffin Family Recipe.”

“Alright.”

Clarke holds her hand down the stairs, and Lexa tells her with a straight face the tree looks great, even though Clarke can literally see Lexa’s fingers twitch with the urge to make the ornaments more evenly spaced. Clarke turns off the lamp and they sit on the floor and sip from oversized mugs and Clarke tells her the Griffin Family Tradition of opening a small present on Christmas Eve.

“I did not get you anything,” Lexa whispers.

“S’okay.” She presses a wrapped bundle into Lexa’s hands. “It’s not a big deal, I made it earlier while my mom and I were watching a movie.” Lexa undoes the ribbon, letting the paper fall apart because Clarke hadn’t used any tape, just scrunched the ends.

Lexa unfolds the drawing, a single sheet of the thick paper from her favorite sketchbook, the one her father gave her for her birthday the year before he died ripped in half and then half again, five inches by five inches, and looks at her own face, drawn in rough charcoal lines. It’s her, asleep in Clarke’s bed, her face worry free and young in sleep, one arm stretched over her head, her hair curling over one shoulder. She looks up at Clarke, shocked, and Clarke wrings her hands. “You can throw it away, if you don’t like it.”

Lexa folds it back up, careful, and put it on the mantle. She nudges their cups aside and she tastes like chocolate when she kisses Clarke under the lights of the tree.

//

Octavia and Raven and Bellamy roll in around noon, and they crowd up at the table for lunch, bringing laughter and teasing and jokes, talking over each other and clumping presents under the tree. The turkey comes out almost perfect, only a little burned on one side, and they knock elbows in the kitchen, flinging insults and fighting about how much pepper to put in the mashed potatoes. By four the table is bowing under the weight of the turkey and potatoes and green beans and pie and yams and rolls and gravy, and Lexa sits next to Clarke while Abby says the blessing.

“Lexa,” Abby says, startling everyone, “would you like to add something Trikru? I’m not sure what traditions you have, but you’re welcome to share.”

Lexa hesitates. “Mochof,” is all she says, stiff, but Abby thanks her like she’d recited an epic ode, and they eat.

 

Raven is passing out pie when Bellamy asks Lexa about her workout routine. “Octavia says you’re an athlete.”

“I run,” Lexa says, “and I fight.” That would explain the bruises, Clarke guesses, although she’s surprised Octavia and Lexa have talked about it when Clarke and Lexa haven’t. Not that she’s jealous or annoyed that Octavia knows something about Lexa she doesn’t.

“But do you lift,” Bellamy says, and it’s his way of being friendly, but Lexa’s eyes narrow, faintly.

“I believe a competition of physicality between you and I would only ever have one result.”

Raven snickers, and Bellamy puffs up, still more teasing than genuinely offended. “How much can you lift, then?”

“She can lift me,” Clarke says before she can think it through. All she meant was that she’s pretty sure Lexa doesn't lift weights, choosing workouts with more movement and action, and her weight could serve as a baseline. Then she remembers how she knows that, which should be innocent because Lexa gave her a piggyback once, but her brain leaps over that and settles firmly on the memories of her back against a wall, Lexa’s lips at her throat and her hips rolling. She chokes on her roll.

“Because Lexa carried Clarke that one time,” Raven swoops in, saving her. There’s a heavy thunk of her brace, and Octavia yelps. “Right, Octavia?”

“Yes,” Octavia agrees swiftly. “She carried Clarke to her car.”

Abby looks at all of them, faintly narrowed eyes. “Doesn’t Lexa drive a motorcycle?”

“Ye-es,” Octavia says. “Yes, she does.” She shoves a bite of pie in her mouth.

“I was driving Anya’s car at the time,” Lexa says, completely calm. “My roommate.”

“I see,” Abby says, and Clarke decides it’s time to break out the hard cider.

 

Clarke excuses herself during the present giving ceremony, Raven in raptures over the toolset Octavia and Clarke had gone halvsies on, Clarke hodge-podging the handles with spiraling galaxy patterns, supernovas and comet tails. “Hey,” she says, edging up on Lexa standing at the front windows. “You okay? It’s not too much, is it?”

“No,” Lexa murmurs, “it’s nice. I was… I had invited Anya.”

“Oh.” They both watch the window for a minute, and then Clarke takes her hand, gentle. “Come on,” she says, and they go back to sit on the floor and watch Octavia unwrap a motorcycle helmet from Raven, triggering the regular round of Bellamy’s overprotective urges and Octavia’s stubborn rebellion.

“It’s not like I’ll be able to afford one for a long time,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“I’d be happy to teach you,” Lexa offers suddenly, and if that doesn’t cement her in Octavia’s heart, shrieking as she grabs Lexa in a full bodied hug.

Bellamy grumbles darkly, but he happens to be sitting in the exact spot Clarke had ridiculously hot sex with Lexa in, so it’s hard to take his criticisms seriously. Judging by Lexa’s sideways smirk, it’s exactly what she’s thinking as well.

//

Raven corners her the next morning, before she leaves to crash with Bellamy and Octavia until New Year’s, which will be back at Clarke’s. “You,” she accuses, “fucked Lexa, didn’t you.”

“Um,” Clarke says.

“Damn,” Raven says, lifting a hand, “don’t leave me hanging, Griffin.”

“You’re gross,” Clarke says, but she grins a little, smacking their palms together.

“Where’d you do it?”

Clarke lets her eyes fall to the counter Raven’s leaning on. Raven shrieks, jumping forward, and Clarke laughs.

//

“Do I look hot?” Clarke asks, and Lexa actually groans, crowding her against the sink and kissing her until Clarke’s bright lipstick is smeared over both their faces and Clarke pushes her away, laughing. “Later,” she promises, and almost gives in to Lexa’s dark eyes and clever fingers, but she redoes her makeup and cleans up Lexa’s face with a wet wipe and they make it to Bellamy’s right on time, half an hour late.

Lexa opts out of the drinking games but she gets drunk enough she stops speaking English all together, and Octavia translates until Lexa nudges Clarke against a wall and starts murmuring all low and choppy, at which point Octavia actually blushes and refuses to tell Clarke what’s she’s saying and leaves, with a last sideways look at Clarke.

“Who knew you’d be such a talker,” Clarke gasps between kisses, sprawled under Lexa in the backseat of her car like they’re sixteen years old at a drive in movie, and Lexa growls out something low and so obviously dirty it makes Clarke flush even though she can’t understand the particulars.

She wakes up in the backseat, cold and hungover with Lexa’s fingers still inside her, Clarke’s heavy coat thrown over them and gin still heavy on her tongue, and she watches Lexa wake up, her eyelashes fluttering and her smile growing slow and sweet and long when she looks at Clarke’s face.

//

“Clarke.” Clarke pulls the pillow over her face. “Clarke.”

“Fuck off.”

“Clarke, I need to ask you a question.”

Clarke wiggles the sheets down and yanks her shirt up. “Do whatever you want, just don’t wake me up.”

“Clarke, your mother is standing next to me.”

Clarke sits straight up. “What?” Lexa is standing at her bedside, alone, and smirking. Clarke hits her with the pillow. “Fuck you. What the hell do you want.”

“Can I borrow your car?”

“What? Why?”

Lexa fidgets. “There is a memorial,” she says, “there is a ceremony. It’s a four hour drive, however, and is not quite accessible by public transportation.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, swinging her feet off the bed and standing. “Give me five minutes.”

“You don’t have to come,” Lexa says. “I know you like to sleep in.”

“No, I want to.” Clarke hesitates. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

“No,” Lexa says, rushed. “No, I’d like that.”

“Okay then,” Clarke says, and starts looking for her socks.

 

“I remember,” Clarke says in the car, “uh, in high school. We had this drive for Trigeda. For aid, and to sponsor refugees.”

“I remember also,” Lexa says, her voice very cold. “I was sponsored by a Catholic charity. I denied our religion, our ways, for a stamp on a piece of paper.”

“Live to fight another day,” Clarke offers, and Lexa snorts.

“Tell me, Clarke, how long was the drive in your high school?”

“Two months, I think? Maybe three or four.”

“Six months at best,” Lexa murmurs, “that’s how long the news cycle ran as well.” Her voice sharpens. “Your country forgot. I never did.”

Clarke coughs, trying to lighten the mood. “Will they know you, there? I mean, how many Trikru people do you know?”

“Many,” Lexa says, casting Clarke a confused look. “Of course they know who I am.”

“Right,” Clarke agrees. Lexa is probably very active in the circles of her people, since she feels strongly about her culture and her country. “Right, of course.”

//

The ceremony is held in a park, surrounded by dense trees and gardens of bright flowers, a creek bubbling around a stone pedestal. Lexa sets Clarke up in a chair and excuses herself, and Clarke fidgets, knowing she sticks out with her fair skin and her bright hair and her jeans and ratty hoodie. The people filing in are tan, dressed in dark colors with black and navy blue markings across their faces. Clarke doesn't understand any of the speeches, but she does understand the hush of the crowd when Lexa climbs the three steps to the podium, dressed in black slacks and a black button up; she doesn’t have her coat on but the cold hardly seems to touch her.

Lexa speaks in sharp sentences, her voice carrying easily without the aid of the microphone, and when she pauses the crowd echoes, shouting back or thumping their feet on the ground. She’s the last to speak, and behind her people are stacking branches and bundles of straw. When Lexa lights the pyre the people roar, and she stands there, backlit by the flames, as the crowd swarms her, laying their hands on her back, her shoulders, bowing low and backing away. When everyone has gone and there is nothing but ash, Clarke climbs up beside her.

“What did you think?” Lexa asks, and her cadence is odd: accented and cold and regal.

“You certainly set shit on fire,” Clarke says, and Lexa looks at her like a stranger before her face relaxes. She chuckles.

“Yes,” she agrees, and when she sighs her spine relaxes.

“Heda,” a voice says, and Clarke drops the hand that she was extending to Lexa. It’s Anya, her eyesockets completely black, fur on the trim of her coat.

“Onya.”

“I’ll be at the car,” Clarke says, but Lexa catches her by the wrist.

“Stay. Please.” She gives Clarke a reassuring smile before she turns, and she and Anya speak for a moment before she kneels.

Anya dips her fingers in the ash and paints it across Lexa’s face, over her closed eyes and stretched sideways into her hair, across her cheeks. She goes towards the bridge of her nose and then hesitates, leaving a gap between both halves of the design, streaks down her cheeks like tears. She beckons at Clarke, and places her calloused hand over Clarke’s, and the ash is hot enough to sting but she fills in the spot between Lexa’s eyes, down her nose, and when Lexa looks straight at Clarke her eyes are burning.

//

Anya joins them for New Year’s, drinking straight from champagne bottles in the backyard and making too much noise, and even if she sits on the porch and does nothing except brutally shut down Bellamy’s three attempts to make conversation Clarke can tell Lexa enjoys having her there.

Octavia counts down to midnight and Raven wiggles her eyebrows at Bellamy, then Anya, and Clarke honestly is not expecting anything but when Octavia shrieks zero and pops yet another bottle, the cork whistling past Anya’s head, she’s surprised to feel Lexa’s hand on hers, the quick brush of her lips over Clarke’s knuckles. “Happy New Year, Clarke.”

Clarke kisses her cheek. “Happy New Year, Lexa.”

//

The drive home feels like an ending, the bubble of her mother’s house and holidays popping as they turn down the street towards home.

Clarke kills the engine in the driveway of the house, their bags piled in the trunk, and sighs. “We should talk, huh?”

Lexa frowns at her hands, curled in her own lap, but doesn’t pretend not to know what Clarke is talking about. “I do like you, Clarke. But I cannot commit to a relationship at this time. My responsibilities trump everything else.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says.

Two days ago, she’d made dinner and Lexa had stood next to her at the stove, teasing Clarke over the spices, and they’d split a bottle of wine and Lexa had told Clarke that she’d need to be ‘significantly hungrier’ to enjoy the pasta Clarke had made and Clarke had thrown a roll at her face and Lexa had fucked Clarke in her childhood bed, smiling and laughing and surrounded by her pictures from high school, her first sketches, the photobooth strips with Octavia and Raven, and afterwards Lexa sat crosslegged on her bed and Clarke sat behind her, braiding her hair and Lexa had taught her how to call Anya a bitch in trigedasleng and Clarke had thought, just for a minute or maybe two, about asking Lexa if they could try it, just try: dating and relationships and sex and commitment and searching for law schools and med schools in the same vicinity.

“Of course,” she says quietly, sitting in the car with the windshield fogging over. “I understand.”

Notes:

Work is going to pick up this week, so I'm posting this now. I'm fairly new to t100, and I readily admit I haven't seen all the episodes, nor will I, since Lexa's gone, so any feedback on characterization is welcome :) or feedback on the sexytimes, since I've never written that before either.

 

let me know what you think, suggest me some tropes, and catch me on tumblr as sunspill

Chapter 4

Summary:

fast forward through plot development

Notes:

still no beta, please excuse my errors. I'll fix them as I become aware of them.

if you're looking for a interesting plot with political intrigue and well thought out interpretations of modern day clexa, you should look elsewhere.

Clarke is avoiding Lexa. Not really, she tells herself, it’s just that this is her last semester of her senior year, and she has to stay sharp and ace her classes and decide if she’s going to take a gap year or accept one of the acceptance offers on her desk for medical school. So it’s not avoidance, it’s just that she doesn’t have time to nap on the dining room table early in the morning until Lexa comes in from her run and pours them coffee and sneak sips of Clarke’s because she refuses to admit she enjoys sugar and she doesn’t have time to skulk around the kitchen while Lexa makes dinner to try and steal bites from under her watchful, amused eye.

“I am,” she tells Raven while they stagger up the front steps, “extremely...” she loses track of the plot for a moment.

“Drunk,” Raven fills in.

“No. Busy!” Clarke flails slightly. “I am extremely busy. And that’s why.”

Octavia wrenches the door open and grabs Clarke’s free arm, hefting it over her shoulder. “That’s why what?”

Clarke goes quiet, stumbling down the hall to her room. The light under Lexa’s door is on, even though it’s nearly three in the morning.

//

She wakes up still drunk, with a headache and a fuzzy tongue, and a post-it stuck to her forehead telling her to drink water and eat something. She checks her watch and groans--it’s halfway through the class she’s supposed to be sitting in right now, taking notes and absorbing information. Nothing to be done about it, she figures, and drags herself into the shower.

She falls asleep standing up under the spray, and jolts awake at some interminable point later, when the water gets cold. She pads back to her room in a towel, dripping, and Anya is sitting on her bed. She squeaks, flailing, and just barely manages to keep her towel around her. “Um.”

Anya drops a notebook on the mattress. “Notes.” She stands, shouldering past Clarke, and it takes Clarke another minute to walk over and flip the book open. It is notes, from the class she missed, in black ink, including diagrams and corresponding page numbers from the textbook, all in perfectly readable print, oddly similar to Lexa’s.

Clarke storms Anya’s room. “Why,” she demands, a hand around her chest to keep the towel steady.

Anya glares. “What do you care?”

“Seriously? You hate me. I want to know why you would go out of your way, all the way to a class you’re not even in and take the best notes I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Anya advances on her, snarling. She backs Clarke up past the doorframe. “You know why,” she hisses, and slams the door in her face.

//

Clarke is on her way back to her car when she sees Lexa standing under an awning around a building, an isolated corner, arguing with someone. She honestly means to go over and rip Lexa a new one for sending Anya off on Clarke’s personal errands, and maybe hash out whatever the oddness between them has become, but she gets close and slows, because Lexa looks genuinely upset, pacing and releasing torrents of furious trigedasleng, gesticulating, and the man she’s with is frowning, appeasing. Lexa shouts, a hand flying up, and then sees Clarke.

“Are you following me?” Clarke goes from apologetic to indignant in half a second flat.

“Delusions of grandeur much?” she snarls, and when she moves to get in Lexa’s face the man shoves her back, hard enough she stumbles into the wall.

“Em pleni,” Lexa snaps. “Lincoln, we will speak at another time. Leave us.”

The man--Lincoln--backs off, nodding, and takes off across the lawn at a loose jog.

“Explain,” Lexa demands.

Clarke glares. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. I especially don’t have to explain why I’m walking across the campus of the school I attend.” She walks past Lexa, knocking their shoulders against each other, and stomps all the way to her car.

She’s turning the engine over when Lexa opens the passenger door and slides in. “Clarke.”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now. Get the hell out of my car.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Great. Get out of my car.”

Lexa sighs. “Clarke, please. There is a--” Lexa fumbles, stumbling over her words, “a situation. It requires my complete attention, I--”

“Lexa, just stop, okay? I’m tired. And we don’t owe each other anything, because we were never anything. Right?”

Lexa is silent. “Right,” she says, flat. She slams the door as she leaves.

 

Lexa leaves the house before Clarke wakes up, comes home after Clarke’s gone to sleep. On Tuesday Lexa doesn’t give Octavia any money. She stops coming to dinner.

//

Clarke is drunk at a frathouse, and Octavia is refusing to let her into the car. She paws at the backseat door, growling when the handle clicks away futilely under her palm. “Stop it.” She glares through the window.

“Lose the dead weight,” Octavia hollers through the glass.

“Sorry, Nora,” Clarke tells her date.

“It’s Niylah,” Nora says.

“Sure.” Clarke thumps her fist on the car door. “Stop being a bitch, O!”

“I don’t like Party Girl Griffin anymore! I want Clarke back.”

“I’ll kill you! Let me in the fucking car!”

“It’s okay,” Nicole says. “You should just go with your friend. Nice to meet you, though.”

“No,” Clarke protests. She leans in, turning to pin Nadine against the car and kissing her, messy and dirty. “I wanna take you home with me.” She licks her way down the other girl’s neck and rolls her hips, smiling when she feels the moan rumble against her hair. Octavia shrieks a protest and Clarke flips her off. Octavia doesn’t want to take her home? Clarke will have sloppy drunk sex against her car.

Octavia shoves the door open, throwing Clarke forward. “You disgust me,” she says, and there’s genuine anger that Sober Clarke is going to have to deal with in the morning. But that’s a problem for Future Clarke, so she crawls in the backseat and pulls Natalie on top of her, giggling and softly moaning and whiskey sour in the twist of her tongue.

//

She wakes up naked in her bed, a familiar pounding in her temples. She sits up, looking around--Naya--Nala?--the other girl. Is nowhere to be found. She fumbles under the bed for a bottle of water, wincing at the flat stale taste. There’s a crash in the kitchen, followed by a roar, and Clarke trips over her own feet, dragging on the first shirt her fingers find that falls low enough to cover her junk and stumbling to get her head through the right hole.

She flies into the kitchen, careening off the wall, and Raven knocks into her back. “What’s going on,” she mumbles, and Clarke squeaks. Lexa has--Nancy? Fuck, Clarke is a terrible person--Lexa has Clarke’s one night stand up against the wall, her fingers twisted in the girl’s see through blouse.

“Chit laik yu dula hir?!”

“Lexa!” Lexa whips around, teeth bared, and Clarke fumbles for words. “What the fuck?” It’s not the most eloquent attempt at conflict de-escalation Clarke’s ever put forth, and not only does Lexa not release Nina, her forearm begins to inch towards Naomi’s neck with deadly intent. “Na--Nadia is on her way out.”

“It’s Niylah,” the girl says, mild annoyance in her voice, and Lexa snarls. Then she looks at the bruises on Niylah’s neck, the scratchmarks from Clarke’s fingernails on her shoulders. She turns, shocked, and Clarke’s in a shirt that barely falls below her ass, obviously naked underneath, with her fuck me makeup still on, a cloud of hard liquor and old cigarettes hanging about her. Lexa steps back, her eyes cast aside, her fists clenched. Niylah falls to her knees, tipping her head back in submission.

“Heda. I didn’t know.”

“Gyon op.” Lexa is breathing through her nose, hard, but her face is blank. “I apologize. I misunderstood the situation.”

Clarke gapes at them both. “You’re Trikru?”

“Really Clarke,” Raven mutters, “with the surprise? You don’t even know her name.”

“I know it now.”

“I will,” Lexa says, stiff, “leave you in peace. Bosh moba, Niylah.”

“No,” Niylah says, “please. I was on my way out.” She hesitates at the door. “Hofli keryon kom Heda na fleim au ona oso ogeda..”

“Oso gonplei nou ste odon kos oso gonplei don jos stot au,” Lexa responds, quiet, and Niylah leaves without another look back at Clarke.

“Huh,” Raven says. “I expected something more climactic, to be honest.”

“Again, I apologize. I was taken off guard, and I assumed incorrectly.”

“Lexa…”

“Please excuse me. I have an appointment I must get to.” It’s a pretty blatant lie, since Lexa has never left the house in sweatpants and a t-shirt with frayed hems and holes in the sleeves, and she isn’t wearing any socks, but she commits, grabs her keys off the counter and walking out barefoot, the clicking the door shut firmly behind her.

“Fuck.” Clarke collapses onto a dining chair. “Fuck.”

“Octavia’s mad at you.”

“Yeah, I’m a fucking mess. Tell me something I don’t know.” Clarke smashes her head onto the table, facedown.

Raven sits in her armchair and pats her lap. “Come to Momma Rae.”

“No,” Clarke says into the tabletop, her voice muffled. “I don’t deserve your warm embrace.”

“Did you get drunk and slutty.” Clarke groans. “I thought you retired Party Girl Griffin?”

“She made a comeback.”

“Gross, I don’t want to know what you do in the privacy of your own bed.” Clarke grumbles, wordless, and hears Raven sigh. “Clarke, really? You’re going to make me be the emotionally mature one? This goes against the very basis of our friendship.” Clarke throws a hand in Lexa’s direction and growls. “Have you talked to her? Did she make any promises or tell you anything that wasn’t true?”

Clarke sighs, peeling her face off the table. “God, fine. I could talk to Lexa. Or… I could make red velvet cupcakes.”

Raven does a passable impression of a dog sighting a squirrel. “With cream cheese icing?”

“Maybe.” Clarke drags the word out, tempting.

“Name your price.”

//

Clarke pays Raven ten dollars and four red velvet cupcakes to hack the student information system.

“You’re lucky I have loose morals.” Raven taps a few keys and her printer hums to life. “Promise you won’t do anything super stalkery with this?”

“I just need to know where to wait for her, after her class.”

“Right. You know we live with her, right? You could sit in the living room and achieve the same result. Without breaking any laws.”

“That’s different.” Clarke crosses her arms. “I was reading about conflict resolution--”

“Oh my god.”

Clarke ignores her, raising her voice slightly. “And, it’s better to hash out disagreements in a neutral environment.”

“Take this schedule,” Raven says, thrusting the paper at her, “and get out of here with your gross Dr. Phil shit.” Clarke snatches it out of her hands, scanning. There’s another quick clattter of keys, and then Raven sucks in a breath. “Holy shit.”

“Hm?”

“Anya has a zero GPA. Literally. Not a single fraction of a point. You know I was kidding before, but there’s something seriously off about--”

“Yeah,” Clarke says absently, wandering out with her eyes still fixed on the paper in her hands. “Sure, Rae. Whatever you want for dinner’s fine.’

//

Clarke lurks in the hallway of the political science building, shifting on her feet and fucking around on her phone until the doors start to open, students spilling out. She goes on her tiptoes, eyes narrowed, until she sights her target. “Lexa!” She catches Lexa’s eye and Lexa’s face sets, but she allows Clarke to fall into step beside her.

“Is there something you need from me, Clarke?”

“Maybe we fucked it up,” Clarke says, brutally honest, and Lexa’s strides falter before smoothing back out. “Over Christmas. I liked being your friend. Did you like being my friend?”

Lexa waits a few seconds before answering, something thoughtful and complicated chasing over her face as they make their way down the steps outside the building. “Yes.”

“Then can we just do that?” Clarke kicks at a rock. “I miss you.” She coughs. “And uh, you promised Octavia you’d teach her how to ride your motorcycle.”

“Of course,” Lexa says, “I never break a promise.” Clarke smiles at her, testing, and Lexa smiles back.

“Good. Tomorrow’s Tuesday, make sure you give her the grocery money after the lesson.” Lexa rolls her eyes, but it’s not a no, and it’s going well enough Clarke powers through to part two of her hastily constructed plan.

“About Noelle.” She knows it’s Niylah, but she doesn’t miss the flash of satisfaction in Lexa’s eyes at her bumbling of the name.

“You don’t owe me an explanation. We have no claim on each other.”

“Right,” Clarke agrees. She chews her lip. “We really did fuck it up, huh?”

“Maybe,” Lexa says, but she doesn’t pull away when Clarke links their arms. “Maybe not.”

//

Lexa’s late for dinner, and Octavia and Raven are getting mutinous. “She won’t care,” Raven hisses, her wrist straining against Clarke’s hand, trying to get a forkful of mac and cheese into her mouth. “I’ve been awake for fifty seven hours, Clarke. I need sustenance.”

“It’s not polite--” Clarke’s voice ratchets up, strained as Raven uses both hands to try and get to her dinner. “Raven!”

The door bangs against the wall, Anya’s boot receding as she kicks it open and comes through, supporting a figure against her side. “We need the first aid kit,” she snaps, and Clarke shoves herself up, hurrying to the bathroom for the white box and a pair of latex gloves. When she gets back Lexa is slumped in her vacated chair, the food hurriedly shoved to the counters to clear the table.

Clarke opens the kit up on the table, digging for the antiseptic and snapping on gloves. “Where did Anya go?”

“To retrieve my motorcycle.” Lexa pulls at her jacket, wincing, and Octavia eases it away from her body. Lexa grunts as she leans forward, and Octavia tosses the jacket over the table. Lexa peels her shirt up, frowning down at her side. “I was involved in a minor accident.”

“No shit,” Raven says from the kitchen, through a mouthful of food. Clarke rips an antibacterial wipe free of its packaging and crumples the wrapper before throwing it at Raven’s face. Lexa stands, unbuckling her belt, and Octavia squeaks, averting her eyes. “Damn,” Raven says, faintly approving, then grunts when Octavia elbows her. Lexa shoves her pants down, squinting at her upper thigh, then nods her head and pulls her pants back up. She sits again.

“No broken skin.” Lexa doesn’t hiss when Clarke digs into her side with tweezers, but her face flinches once before going flat and hard.

“Christ,” Clarke mutters, leaning in. “Octavia, can you--” Octavia flicks on her cellphone flashlight, aiming it. “Thanks. Why didn’t your jacket protect your torso?” She peels away a scrap of fabric, Lexa’s entire right ribcage covered in road rash, tiny bits of rock embedded in her skin, her shirt shredded to ruin.

“It wasn’t zipped.” Clarke looks away from her work, incredulous, and Lexa shrugs.

“I’m surprised,” Clarke says, hooking a heel around a chair and pulling it close so she can sit. “That Anya lets you roar around on that thing, if it’s so dangerous. Get up on the table, I can’t see shit from this angle.”

Lexa slides up into a sitting position on the table, leaning back on her elbows. Clarke’s scoots closer with a scrape. “She’s voiced her objections. I think that was my last ride.”

“I got this,” Clarke says to Octavia, “thanks. You and Raven can go eat.” They shuffle off to the living room, and Clarke hears the television click on. “You seem pretty calm about all this.”

“It’s not the first time.”

“This really isn’t psyching me up for Octavia to get a motorcycle license, you know.”

Lexa grunts. “She’s tough. She’ll be fine.”

“At least you were wearing your helmet,” Clarke says, sitting back and putting the tweezers aside. She strips off her gloves and shuffles through the kit, looking for the big square bandages and tape. There’s a short, guilty silence, and Clarke narrows her eyes at Lexa, her hands stilling. “You were wearing your helmet. Lexa. You were wearing your helmet, right?”

“It is a short ride from campus to here,” Lexa mumbles. “I had a headache--what are you doing?”

“I’m getting the rubbing alcohol out.”

“I thought you already cleaned it?”

“I did, but I want to hurt you some more now.” Lexa makes an offended noise. “Lexa, are you serious? You could have died! And who would protect the world from Anya after that, huh?”

“Trikru believe in reincarnation,” Lexa says, then knocks Clarke’s hand aside when she comes at her with another wipe. “Touch me with that and my spirit will come back to haunt you.”

Clarke leans in until their noses touch. “Your spirit stays where it is. Or I’ll bring you back to life just so I can kill you myself.”

“That’s counterproductive, Clarke.” Clarke flicks her third rib and Lexa twitches under her finger, a small noise escaping before she can bite it back. Clarke blows cool air across Lexa’s skin, lays down white gauze and layers tape around the edges. When she’s done she hesitates, then tugs at the edge of Lexa’s bloody shirt.

“You should take this off.”

Lexa grunts when she tries to lift her arms above her head, and Clarke watches her struggle, unimpressed, before sighing heavily and going to the kitchen drawer for a pair of scissors. “I like this shirt,” Lexa grumbles, but she drops her hands and lets Clarke cut her free. Clarke balls up the shredded bloody fabric, tossing it into the garbage with the rest of the used materials on the table. She stands, meaning to wash her hands at the sink, but then she’s in the ‘v’ of Lexa’s legs, Lexa stretched back onto the table, sprawled and breathing a little harder than normal from contorting to get her shirt off. Her brastrap has fallen off one shoulder, and Clarke stares at it, her mouth dry.

“Just friends,” she says outloud. She flicks her eyes to Lexa’s and watches them go glassy and dark.

“Clarke,” she murmurs, low, and Clarke slides closer, a knee up on the table. She hefts herself up and hovers, waiting, and Lexa’s the one to close the distance. Lexa pulls her down, a hand on her hip, and nips at the underside of Clarke’s jaw, mouthing down her neck with a soft sigh. Clarke goes straight for the cups of Lexa’s bra, biting above them and then soothing the indents with her tongue. Her thighs tremble from keeping her weight off Lexa’s injured side, and she’s thinking about how to flip them and get Lexa on top when water droplets hit her face. She splutters.

“Stop it!” Raven and Octavia flick their fingers at them, water flying. Raven’s eyes narrowed. “Bad Clarke. We eat there!” Clarke slides off, feeling blindly for the floor, glaring murder, and is opening her mouth when the doorknob turns--Anya returning.

“Lexa.” She doesn’t say anything more, walking straight back into her room, and Lexa stands with a wince.

“Thank you for your assistance,” she says to the fridge, refusing to meet any of their eyes, and follows Anya. Music clicks on, muffled, the same radio station that broadcasts at the dentist’s office, generic and inoffensive and more to fill the silence than to play good music.

“Thanks,” Clarke says, sitting with a sigh. Octavia pats her shoulder, sympathetic, and Raven dishes her up a bowl of food. “It would have been a mistake, right?” She bites her lip. “We shouldn’t.”

“Oh Clarke,” Raven says, then appears to run out of comforting material. She shrugs, pushing the bowl across the table. “Eat something.”

//

Lexa falls asleep at dinner. Her forehead actually smacks into the table, rattling her plate, and she jackknifes back up, bleary eyed. “Yes,” she says stupidly, blinking fast. “What?”

“It’s probably a pretty good thing you gave up the motorcycle,” Raven says, looking at her sidelong. “You’d definitely be dead.” Clarke kicks her under the table, stubbing her toe on Raven’s brace.

“Son of a bitch!”

Raven looks smug. “Instant karma.”

Lexa picks up a spoon and peers at herself in its bended reflection. “This isn’t my watch.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, casting Octavia and Raven a quick look. “Time for bed.” She pulls at Lexa’s arm and she melts out of the chair, sagging until Clarke hooks an awkward arm around her waist. “Come on, Lex.”

“I have class,” Lexa protests.

“It’s nine pm,” Clarke informs her, and Lexa blinks.

“I… need to go to bed.” She gets her feet under her and makes it to her room mostly under her own power, with Clarke stepping in to steer only twice. She staggers to her bed and flops across it, sighing.

“Where’s Anya?” Lexa slurs something into the pillow, garbled. “What?”

“Gone,” Lexa mumbles. She looks so exhausted, lying there fully dressed, and when Clarke looks around the room is… not at Clarke’s own level of messy chaos, but noticeably less neat than it has been in the past. Clarke takes off Lexa’s shoes, letting them fall from her fingers and bounce away on the floor, and sits on the edge of the bottom bunk mattress, next to Lexa’s knees.

“What’s running you ragged?” she murmurs, rubbing a hand down Lexa’s thigh, comforting and soothing. Lexa mumbles something that definitely isn’t English but doesn’t sound like trigedasleng either, and drools a little. “Lexa,” Clarke says, leaning close. “What time should I set your alarm?”

“No,” Lexa explains, and pulls Clarke down on top of her. Clarke crashes into her chest, groaning, and goes up on one elbow. Lexa peers at her. “Are we having sex?”

“No.”

“Good,” Lexa sighs, some of the tension bleeding out, “because I don’t think I can, right now.” She sighs again, her fingers flexing on Clarke’s shoulder.

“Go to sleep,” Clarke orders, fond despite herself, and starts to stand.

“Will you stay?” Lexa asks, the smallest whisper. Clarke hesitates. “Please, Clarke. For a minute.”

Clarke looks at her, the bags under her eyes and the weight on her shoulders, the ink dotted around her fingers and her hair limp from the grease of her fingers running through it, over and over and over and Clarke wonders if Lexa has ever, in her whole life, asked for anything for herself until this minute, just for someone to stay. “Okay,” Clarke murmurs, and lies down, between Lexa and the wall. It’s a tight fit, and it’s not comfortable, and Lexa’s gotta feel squished but she just sighs really long, like she’s sinking into a hot bath. Clarke turns, really slow and really careful, until she’s on her side, and gathers Lexa up, draws her in until she’s tucked into the curve of Clarke’s own body.

Clarke leans her cheek over Lexa’s neck, breathing her in. “Is this okay?” There’s nothing sexual about it, no thrum of desire in the way she smoothes Lexa’s hair away from her face or the kisses she drops on Lexa’s closed eyes. It’s something different, somehow more intimate than Lexa’s body clenched around her fingers or her tongue in Lexa’s mouth.

Lexa hums, relaxing back against Clarke, and she’s asleep in the next second, her breathing going even and deep, but Clarke stays awake, Lexa’s pulse fluttering against her cheek, Lexa’s ribcage rising and falling under her hand, making soft shushing noises when Lexa stirs and murmurs.

//

She must fall asleep at some point, because she wakes with the sun on her face, streaming through the windows. The mattress next to her is cold, but she can hear the shower running. She stretches, arching her back, and grimaces at the taste of sleep on her tongue. She rolls out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom. “Hey,” she says over the water and through the curtain. “I gotta pee. Don’t look.” Lexa doesn’t respond until she’s finished and flushed the toilet and washed her hands and is stealing a swig of mouthwash from the bottle on the counter.

“You could have used the other bathroom, you know.” Clarke blinks at Lexa’s face, peering out from behind the curtain. The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. It had felt so natural, to shuffle in while Lexa was showering and to listen to her lather her hair.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m gonna go…” Clarke points, “brush my teeth.”

“Okay.”

//

“Okay,” Clarke says, barging in without knocking. Lexa throws her a pointed look and Clarke shrugs. “I don’t knock. You know this by now. Anyway, I’m kidnapping you. If you want.”

Lexa’s hair is still wet and uncombed, falling down her back in a tangle, and she’s wearing a sweatshirt that Clarke think might be Anya’s. She’s sitting at her desk, frowning at papers she’d covered as soon as Clarke had come through the doorframe. “It’s not kidnapping if it’s voluntary, Clarke. Unless you intend to coerce me in some way?”

“Just with the powers of verbal persuasion. You faceplanted into Chef Boyardee; you need a little hooky.”

“Not into,” Lexa mutters, put out. “Beside, perhaps.” Clarke scoffs. “I have been… overextending myself,” Lexa admits. “I have my reasons.” She pauses. “Anya usually helps.”

“So,” Clarke drawls. She jingles her car keys. “Hooky?”

//

“I know I promised we could go anywhere,” Clarke says, cutting the engine and peering out of the windshield. “You sure?”

“It’s my day off,” Lexa says. “Humour me.”

Clarke follows her through the park, winding down the paths. It’s not completely deserted, but it is the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday, so it’s not thrumming with people. Clarke bounces her step a little, shivering. “I should have brought a hat.”

“I enjoy the winter.” Lexa tips her face into the chill wind, the cold bleaching her lips pale pink.

“Yeah,” Clarke says, watching Lexa tuck a piece of hair behind her ear before rubbing her hands together, smiling. “I guess it’s not so bad.”

 

They walk until they reach the monument, a tomb made of stone and a marbled flag flying high, no color or design carved or painted onto the banner. “I thought this was in Virginia,” Clarke remarks.

“The most famous ones are. This is just a memorial statue, not a crypt.” Lexa stands at the base, looking up at the flag, pensive.

“It’s kinda depressing,” Clarke says, fidgeting. “I guess that’s the point, though.”

“Yes.” Lexa sighs. “This is what it is to be a leader, Clarke. To look people in the eye and say: ‘go and die for me’.” Her shoulders hunch, then straighten. “It is a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“Victory,” Lexa says, heavy, “rests on the back of sacrifice.”

“I disagree,” Clarke says, and Lexa turns, surprised. Clarke steps up next to her, takes her hand. “I think it’s a reminder to value peace above war.”

Lexa shakes her head. “War is necessary for survival.”

“Yeah but…” Clarke bites her lip. “Nevermind. What do I know, right?”

“I value your opinion.” Clarke checks Lexa’s face for a lie, but she looks genuinely interested, even if her brow is creased and her expression tight.

“I just think that… people deserve more than just surviving, you know?”

“I think I do,” Lexa murmurs, and they kiss once, infinitely slow, Lexa’s hand so gentle against the side of Clarke’s face, their noses brushing.

//

Clarke frowns into the fridge, trying to decide if she wants to go through the trouble of making hot cocoa on the stove. She checks the clock and shrugs, pulling out the milk and nudging the door shut with her foot. She sloshes some into a saucepan, nudges the dial to medium high and flops into a chair, digging out her phone to kill some time. The light from under Lexa’s door keeps catching her eye and after a minute she gives it up, tucking her phone away and padding down the hall to rap lightly on the door. It swings open after a few seconds, Lexa in pajama bottoms and a tank top, frazzled hair.

“Clarke?”

“Can’t sleep?”

“I’m working.” Lexa nudges her glasses up, rubbing harshly at her eyes. “Do you need something?”

“I’m making hot chocolate. You want some?”

“No.” Lexa shuts the door in her face and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“I tried,” she mutters, and goes back to the kitchen to poke at the pot with a spoon until it bubbles.

She’s walking through the dark living room, blowing across the surface of her mug, when she glances up and sees someone looking through the window. Her shriek starts out terrified and turns pained, hot milk splashing her as she loses her grip on the mug and it shatters at her feet. She jumps back, fumbling for her phone, and screams again.

Multiple doors slam open, but Lexa gets to her first. “Clarke!”

“There’s someone outside!” Clarke points to the window, which is empty again. “I swear, I saw--”

“Clarke?” Raven and Octavia appear by her side, Raven clutching an aluminum baseball bat.

“Stay here,” Lexa orders. She heads for the door.

“What?” Clarke lunges for her sleeve. “Lexa, are you kidding? I’m calling the police.”

“Stay here,” Lexa snaps, “I’ll be right back.” She flips the lock on the doorknob as she goes, slamming it shut and locked behind her.

Clarke stays still, Octavia and Raven murmuring stressed comforting nonsense, for three whole seconds before snorting. She grabs the bat out of Raven’s hand. “I’m going to get Lexa.”

Octavia, on the phone with the 911 dispatcher, squawks. “Clarke--” she slaps a hand over the bottom half of the phone. “They’ll be here in two minutes--” There’s a banging on the door and they all shout, jumping.

“It’s me,” Lexa says through the door, and Clarke lunges to let her in. “He’s gone,” she reports, coming in and locking the door behind her. She turns, keeping one hand behind her thigh. “Are the police on their way?”

“Sorry,” Octavia is saying into her phone, “that was our other roommate.” She holds up two fingers to the rest of them.

“I’m going to bed,” Lexa says. “I don’t think they need to hear from all of us.” Raven and Clarke exchanged incredulous glances, and Lexa edges around them, keeping her front to them as she backs down the hall into her room.

“What did you see?” Raven asks.

“Just a face,” Clarke says, her heart finally starting to slow. “A guy--hold on.” She fumbles to the kitchen table, rummaging through the mail for the usual cable provider offer. She flips it over to a blank page and Raven, catching on, passes her a pen. She sketches the face she’d seen, a man with ratty hair to his shoulders, dark circles around his eyes and streaks on the bridge of his nose.

“Woah,” Octavia says, and a siren whoops from their driveway. “I’ll let them in.”

“Do you recognize him?” Raven asks, taking the sketch away and squinting at it. It’s rough, done in harsh lines and just under a minute, and it’s not like Clarke had gotten a good look at him through a dark window in the middle of the night, but the drawing had got her thinking, and she what she thinks is that the lines on his face looked a hell of a lot like the ones she saw at the Trikru ceremony, with Lexa.

“Hold on,” she says to Raven, “I’ll be right back, okay? Give that to the police.”

She opens Lexa’s door, half-surprised it’s not locked, and Lexa is standing at her own window, looking out. “Clarke,” she says without turning around. “Are the police here?”

“Yes.” A knife dangles from Lexa’s hand, not a kitchen one or a boxcutter, but a folding knife, four inches long, with a guarded grip that fits around her knuckles. It gleams dully, serrated at the base, and Lexa’s thumb strokes along the back of it. “Did you--do you know what’s going on?”

“My position grows precarious,” Lexa says, and a frown flits across her mouth. “I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Uh,” Clarke says, confused. She doesn’t watch the news as often as she should, but she knows Trigeda is unstable, and there are many Trikru in the States who’d come seeking asylum. Does Lexa have beef with other refugees she’d immigrated with? “You’re active in Trikru organizations, right?”

It’s Lexa’s turn to look confused. “Clarke, you know I am--”

“Clarke?” It’s Raven, cracking the door open. “Lexa. The police want to talk to you.”

The knife disappears up Lexa’s sleeve so fast Clarke is almost unsure it’d ever been in Lexa’s hand to begin with. “Of course.” She strides past Clarke, not without a last searching look, and Clarke follows quietly at her heels.

Clarke retells the story twice, shows the policeman where she’d been standing, agrees the drawing was who she’d seen. Lexa says she went onto the porch and saw nothing, her voice completely flat, and halfway through a probing question her phone rings, she excuses herself to her room, and doesn’t come back.

It’s another forty five minutes before the police leave, with a promise for a cruiser to roll around their block once every half hour for the next four hours, and then Octavia makes another batch of hot chocolate with a splash of bourbon and they fall asleep on the couch, curled up with each other and the armchair pushed against the front door. Clarke listens to Octavia and Raven sleep, her own eyes drooping shut and then fluttering open again, and at some point she realizes Lexa’s kneeling in front of her, her hand hovering over Clarke’s shoulder.

“Clarke,” Lexa whispers when she sees Clarke’s eyes focus on hers. “May I speak with you?”

“Okay,” Clarke whispers back. “My room?” Lexa nods, leaving noiselessly, and Clarke extricates herself from the cuddle pile, murmuring comfortingly when Octavia or Raven stir. She slips into her room and shuts the door behind her. “Lexa?”

Lexa melts out the shadow behind Clarke’s dresser. “Clarke. Are you alright?”

Clarke shrugs. “Not really.” Her hands have stopped shaking, though, and that’s something. Lexa exhales, sharp.

“I’m sorry. I never meant to…” she trails off, locking her hands together behind her back. “I never should have moved here. Anya was right.” She looks exhausted, and resigned, and miserable, and Clarke forgets about demanding answers.

“I don’t regret you.” Clarke steps forward, stopping when Lexa retreats from her, her back bumping against the wall.

“You may, someday. Someday soon.”

Clarke shakes her head. “You don’t get to decide that.” She hesitates, then slides closer, a hand cupping Lexa’s jaw, her thumb stroking Lexa’s cheekbone. “Do you regret it? Us?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lexa tries, and Clarke curls her other hand around Lexa’s waist.

“It matters to me.”

“No,” Lexa says, like it’s been ripped from her chest. “I could never.” Clarke kisses her then, careful and with her eyes open, watching Lexa’s face smooth out, go gentle and easy and soft. Clarke closes her eyes when Lexa pushes back, changing the angle, and they stumble to Clarke’s bed, landing together on their sides, their foreheads bumping. Their clothes fall away, Lexa’s fingers fumbling against her hip and pulling away from her mouth only long enough to strip off their tops, and Lexa trembles under her, breathing quick and quiet, muffling her sounds into her wrist.

“Don’t do that,” Clarke murmurs, trailing kisses down Lexa’s sternum and nudging her thighs apart. “I want to hear you.”

Lexa’s next moan is a little louder, less muffled, but she pulls at Clarke’s hair, urging her back up her body. “I want to see you,” she says, and it’s more awkward, Clarke half propped on her side to get the angle just right, grinding against each other, and it takes longer and her orgasm isn’t as intense as it would be if it was Lexa’s tongue inside her instead, but Lexa’s hands run up and down her sides, caress her face, and Lexa’s eyes are so wide and her kiss so soft and when she comes her whole body freezes, shocked, before melting, and Clarke doesn’t think she would have it any other way.

 

They lie next to each other and Clarke nuzzles into her neck. “I have to go,” Lexa says, and it’s a whisper but it sounds loud in their silence. “I--I’m sorry.” She sits up, and Clarke runs a hand down her spine, questioning.

“Give it a minute,” she asks, and Lexa hesitates. “Just one minute. Stay?”

“Okay.” Lexa lies back down, tugging a blanket over their bodies. “Just for a minute.”

“One minute,” Clarke agrees, resting her head against Lexa’s chest.

//

Clarke wakes up, very early, and alone. There’s a folded paper on the pillow, and she doesn’t open it until she’s brushed her teeth, flicking it open while she tugs on a pair of socks. She hardly gets through the second paragraph before she’s on her feet, storming down the hall. She knocks the door open and she’s not sure what she expected--clothes in disarray? Another note?--but it looks almost the same as it always has, except Lexa’s bag is missing from the hook on the wall and two of the dresser drawers are slightly ajar. Clarke looks at the letter in her hand and goes to the living room, where Octavia and Raven are still snoring. She kicks at Octavia’s leg and she wakes up with a snort, choking on her own spit and flailing.

“What--what?”

“I need to talk to you.” Clarke paces in front of the couch, frowning. “Trigeda… who ruled it, before?”

“Before what?” Octavia yawns, half asleep. “Nia Azgeda is in charge, don’t you watch the news?”

“Before her--before the takeover, was it like, Kings and Queens?”

“No, they had all these rituals, a conclave. Different families each time, chosen as children. Like the Dalai Lama, sort of, you know. Reincarnation and all that.”

“What’s a Heda?”

“Yeah, the Hedas. The Commanders. Nia isn’t one though, her army just killed all the kids in the last conclave, so the Commander’s spirit is… gone, or whatever. I don’t know, it’s all supernatural mumbo jumbo. My class is in linguistics.”

“Lexa is Heda,” Clarke blurts, fumbling for the remote.

“What? Clarke, go back to sleep, honestly--”

“I’m so stupid, she fucking told me, months ago, and I thought she was just drunk.” Clarke flips the television on, searching for a news channel.

“What’s happening,” Raven mumbles. “Why talking.”

“Clarke thinks ‘Heda’ Lexa’s an exiled Trikru chieftan with a blood claim to the throne.” Octavia rolls her eyes. “How much bourbon did you put in your mug last night?”

“Yeah,” Raven says, slitting her eyes open and stretching wide, “Niylah called her Heda. And Anya, too.”

“What?”

Clarke curses. “Fucking American news, so ethnocentric.” She tosses the letter at Octavia’s chest and flops into Raven’s armchair, fuming. Octavia reads for a moment, brow furrowed. The farther down she gets, the higher her eyebrows rise, and as she turns the page she starts to sputter.

“Stay here,” Octavia says, practically running into her room. She emerges quickly, a thick book and her laptop balanced in her arms. “Hold this,” she orders, passing Clarke the textbook. “I know,” she mutters, typing away, “I know we got sent this reading on the coup, I just have to--ah!” She scans. “It says they were all killed. Did Lexa say…?”

Clarke shrugs. “Just what it says in the letter.” Raven looks up from the letter, her mouth hanging open.

“What the fuck, Clarke? Lexa told you she’s a modern day Anastasia and you didn’t tell us?”

“I thought she was kidding. Were drunk! On plastic bottle vodka. At a Motel Six!”

“I don’t think Anastasia planned an assassination,” Octavia says thoughtfully, still reading her screen. “I don’t remember that part of the animated movie.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, “we don’t know for sure Lexa’s going through with the assassination. She could totally be delusional. We have not ruled out her just being plain crazy.” She flips through the news channels again. “Let’s just wait and see.”

“Oh hey,” Raven says, reaching the end of the letter. “She left you her bike, O.” Clarke glares. “What? Blame a bitch for finding a silver lining, shit.”

 

They watch the news for another three hours, Octavia reading out little bits of information as she discovers them--the Commander was the founder of Trigeda, and is reborn every generation into a new child, identified by village healers and sent to the capital to train. The conclaves consist of several rituals, the details of which Octavia can’t find, and the most recent Commander was killed in a bloody military coup by one of the 12 clans that made up the country, along with every child in the capital city.

“There are reports that the army kills kids they think might be---whatever it is that is the Commander.” Octavia pulls a face. “Brutal.”

“Uh-uh,” Clarke grunts, transfixed by CNN World News. Raven grabs her phone away from her hands, where she’s been texting Lexa every fifteen minutes.

“I put a google alert on Trigeda, okay? It’s time for a shower and some food. You smell like sex and regret.”

//

It takes three days for the alert to blow up her phone, three days of Clarke chewing her fingernails down to nothing and pacing the kitchen at four am, holding Octavia and Raven captive at the dining table to listen to her ramble and curse and worry. By the time her phone starts vibrating and doesn’t stop, she hardly needs the nudge--every radio station, every television channel, every newspaper, are broadcasting the news. A twenty-two year old girl walked into the capital of a small, mostly self-sustaining nation in the grasp of a brutal dictator, flanked by six supporters, and killed four guards and the dictator herself. The image loops, Lexa in black armor and black paint across her eyes, her face flecked with blood as she sits in the throne and looks directly into the camera, her sword dripping by her side.

“Christ on a cracker,” Octavia breathes, staring at their television, frozen on the couch. Lexa declares herself ruler in trigedasleng and then in English, harshly accented, and the television breaking news banner underneath labels her a warlord as the pundits dissolve into predictable chatter.

“I guess she wasn’t lying,” Clarke mutters.

“Yeah.” Raven holds the curtains aside with one hand, peering out into their front yard. “We have other problems.”

Clarke climbs over the back of the couch, Octavia following, and they hunch together at the window, squinting through the gap between the frame and the blinds. Two news vans are parked at the curb, people in coats pulling equipment out. Another van pulls up while they’re watching, and men with cameras are already snapping shots of their yard, their house. “Fuck. That didn’t take very long.”

“I have class in half an hour,” Octavia complains. Raven and Clarke look at her, disbelieving, and she shrugs. “Yeah so our housemate is a badass military insurgent. Organic chemistry waits for no one.”

//

They have to call the police to keep people off their lawn, and even then it’s a gauntlet to get to their cars, keeping their heads down and driving excruciatingly slow until they get to the road. Campus security is out in full force, but the reporters don’t seem in a rush to stalk them at school, although Clarke sees them hounding the political science building, trying to find Lexa’s classmates.

 

“She was always cold,” a girl is saying obnoxiously as Clarke goes to find Octavia. They’ve been carpooling since the news broke, unwilling to brave the shitshow of their front yard alone. “It doesn’t surprise me that she’s violent. I think she’ll be an even worse leader than Azgeda--”

“You don’t know shit,” Clarke snaps, charging into frame. “The only thing Lexa cares about is her people! Just because she busted your curve doesn’t mean--” Clarke falls abruptly silent, suddenly cognizant of the giant camera aimed straight at her face, the red light blinking.

“You’re Clarke Griffin,” the reporter says. “The roommate. Are you finally breaking your silence?”

“Um,” Clarke says, trying to back away. “I uh, I should go.”

“Do you stand by your remarks on Lexa? Did you help her plan the coup?”

“What? No, I--I have to go.” Clarke flees into the building, ducking through the halls until she finds a bathroom. She splashes water on her face and grimaces at her reflection, pale and waxy, bags under her eyes.

//

The networks uncover Costia and Tris, digging up crime scene photos and old police reports. They speculate on it being an assassination attempt on Lexa and splash graphic images across the screen, next to the picture of Lexa’s passport, young and grim faced, her named spelled Leksa. Clarke learns Costia had curly hair and dark flawless skin and a gap toothed smile and she was killed slowly and painfully and her head was left bloody in Lexa’s bed, and she throws up into the same toilet Lexa had sat on and told Clarke in a broken voice that she’d lost someone and that it’d been her fault. The news stations loop the story, using the bloody bedsheet photo as a hook, and Clarke turns it off for the first time in days, unable to stomach the sight of it.

//

“You can imagine,” Abby’s voice echoes dry and tinny down the line, “my hesitation at welcoming a warlord as a daughter in law.”

“Mom, please. It’s not funny.”

“I am not laughing, Clarke.” Clarke mutters her way through the rest of the conversation, recalcitrant and grumbly and monosyllabic before her mother tells her to email her the particulars on the graduation ceremony and releases her.

//

“Clarke.” Octavia shakes her in the middle of the night. “Clarke, I think there’s someone in the yard.”

Clarke rolls away from her. “O, there’s like fifty people in the yard.”

“No, the backyard.”

Clarke sits up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Come with me to get the police?”

“No.” Clarke stomps out of her room, fuming, and slams into the other bedroom, making Raven sit up in her own bed, alarmed. “Go back to sleep,” Clarke grunts, hefting the baseball bat from underneath a pile of clothing and towels. She spins it once, heading for the back sliding door.

Octavia follows her. “Uh, Clarke? Can we pause this breakdown for a second?”

“I am so fucking tired,” Clarke fumes, shoving the door aside and stomping into the yard, “of these fucking assholes--” she pitches her voice loud, raising the bat into the air. “--Come out now and maybe I won’t bash your fucking head in! This is private property, jackass!”

Complete silence greets her remark, and Clarke slits her eyes at the yard, straining in the dark. “Got it,” Raven says, coming out after her. She clicks on a huge flashlight, casting the beam about. “There,” she mutters, highlighting the branches of the biggest tree against the fence, which are shaking faintly.

Clarke goes straight for the trunk, hitting it so hard her arms rebound painfully. She pokes up into the branches, flailing. “Get down right now!”

“Okay,” a deep voice says, “take it easy.” A man uncurls from a branch, dropping lightly to the ground. Clarke raises the bat to her shoulder and he holds up his hands, appeasing. “It’s okay, I’m here to help.”

“Help what? And who?” Raven aims the light at his face and he squints, trying to shield his eyes. Clarke blinks at him. “You’re that guy--Lincoln?”

“Lexa sent me,” he says. “Can I come in?”

//

Octavia makes them cocoa while Lincoln checks the locks on their doors and windows, drawing the curtains firmly. “Did she, uh, did she leave you anything for me? A message, or…” Clarke trails off, hopeful, and Lincoln fidgets.

“Just to watch, and help, where I can.”

“So you climbed our tree,” Raven says slowly, suspicious. “How do we know you’re not with whatsherface, that bitch?”

Lincoln sneers, pulling his lip back from his teeth. He snarls something in trigedasleng. “Yeah,” Octavia chimes in, pushing a cup of hot chocolate into his hands. “We can’t trust you yet. Should keep you where we can keep an eye on you. I’ll take first watch; you can sleep in Raven’s bed.”

Raven squawks, then grumbles when Octavia throws her a narrowed eyed look. “Yeah, fine. Sleepover?” She asks Clarke.

“I’m watching you,” Clarke tells Lincoln suspiciously. She tugs Octavia into the hall by her sleeve. “Are you sure?”

Octavia shrugs. “I mean, I’m going to sleep with pepper spray up my sleeve, but I believe him. And danger makes the flirting more exciting.” She wiggles her eyebrows, and her smile is strained still but lighter than it has since half the reporters in the city moved onto their porch, and Clarke nods, throwing Lincoln a last glare before curling up in her bed with Raven.

“You sure you’re okay, Griffin?” Raven whispers once the lights are turned off. “This whole thing… you and Lexa. Gotta suck.”

“It’s weird,” Clarke agrees. “But, uh, I’m dealing with it. I’ve got other stuff to focus on. Graduation, and all that.”

“You sure?”

Clarke has thirty seven tabs open in the browser of her phone, and sixteen separate google alerts. She’s watched the blurry dark video of Lexa poking rocks into their tiny snowman’s face on her phone one hundred and sixty seven times. If Raven stuck her hand under the pillow her head is resting on, in Clarke’s bed, she’d feel the worn edges of the note Lexa had left her so long ago, I do like you, Clarke. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

//

Lincoln, for a guy they’d found skulking in a tree in their backyard, is surprisingly sweet. He helps them get through the crowd to their cars, puts away the dishes after their meals, starts the coffee early in the morning. He makes cookies in the pink apron Bellamy gave them as housewarming gag gift, Octavia leaning her hand on her hand and drooling over the sight of him in pink ruffles and a delicate lace collar, and he teaches her to ride the motorcycle, returning with her hair windswept and her face flushed. He cleans Raven’s tools and keeps her in sour gummy worms, and he avoids Clarke almost entirely.

She corners him after two weeks of this nonsense. “Explain,” she demands, and he averts his eyes down and to the side, deferent.

“You are--” he says something in trigedasleng, and sighs when she stares at him, uncomprehending.

“I’m not Lexa’s property,” Clarke snaps. “We’re not even--there is nothing between us.”

“If you say so,” Lincoln says, his tone somehow completely emotionless and also entirely disbelieving. In the closet, the washing machine trills, and he trots off.

“He is just the best househusband,” Octavia says, dreamy.

//

Trigeda has an official ceremony, and invites the world press. Lexa (Leksa) isn’t crowned, but they strap a metal pauldron across her shoulder, a bright red cape draped across her chest and falling down her back to trail on the ground as she kneels in front of her people and the world and swears her oaths. She speaks directly to the cameras for the first time the day after, in a suit. She announces elections are to be held to elect ambassadors for the twelve regions, and the unveiling of a constitution.

 

“I worry,” some expert muses on the news circuit, “if her promises to grant amnesty to the Azgeda Clan are a ruse. Can we expect more slaughter from this young usurper?” The Wall Street journal runs an article that calls Lexa a savage.

Clarke throws the remote into the wall, shattering the battery compartment. She burns the newspaper in the sink and Lincoln sweeps the ashes up into a napkin, throwing them away, before duct taping the remote shut and offering her a homemade chocolate chip cookie.

//

Clarke graduates. She takes the pictures with Octavia and Raven, all three in caps and gowns and honor cords, and the leis her mother and Bellamy give them, carnations and fun-sized candy bars. Raven blares an airhorn when they call her name.

She goes to Raven’s and Octavia’s ceremonies, screaming until her throat hurts and feeling pride hot and sharp and high in her chest: Raven making her way across the stage, beaming, Bellamy’s whoop of joy when Octavia raises her diploma.

//

The lease is up in three days and Clarke frowns at the letters on her desk, the deadline fast approaching. The news blares on in the background, Trigeda’s constitution being picked apart for not being democratic enough, and then accused of ripping off America.

“You’re going home tonight?” Octavia asks, leaning against her doorframe. “You need help with the last of your boxes?”

“No, I’m alright. I’ll see you right before you head back?”

“Yeah.” Octavia and Raven are both returning in the fall, to their respective Master’s Programs. “You know we haven’t filled your room. You’re welcome to come bum out and, I don’t know, work some shitty service job until the minimum wage motivates you to go to med school.”

Clarke shrugs. She shuffles the offers between her fingers. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“When you’re a hotshot doctor you can buy us all a townhouse to pay it back.” Octavia steps forward, hesitant. “Clarke…”

Clarke spins in her chair, forcing a smile. “How’s Lincoln?”

Octavia’s eyes go slightly glazed. “So hot. So, just so. So. So hot. And sweet, and nice--” Clarke laughs, cutting her off, and Octavia grins, sheepish but not apologetic. “Hey, you got your hot Trikru lover, let me have mine.”

Clarke’s laughter peters out. “Octavia, don’t.”

“It’s been three months. You need to--”

“What?” Clarke stands, advancing. “Get closure? How? Lexa’s half a world away. And I never even--” She cut herself off, sitting on the edge of her bare mattress. “Just don’t.”

“Okay,” Octavia mutters, sitting next to her. “But if the opportunity ever arises.”

Clarke snorts, rolling her eyes. “Sure, O. When the opportunity to talk to my onetime fuckbuddy, the Commander of the 12 Clans, Leader of the Free Trikru, Bringer of Democracy--if that ever happens, I’ll jump straight on it.”

“She’s all that,” Octavia muses, “and the youngest woman and whatnot, but she’s also… you know. The girl that gave me a motorcycle and made us dinner once a week. She used to buy the expensive dishsoap because the cheap stuff made my skin peel. She watched Saturday morning cartoons with Raven.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says. She swallows. “Yeah.”

//

Clarke goes home. Her mother is there when she arrives, and they have dinner together on the couch, watching television. A commercial shows a promo for a Law and Order episode that is clearly ripped out of the headlines surrounding Lexa and Costia, and Clarke changes the channel to a documentary immediately, refusing to meet her mother’s eyes or explain herself. She showers quick and efficient, not bothering to dry her hair when she clambers out, and when she slides between the sheets she realizes her pillow still smells like Lexa’s shampoo, her deodorant, the faintest hint of the leather of her jacket and her boots.

She strips the bed and stuffs the washing machine fuller than she should, adding the pillow, the comforter, the mattress cover, adding twice the amount of soap she usually does, and lies on the sofa while it rumbles away.

 

She sleeps too late and shuffles around in her pajamas, watching shit daytime television and eating cereal by the handful, straight from the box. Her mother drops hints and prods about her plans and she deflects until they have a screaming match over meatloaf, ending with her storming up the stairs and slamming her bedroom door. She lies in her bed and wishes, just for a second, that she could still smell Lexa’s skin on her sheets.

//

It’s ten fifty three on a Tuesday when Anya knocks on her door. Clarke’s in one of Bellamy’s old button up shirts with the collar popped like a douchebag, over a pair of cartoon boxers she got for Christmas as a joke, wearing one wool sock, and when she opens the door she just sort of blinks, blank.

“You look terrible,” Anya says.

“So do you,” Clarke snaps, because Anya’s right side is bulky, swathed in bandages, the white gauze visible from her neckline down. There’s a fresh scar cutting through her left eyebrow, scabbed over.

“I am well,” Anya says, and her face actually softens. It’s the closest to happy as Clarke’s ever seen her, even with her lips still tugged down into her customary frown. “The Trikru rise.”

“And--and Lexa?”

Anya rolls her eyes. “Entirely too concerned with bits of paper.”

Clarke pulls the door a little more open. “Come in?” Anya nods, striding in, and Clarke pours her a cup of coffee. “Did she send you?”

“Yes.” Anya sips, placid.

“And she did so because…”

Anya sighs, then produces a thick piece of cardstock, fancy lettering. “Leksa Kom Trikru invites you to Ascension Day.” She lays down two more envelopes. “For Octavia and Raven.”

Clarke sighs, toying with the paper. She considers putting up a fuss, but she’s feeling more resigned than anything. And she had promised Octavia. She pushes the envelopes back across the counter. “You can track them down yourself.”

Anya huffs. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” she snaps, snatching the invitations back up. “Be ready.”

 

Anya hammers at the door at five in the morning, and stares flatly straight into her mother’s eyes while Clarke curses her under her breath, throwing clothes into a duffel bag and ransacking her desk for her passport. “I am not comfortable with you getting into a car with this girl,” her mother hisses as Clarke kisses her cheek goodbye.

“We actually think she’s a robot, not a girl,” Clarke explains, and waves goodbye from the car window. Raven and Octavia are asleep in the backseat, slumped on each other, and Lincoln passes Clarke a coffee from the passenger seat.

“Our flight is at eleven,” Anya says, and Clarke’s hand tighten on the cup. Their flight is at eleven, and Anya picked her up at five.

“I hate you,” she says, quiet but with feeling, and Anya smiles in the rearview mirror.

//

The flight is long and draining and Clarke has to wait for Octavia and Raven to fall asleep before she can watch the video again, Lexa’s laugh tinkling low through her earbuds as she protests against Clarke’s insistence, holding up twigs for Clarke to approve as snowman arms.

She doesn’t realize she’s smiling until she’s tucking her phone away and sees Anya turned around in the seat in front of her, watching. Everyone else is asleep and the lights are dimmed and Anya has already smiled once today, so Clarke presses her luck. “Does she talk about me, ever?”

Anya frowns, then sighs. “We do not speak of such things.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right. Love is weakness.”

“Do not mock,” Anya says, sharp. “Of all the people Lexa knew as a child, I am all who remains. She cannot afford to be weak.”

“And you think I make her weak.”

“I am sure of it.”

Clarke leans forward, peering at Anya through the gap in the seats. “You might be right. Maybe I make her weak. But so do you.”

Anya snarls. “Silence yourself.”

“You said it yourself, Onya. You are all who remains. She loves you. And you love her back.”

Anya rears back, her face flashing before she locks it back down into an expressionless mask. “The flight is another ten hours. I suggest you meditate and clear your mind of such delusions.”

//

Clarke doesn’t know what she expected. She’s seen pictures and videos; she’s listened to Lexa reminisce. She’s never been big on nature, herself, but she appreciates the natural beauty of Lexa’s country, coming closer and closer as the plane lands. There are soldiers waiting for them, even more as they leave the airport and make their way towards a car. Someone hands Anya a belt with a sheath, and she slides her hand back to the hilt of a sword with a sigh of relief, like coming home.

“The Commander is in meetings all day, preparing,” Lincoln tells them, grinning as he swoops up Octavia in a hug before ushering them into a car. “We’re taking you on a brief tour, and then to your quarters to rest.”

“Reinforced metal,” Raven whispers to Clarke as they sit in the black car and the door slams heavy after them. She raps on the glass. “Bulletproof.”

//

Clarke wakes up and can’t go back to sleep, every sound much too loud and jetlag in her bones. She yawns, sitting upright, and props herself against the headboard for a few quiet minutes, listening to Octavia and Raven breathe quietly on the other queen bed a few feet away. She slips out of bed, her toes wiggling on the fur rug, and pads towards the sliding door. It slides open silently and she steps out onto the balcony, shivering a little at the sudden chill. It’s a beautiful night; clear and dark and the stars are bright pinpricks, the moon a glowing orb hanging low and big in the sky.

“You are up very late,” Lexa says, and Clarke jumps. Lexa is standing against the railing, and Clarke realizes the balcony runs long against the building, connecting to another set of rooms.

“So are you.”

Lexa hums faintly, agreeing. When she sighs her breath huffs out white, fogging in a cloud before dispersing. “I was not sure you would accept my invitation.”

Clarke shrugs. “I wasn’t either.” She remembers how Lexa used to sleep in boxers and soft knit shirts two sizes too big, used to sit at the dinner table in sweatpants and tanktops and wool socks, went to class in skinny jeans and plaid button ups and converse sneakers. All the pictures she’s seen on the news have shown Lexa in armor, black and menacing, or suits, buttoned up and the very picture of a modern politician. At the signing of the Constitution she’d been wearing a dress and heels, classy. Right in this moment she’s caught between the two sides of herself, in loose pants that hang low on her hips and an expensive looking long sleeve shirt, the first three buttons undone. Her socks are two different colors, and the odd little idiosyncrasy, one foot blue and the other green, makes Clarke duck her head and smile.

“I’m glad.” Lexa takes a hesitant step towards her. “I--this country is very beautiful. I hope you will see it the way I do.”

“I’m sure I will.” Clarke leans her hip against the railing, next to Lexa’s hands.

Lexa takes a deep breath. “The way I left--”

“You know I didn’t know?” Clarke talks over her, not ready to tackle that discussion just yet. “You told me, and we had those conversations… looking back, it was pretty obvious. But I really didn’t know. Not until that morning.” When she woke up alone. She forces a smile, because she’d meant to lighten the mood, but Lexa almost staggers. She looks stricken.

“I never would have--it was my understanding--” she sounds gutted, and Clarke rushes to take her hand.

“Hey. It’s fine.”

Lexa frowns. “I should have been more clear. I thought… you were the only one who knew, I thought.”

Clarke experiences new and unexpected levels of guilt. This whole time, Lexa had felt lighter, less burdened, and Clark was busy being oblivious. She shrugs, forcibly airy. “Maybe I can be the first Trikru after school special. ‘The Perils of Drink’.”

“I must apologize. It was not fair to initiate relations when you had an incomplete understanding of the circumstances.” Lexa steps away, her shoulders rigid.

“I hate it when you do that,” Clarke murmurs, half to herself, and Lexa freezes in her retreat. “You don’t have to spit out a dictionary. Just say you don’t want to talk to me.”

Lexa hovers, biting her lip, and Clarke looks at the stars for a while. “Very little of my life,” Lexa says finally, “is about what I want.”

Clarke touches a fingertip to Lexa’s wrist, and when she doesn’t pull away she takes Lexa’s hand in hers. “I don’t think I could ever truly hate the Ice Nation, not the way I should. And I know that’s fucked up, but I really can’t. Because it brought me to you.” She squeezes Lexa’s hand. “But I am sorry if you regret it. Maybe we should have just been friends.”

Lexa reels her in, tugging gently until Clarke moves under her arm, tucked between Lexa’s chest and the railing. “I regret many things,” Lexa says, soft against the curve of Clarke’s ear. One palm moves, warm and rough, to the skin just above Clarke’s hips, slipping under Clarke’s shirt, and she presses a chaste kiss to Clarke’s temple. “But not everything. Not you.”

Notes:

idk man. this chapter felt like a 'show don't tell' failure. also this shit always happens to me, I can never finish off a fic, I just sputter out and then give up. Either one longer chapter left, or a shorter one and an epilogue

 

let me know what you think and catch me on tumblr as sunspill

Chapter 5

Summary:

sin and vacation cabin camping shenanigans

Notes:

still no beta, let me know if you see something and I'll fix it right away! I hope careless errors and typos aren't too distracting or ruining.

also, this isn't kinky by any stretch of the imagination or against what's published here, but once again this is the most sexually explicit stuff I've ever written and I am the nervous :x

Clarke leaves Octavia and Raven at the seats Anya showed them to, with a pointed finger and a mocking ‘Stay’. She half expects the guards to stop her as she wanders through the halls, following her nose to the room where a burly man holds out a hand.

“You should not be here,” he says, cold, and sure he is huge and angry and scowling, but Clarke folds her arms across her chest and glares right back.

“Is Lexa in there?”

“Return to your seat.” He starts towards her, threatening, but Lexa’s voice rings out from the room, commanding, and she steps out, half dressed, her dressing gown cinched around her waist.

“Clarke. Please.” She gestures, and Clarke trots through the doorway, throwing a triumphant look at the guard.

“I don’t think he likes me,” she tells Lexa, and Lexa half-smiles, moving towards the wardrobe against the wall.

“Gustus is protective, but he is sweet at heart.”

Clarke casts a doubtful look in his direction. He’d had a facial tattoo, and she’s pretty sure the thumb across his throat was directed at her. “Really?”

“No.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, flopping into a chair. “Shouldn’t you be ready already?”

“I am… facing a conundrum.”

Clarke cranes her neck around. “It’s all black, Lexa. I think the answer speaks for itself.”

“The world already views us as primitive savages.” Lexa touches her armor, leather and lethal, a sword sheath hanging from a belt.

“So go with the suit? Or you could wear the dress you wore to the constitution signing.”

Lexa’s lips quirk. “So you did watch.”

“No,” Clarke says, defensive. She wishes she had service on her phone so she had something to fiddle with. “It was playing all over the place. I couldn't avoid it.”

“Hm.” Lexa lets her lie go, frowning at her clothes. “A dress would appease the conservatives.”

“Gross,” Clarke says, hopping up and coming to stand next to Lexa to peer into the depths of her wardrobe. Something catches her eye. “Is that the suit you wore to the art gallery?”

“Yes.”

“You fucking sentimental softie,” Clarke says, grinning, and Lexa snorts.

“I am not ashamed of my culture. But the world needs to take Trigeda more seriously, if we are to achieve our goals.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, and pulls the suit off its hanger. “We’re going with the vest this time.”

Lexa’s brow furrows. “Clarke…”

Clarke lays the suit out on the chair. Then she unloops the belt from the armor, touching the empty sheath. “Do you have, like, a fancy sword? Where’s your black tie dagger?”

“Clarke,” Lexa says again, but she’s smiling again.

“I know it’s not as expensive as your other clothes must be,” Clarke says, trailing a finger across the lapel of the jacket, “but… it suits you. No pun intended.”

“Sometimes,” Lexa says, “it’s about how the clothes make you feel.” She strips down to her underwear, black and plain and businesslike, and buttons herself back up, her skin disappearing under layers. It’s armor of a different kind, and Clarke watches her shoulders set and her spine straighten and her face go hard and flat and cold. It should look ridiculous, a modern suit and a black tie and Lexa’s hair cascading down her back in a mess of braids, and it should look mismatching, when Clarke helps her slide her sword into the sheath strapped to her her hip and buckle the heavy metal guard across her shoulder, the red cape fluttering under their hands like velvet, but it just looks like Leksa, the Commander, strong and brave and beautiful.

“How does it look,” Lexa murmurs, and Clarke’s stepped too close to her body to make the sash drape just right, their breaths mixing intimately.

“You look like you,” Clarke says, and kisses her softly, chastely, careful not to smear Lexa’s pale lipstick. She runs her hands down Lexa’s chest, smoothing the lines of her suit, and her hand catches on something, subtle but definitely there. “What--?”

Lexa doesn’t move, letting her slip a hand and feel the inner pocket. Clarke withdraws a fold of paper and undoes it, a teasing joke about Lexa’s speech on index cards on her tongue. She chokes on it as she looks down, because it’s the drawing she gave Lexa at Christmas, Lexa asleep and naked in her bed.

“There are many kinds of strength,” Lexa says, taking it from her fingers and tucking it back. “I hope you do not mind if I borrow some of yours.”

“Borrow away,” Clarke manages to get out, her mouth abruptly dry.

“Would you help me with one last thing?” Lexa asks, and Clarke nods.

//

Lexa lifts her chin and announces the new rules of the the new Coalition, the Ambassadors ringing her, in a suit with a sword at her hip and a cape across her shoulder, Clarke’s drawing hidden against her heart, and Clarke’s fingers are stained black from the paint that adorns her face, Lexa’s eyes bright green stormclouds in contrast against the dark streaks. She outlines the next steps of the administration: roads, healthcare, clean water, education. She formally asks the United Nations to recognize her reign.

There’s a reception, after, with fancy finger foods and dry expensive champagne, and Clarke wears a black cocktail dress and strappy heels and tries not to choke on her own spit when she shakes the hands of three Prime Ministers in a row.

“I think,” Raven says, finding her hiding against the wall, dazed, “that I just met the President? I think the President of the United States just asked me if I’m excited to start graduate school?”

“An actual Prince kissed my hand,” Clarke hisses, “we’re not classy enough for this. We’ve never been classy enough for this.”

“I said his wife was hot,” Raven says, in a fugue state. “I tried to fistbump him. I think he might have fistbumped me back.”

“We have to get out of here. Where’s Octavia?”

“She bounced.” Raven snags two glasses of champagne off a tray and drains one. “She was always the savvy one.” Clarke reaches for a glass and Raven presses the empty one into her hand, drinking from the other while Clarke glares, put out.

 

Anya appears at Raven’s shoulder, making her yelp. She takes the flute out of Raven’s hand, deft, and swigs the last of it. “I will escort you to your quarters.”

Raven blinks. “How’d you know we wanted to leave?”

“I don’t care what you want.”

“Don’t argue,” Clarke says. “If she’s our ticket out she can have all the champagne--” a thought strikes her. “Raven has a bottle of whiskey in her suitcase.”

Anya’s eyes sharpen. “Follow me.”

//

Anya, to Clarke’s utter lack of surprise, can drink like a fish, with no noticeable effect on her demeanor.

“Robot,” Raven accuses, already out of her pants and slurring. Clarke’s tipsy in the best way, her blood humming pleasantly but her thoughts clear.

Anya pours Raven another shot, the corner of her mouth moving very slightly upwards, and Clarke goes onto the balcony. Lexa is standing there, again, and Clarke shuts the door, walking over. “Do you just lurk right here, all the time?”

Lexa nods towards the other door. “Those are my rooms.”

“Party wind down already?”

Lexa shrugs. “The Ambassadors and my Generals are still there. There are enough guests my presence was no longer needed.”

“Is it always like this? Weird parties, fancy champagne?” Clarke smiles, and Lexa almost smiles back, the crease between her brows easing slightly.

“If so we would count ourselves lucky.” Lexa frowns. “Actually, I almost preferred the war. It is always easier to kill than it is to build something that lasts.”

“So you did drink the champagne,” Clarke says, and Lexa arches an eyebrow, questioning. “You always get politically mopey when you drink.”

“I do not.” Faintly offended Lexa has always been one of Clarke’s favorite Lexas, and she grins.

“At Bellamy’s, you waxed poetic on The Theological Whosawhatsit.”

“I don’t think so. As I recall, we did very little discussing of anything that night.”

“How would I know what it was called if you didn’t talk about it? You think I go around reading Barack Esmeralda for fun?”

Lexa pinches the bridge of her nose. “Clarke, it’s Baruch Spinoza.”

“You’re just proving my point, I hope you know.” Clarke steps close, and undoes the buckle keeping Lexa’s pauldron on her shoulder, easing it off. She lets it drop to the floor and Lexa exhales, free of its weight. Clarke loosens her tie, tugging it off from around Lexa’s neck and draping it around her own. She steps back, grinning with her tongue between her teeth. “Show me your bedroom?”

“Things haven’t changed,” Lexa says, hesitant.

“I never said they did,” Clarke promises. She stops with her hand on the door to Lexa’s room. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want.”

Lexa’s belt comes undone with a whisper of leather on metal, and it clatters on top of her cape, her sword landing with a heavy thunk. She kisses Clarke against the sliding door, the glass cold on her back, and undresses Clarke on a in front of a fireplace, sliding the dress down her body with gentle fingers, casting the tie aside. “I missed you,” she murmurs against Clarke’s hips, mouthing aimlessly across her belly.

“This is such a cliche,” Clarke says, staring at the crackling flames.

“I can douse it,” Lexa says, pausing her ministrations.

“Are you kidding? No way. This is every romance novel I read in high school. In fact, your presence might not even be necessary.”

Lexa’s eyes go dark. “Oh really?” Clarke nudges her away, Lexa shuffling back on her knees, and steps out of the puddle of her dress. She lies down on the thick fur rug in front of the fire, stretching out and curling her toes.

“Fuck,” she moans, “this is so soft, what the fuck? I thought it would be itchy. Don’t tell me what cute woodland animal you murdered to make it, I don’t want to know.” She forgets trying to look sexy, wiggling and rolling and luxuriating in the soft amazing tickle of the fur on her skin. After a moment she remembers herself and blushes, looking up at Lexa through her eyelashes. “Oops.”

“Please,” Lexa says, still kneeling a few feet away. “Do not let me come between you and your true love.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Clarke says seriously.

“Should I leave you two alone for a time?”

“You could.” Clarke lies on her back and starts with her hand at her throat, sliding it down the center of her chest and lower, slow. She watches Lexa track her movements, rapt. “Or you could join us in a three way.”

“Tempting,” Lexa murmurs, “I accept.” Clarke waits for Lexa to shuffle closer, and when Lexa doesn’t move she cranes her head up, frowning. Lexa licks her lips. “Can I--would you--?”

“Oh,” Clarke says, surprised. “Are you sure?”

“Please,” Lexa rasps, her cheeks flushed, and the sight of her, breathing hard and her eyes hooded, makes Clarke clench her legs together, moaning, before she spreads her knees and slips a finger straight into herself, no build up. Lexa squeaks, and Clarke thrusts, her lip between her teeth, hooking her finger the way she likes it. She brushes a thumb across her clit, teasing, and makes a soft, pleased noise. Lexa groans.

“Take off your clothes,” Clarke orders, her voice low and throaty, and Lexa rips a button off her shirt in her haste, shedding her clothes, her watch, her socks. She stands, naked and golden in the firelight, and Clarke goes for two fingers to watch her throat bob as she swallows, transfixed by the movement of Clarke’s hand between her legs. “Your hair,” Clarke murmurs, and Lexa undoes the braids one by one, her fingers getting caught in tangles as she rushes. When she’s done she hesitates, her hands by her sides, and Clarke circles her clit with the tip of one fingernail.

“Clarke,” Lexa pleads, and Clarke sits up, rolling to her feet. Lexa waits until Clarke cants her head up to kiss her, and her expression is eager, relieved, her kiss careful and hungry. Clarke puts one hand on Lexa’s shoulder, and she only has to exert the faintest hint of pressure before Lexa goes to her knees in front of her, her head tipped back, pliant. Clarke slips her fingers into Lexa’s mouth and Lexa sucks them clean, another soft moan escaping her when she tastes Clarke on her tongue.

Clarke backs herself into the wall next to the fireplace. She spreads her legs and bends her knees, testing the wall with her back. “Come here,” she breathes, and feels herself drip down her thighs when Lexa crawls to her, settling at her feet, her breath huffing hot and wet on Clarke’s skin. Lexa waits until Clarke nods before starting with a long broad flat lick, her hands steadying Clarke’s hips when she buckles a little. Lexa’s eyes are closed, and she lets out a happy, pleased noise when Clarke sinks a hand into her curls, digging her nails into Lexa’s scalp and anchoring firmly before using her grip to aim Lexa where she wants her, sloppy kisses across her inner thighs and pelvic bones before guiding Lexa’s head straight to her center and grinding down.

It doesn’t take long before Clarke shudders and tenses, her orgasm washing over her in a wave, and she slides down the wall into a boneless puddle. Lexa clambers into her lap, claiming her mouth in a series of short sucking kisses, Clarke chasing her own taste on Lexa’s tongue. “The fire’s too hot,” Clarke mutters against Lexa’s lips. “The books never said it’d be so hot.” Lexa is past banter, making needy noises into the side of Clarke’s throat and gliding, nearly frictionless, in a wet slide on the edge of Clarke’s knee. “I want you on your back,” Clarke says, and nudges Lexa onto the fur rug. She stretches Lexa out and nips at her inner wrist, her belly button, the scars on her ribcage.

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs again, high and reedy. She reaches for Clarke and Clarke pulls away. Lexa whines.

“Admit it. The rug is amazing.”

“I know the rug is amazing, Clarke. It’s my rug.”

“I win,” Clarke says, smug, and Lexa’s low laugh turns into a moan when Clarke lowers herself between Lexa’s legs, hooking one over her shoulder. She’s only got a handful of experiences with Lexa to use as a guide, but Clarke’s never backed down from a challenge before and she won’t start now. She pays attention to the flex of Lexa’s muscles jumping, the clench of her hands resting gently in Clarke’s hair, the way her moans get shorter and more desperate. She backs Lexa away from orgasm two times, to make Lexa babble her name, pleading, twitching, and then two more times to make Lexa’s eyes clench, her teeth drawing blood from her lip, and then two more times, just because.

“Please,” Lexa manages to get out, the first coherent word she’s managed in seven minutes. “Please, please, please--” Clarke pulls away entirely, sitting back on her haunches and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and Lexa keens, writhing on the rug and reaching out. “No, Clarke--”

“Turn over.” Lexa rolls on her stomach immediately, sighing when she can grind down on the floor. Clarke pinches her hip, drawing her up onto her knees. “No,” she scolds, pressing a kiss to the knobs of Lexa’s spine, and waits until she feels Lexa shake under her hands before sliding three fingers into her, Lexa so soaked she goes straight in, down to the knuckle. Lexa’s groaning out her breaths faster than she can suck them in, canting her hips back on Clarke’s fingers, and she has to be so, so close.

Clarke sinks her teeth into Lexa’s ass, one cheek and then the other. “Look at me,” she says, pulling Lexa up onto her elbows. “Lexa--Lexa, look--” Lexa twists her neck, her hair sticking to her face, dripping sweat, and as soon as Clarke sees her eyes, the pupil swallowing up the color, she slips her tongue inside Lexa alongside her fingers and Lexa’s gone, a noise like she’s dying escaping her in a shout as she collapses onto the floor. Clarke keeps her fingers inside Lexa, loving every clenching wave of her body, and laps the sweat from her back in soft short licks until Lexa’s shuddering eases and she pants, open mouthed and drooling, face smashed in the rug. Clarke twitches her hand, experimental, and Lexa jolts, whimpering. “Sshh,” Clarke soothes, sliding her fingers out as carefully as she can.

She crawls up Lexa, settling her weight firmly against Lexa’s back, and noses under Lexa’s ear, humming. Lexa makes a garbled noise in trigedasleng that Clarke figures must be an expletive, and sighs when Clarke kisses her, a little blood still on her lip. Clarke licks it away, gentle, and slides down to cuddle against Lexa’s side. She nudges her fingers against Lexa’s mouth and Lexa opens her mouth, obedient, letting Clarke wipe her fingers clean on Lexa’s tongue. She finishes with a lazy, drowsy kiss to Clarke’s fingertips, and murmurs something quiet and unbearably fond, too much contrasted against their agreement that this wasn’t supposed to mean anything, and Clarke pulls away under the guise of yanking a blanket off the bed to cover them.

They fall asleep, curled up into each other on the rug, the fire burning to ash and embers beside them, Lexa’s face tucked into Clarke’s neck, Clarke’s arm across Lexa’s hips.

//

Clark wakes up in Lexa’s bed, her muscles sore in the best way, the sky still dark outside the window, candles burning low. When she opens her eyes her whole entire vision is obscured by Lexa’s hair, Lexa on her stomach beside her, her head turned away. Clarke wiggles backwards, watching Lexa’s head pillowed on her arms, her back rising and falling as she breathes.

Clarke trails her fingers down the black markings inked on Lexa’s skin, watching little goosebumps rise in the wake of her nails. Lexa murmurs, stirring, her eyes blinking slow and sleepy as she turns her head. “Clarke,” she greets, and her voice is shredded from how Clarke made her beg the night before, and Clarke has to kiss her, smug and pleased and a little thrum of want low in her belly. Lexa rolls on her back, reeling Clarke in with an arm to rest her head on Lexa’s shoulder. Clarke’s fingers wander again, tracing the scars across Lexa’s hip.

“What do your tattoos mean? The ones on your back.”

Lexa is quiet for a minute, and Clarke would apologize but Lexa strokes her arm, comforting and lazy, so she waits her out. “They are a remembrance. How much do you know about how Heda is chosen?”

“There’s a conclave,” Clarke says promptly, and then, “I’m not sure what that is, exactly.”

“It doesn’t matter, really. Just know that there are several children who are trained until it’s time to be chosen. There were eight others.” There are seven circles on Lexa’s back, and Clarke’s smart enough to suss it out.

“What happened to the other one?”

Lexa rolls on top of her, her hair falling around Clarke’s face like a curtain. “Do we have to talk about this?”

“No,” Clarke says, leaning up to lick a wet stripe up Lexa’s cheek, grinning when Lexa grimaces. “We don’t have to talk at all, unless I wore you out last night.”

Lexa’s eyes flash, challenging, but when Clarke moves a thigh between her legs she can’t hide the faint flinch, oversensitive. Clarke smirks, smug again, and Lexa kisses her until she’s panting, the sheets hopelessly twisted and tangled around their legs, trapping. Lexa rolls off her to free them, grumbling, and Clarke takes the opportunity to nudge her onto her back. Lexa makes a protesting noise and Clarke hushes her by biting over the marks she’d made last night, across Lexa’s chest and under her jaw.

“Clarke,” Lexa breathes out, melting into the mattress as Clarke brushes butterfly kisses across her hipbones and digs her hands into the arch of Lexa’s feet, massaging. Clarke murmurs nonsense into her skin, rubbing her calves, dropping dainty kisses up the inside of her thighs.

Lexa’s too sensitive for her fingers, Clarke knows, and she keeps her tongue gentle and soft, easing Lexa up to the edge and tipping her over slow and careful, Lexa letting out a shuddering sigh, going boneless and dopey, big slow blinks and a faintly dazed expression while Clarke grinds against her thigh. She’s smiling when Clarke comes, breathless and looking shocked, like she can’t quite believe she’s here with Clarke, in a bed that smells like vanilla, candles burning in the window.

Clarke flops back beside Lexa, flailing for the sheet and then shrugging, giving up. “We don’t have to get up yet, do we?” Lexa’s still dreamy, eyelids fluttering, but her she focuses after a moment, rolling over to check her phone on the nightstand.

“You don’t,” she says, brushing a quick kiss over Clarke’s lips, against her forehead. “Anya is assigned to you for the day.”

“You’re going to work?” Clarke sits up, groaning. “No rest for the wicked, huh?”

“No,” Lexa agrees, and nudges her back down. “Sleep. I’ll see you at lunch.”

//

Clarke dozes for another two hours before levering herself out of bed. She checks the time and groans, disgusted, before taking a half-hour shower in Lexa’s bathroom and using Lexa’s towel. She puts her dress back on and leaves her panties in a corner, braving the chill of the balcony to get back into her room.

Raven is a lump under the duvet, pulled up over her head, and Clarke clambers onto the mattress beside her, bouncing and sighing and letting her hair drip on the pillow. She throws a leg over Raven’s hips and pulls the comforter down, intending to smack a kiss to Raven’s cheek. Instead she shrieks, throwing herself backwards so violently she goes ass over heels off the bed.

“Oh my god!” Anya sits up and stretches her arms over her head, cracking her shoulders. She’s completely naked, and Clarke gapes before slapping a hand over her eyes. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god--”

“Clarke?” Raven breaks into Clarke’s mental breakdown, and Clarke opens her eyes to see her padding out of the attached bathroom in her underwear, toweling her hair. Anya walks past her and Clarke slaps herself in the face again.

“Oh my god.” She hears the door to the bathroom shut but doesn’t uncover her eyes, sliding to lie on her back on the floor. “Oh my god.”

Raven’s hand pries at her fingers, squinting down at her. “Clarke, come on. Octavia will be so pissed if I’ve broken you.”

Clarke sits up. “You,” she accuses.

Raven shrugs. “She’s hot, we were drinking, you left us alone, I now have definitive proof she’s not a robot, what else is there to say?”

“You,” Clarke repeats, hissing. She jabs a finger in Raven’s direction. “You!”

Raven goes to her suitcase, digging through for a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. “Chill, Griff. Hey, since you’re doing the walk of shame, and Octavia hasn’t come back yet, that means every one of us got laid.” She grins. “A good night for our house, huh?”

“You!” Anya emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed, braiding her bangs back. Clarke points at her. “And you!”

Raven rolls her eyes. “Let’s go get some food. You can reboot on the way.”

 

Octavia joins them at breakfast, her hair wet, her body loose. She slides into a chair at their table and grins at them, slow and lazy. “Damn,” Raven says. They high five. “Clarke and Lexa had sex so loud I could hear them from the room.”

Octavia shrugs. “Gross but get it, Griffin.”

Clarke looks up from her third coffee. “Raven fucked Anya.”

Octavia chokes on a piece of fruit. “What?”

//

They wander through the building, taking pictures from the balconies and listening to their tour guide prattle on. Octavia takes notes, muttering about preparing a thesis, and Anya prowls behind them, every so often stepping on the heel of Clarke’s shoe and then looking politely in the opposite direction when she whips around to glare.

Lexa joins them at lunch, sitting with a weary exhale and picking at the food someone slides in front of her, reading papers and making vague noises at pauses in the conversation. She leaves before they’ve finished, and they don’t see her again until dinner, served in their room. She brings sandwiches and changes into sweats in the bathroom and they sit on the mattresses and watch a shitty action movie and Raven throws candy at Octavia and Anya sits in a straight backed desk chair facing the door, glowering like a psycho, and for an hour and half it’s almost like they’re back in their house, staying up too late the day before their nine in the morning lectures.

Lexa stands after the movie, and hesitates at the sliding door to the balcony. “You could return tomorrow, if you wish. I know you’d like time to move into your new housing.”

Octavia shrugs. “The longer we can avoid responsibility the better. Besides, Clarke hasn’t even--”

“Bought my textbooks yet!” Clarke forces an awkward laugh. “You know me; the procrastinator.” Raven throws her a judgey look and Clarke narrows her eyes, warning.

“If you’d like,” Lexa offers, stiff, “we could spend the weekend at a cabin, in the mountains.”

“Sounds good,” Octavia says swiftly. “Would uh, Lincoln be joining us?”

“Yes.”

“We’re in.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and follows Lexa on the balcony, leaving Raven to the mockery. “Don’t feel pressured into furthering your stay,” Lexa says, going to the railing and leaning down on her elbows, her back bowed. “Octavia’s infatuation aside.”

“If you want to get rid of me, all you have to do is say it.”

Lexa huffs. “I think I have my made my feelings clear.” Clarke disagrees, but it’s a little heavy of a conversation for tonight, coasting on a long evening with her favorite people, so she just goes over and lays a hand over the back of Lexa’s neck, squeezing. Lexa sighs, tilting her head to the side, and Clarke steps closer, digging a thumb into the thick knot of muscle above her shoulder blade. “I want you to like my country,” Lexa admits. “I think seeing the mountainside would change the way you think about us.”

“I already like your country.” Lexa turns to catch her eyes, surprised. Clarke shrugs. “It has you in it, it’s basically my favorite.” Lexa smiles, and they kiss under the stars before she takes Clarke’s hand, leading back to her room. Clarke brushes her teeth in the bathroom, splashing water on her face while Lexa lights the candles around the room. They slip under the cool sheets naked and Clarke spreads Lexa’s hair out on the pillow, playing with it while she enjoys the long expanse of Lexa’s naked skin pressed against her own. Lexa’s kiss is enthusiastic but her eyelids are drooping, and Clarke laughs, pulling Lexa against her side.

“No sex tonight, huh?”

“What?” Lexa asks, slurred with sleep. “No, I can--” she fumbles blindly, jamming her fingers on Clarke’s hipbone. “Ow.”

“Go to sleep,” Clarke says, giggling, and wiggles down under the blanket, lying on her back. There’s a brief period of silence, and her own breath is just starting to even out when Lexa stirs. She’s still for just a second before she moves again, restless. “Lexa?” Clarke whispers.

“Can you--what we did before, when--” Lexa falls silent. “Nevermind.”

Clarke rolls onto her side. “Come on, tell me.”

“Before,” Lexa says, her eyes open just a slit, her whisper sleep-drunk, “before, at the house, that night--” she fumbles for words, then growls. “Nothing. Go to sleep.” She rolls away, her back too stiff, and Clarke only has to think for a minute before she figures it out. She scoots closer, lays a tentative hand on Lexa’s shoulder.

“This okay?” she asks, and Lexa hesitates before her head dips in a nod, and she still won’t turn to look at Clarke but she sighs when Clarke presses herself against Lexa’s back, leaning her chin on the top of Lexa’s head.

//

“This was not in the brochure,” Raven says, balking. “I’ll just--I’ll wait for you guys at the hotel building thing. Veg out, watch tv, it’ll be--” she yelps as Anya leans sideways in the saddle, grabbing Raven by the forearm and lifting her off the stool and onto the horse in front of her. “Help!”

“Uh,” Clarke says, backing away, “I think Raven might have been onto something with her idea there, so-”

“Clarke.” Lexa’s horse dances under her and Clarke can’t help letting her eyes fall to the strong flex of her legs as she calms her mount. “Would you feel more comfortable riding with me?”

“Uh,” Clarke says. Octavia takes a running jump next to her, slinging herself up behind Lincoln with a whoop. Clarke sighs. “Fine.”

It’s not as bad as she thought it would be, feeling Lexa’s hips rolls behind her as their horses plod up the mountainside. “It is not accessible by road,” Lexa says, her breath huffing quiet against Clarke’s ear. “Infrastructure is a priority of my administration, but changes will be slow coming.” It sparks a conversation, Octavia chiming in from behind them, and the time passes easily. It’s not long before Clarke can see the cabin, resting in a clearing.

“Careful,” Lexa says, dismounting easily. “You will be slightly sore.” She eases Clarke down, rubbing absent and soothing at her thighs. “Good?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Clarke shakes her legs out, biting back a groan. “Horses are okay too, I guess.” She pats Lexa’s horse on the side and it whickers. It moves its head towards her and she yelps, jumping back. “We’re not that close yet,” she tells it, and Lexa smiles. She extends her hand.

“Come.” They walk, hand in hand, and wait outside while Anya and two more guards sweep the smallish cabin. Clarke frowns, and Lexa squeezes her hand once. “It is a precaution, nothing more.”

“Are you lying to make me feel better?”

“I would not bring you here if there was danger to your life.”

Clarke tugs on her hand. “I’m not talking about my life, I’m talking about yours.”

Anya pokes her head out of the door. “Clear.” The guards clomp ahead of them, carrying their luggage inside.

“There are always risks,” Lexa says, evasive, and pulls away to walk next to Raven.

//

Lexa receives a message at dinner, a guard ducking to murmur low in her ear, and she excuses herself, stepping outside for almost five minutes before returning. “My guards will be leaving us,” she says, reseating herself and pulling her plate close. “Anya and Lincoln will remain; it’s important that you don’t leave the cabin without one of us.”

Octavia frowns. “It’s that dangerous?”

“Not in the way you think.” Lexa takes Clarke’s wine glass and takes a long drink. It eases some of her tension, and under the table she touches Clarke’s knee once, grateful. “We are somewhat removed from settlements, and the mountains are full of natural predators, traps, plants you may be unfamiliar with.”

Clarke shrugs. “I’m not a big nature girl anyway.”

“Sure,” Raven says, “whatever. Can we make a fire? Did you bring the smores stuff I told you about?” Her question is directed at Anya, who removes a bag of marshmallows and a a box of graham crackers from her jacket and passes them over, completely expressionless. “Thanks babe.” Anya drops the box of crackers on the floor and steps on them, before leaving without a word. “We’re still working on the right pet names,” Raven says cheerfully, scooping up the box and shaking out the dent.

//

There are two bedrooms, each with two queen beds. “You and Anya going to share?” Clarke asks, testing, and Lexa looks at her, impassive.

“Anya prefers to sleep outside, when she can. You are free to share with Raven, or have a bed to yourself.” She grimaces, faint. “I assume Octavia and Lincoln will be wanting one for themselves.”

“Yeah, they’re gross.”

“Guys!” Raven calls from the front, “smores!”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “We don’t even have any chocolate,” she grumbles.

“I have never had a smore,” Lexa says, thoughtful, and Clarke gasps.

“Okay, come on.” She drags Lexa outside, shoving her down next to the fire and grabbing one of the sticks out of Octavia’s hand. She puts her hand over Lexa’s and turns it, slow, and then get impatient, shoving it in the fire and blowing out the flaming marshmallow. Lexa snatches her stick away and makes perfectly golden toasted marshmallows and refuses to let Clarke taste them.

“Learn patience, Clarke.”

“Give me the fucking--” Clarke goes after the marshmallow, teeth first, and Lexa laughs, surprised, when she half misses, smearing it across her mouth.

“You did not earn that,” she teases, and everything smells like campfire smoke, thick and heady and woodsy, and Octavia is showing Lincoln how to squish his marshmallow between two crooked half-smashed pieces of cracker and Raven is poking Anya in the side with a stick, smirking, and Lexa’s mouth is still smiling, a honey crumb at the corner, and Clarke kisses her, licking the crumb away and spreading warm sweet fluff across both their tongues.

//

Clarke pads into the bedroom, mint toothpaste fresh and strong in her mouth, and catches Raven with one foot out the window. “There’s a door, you know.”

Raven clutches a heavy blanket to her chest. “There’s--Anya says she has an extra hammock. You and Lexa probably want to bang--Octavia and Lincoln definitely want to bang--I like stars?”

“Which one do you want to go with?”

“Stars. I really like stars.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Whatever. But use the door, that drop won’t be good on your leg.”

“Thanks Griff.” Raven smacks a kiss to her cheek as she goes, affectionate. “Happy humping!”

 

Lexa comes in, frowning faintly. “Is there something going on between Anya and Raven?”

“Oh,” Clarke says, sitting cross-legged on one of the beds. “You poor, innocent soul.”

Lexa goes to the fire, feeding it a few logs and stoking it. “Hm. It seems ill advised.”

“Why? As long as they don’t get too attached, it’s just a good time.”

Lexa is quiet until she sits on the edge of the other bed. “Yes, you’re right.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, her chest suddenly heavy. She swallows. “Goodnight, Lexa.”

“Sleep well,” Lexa says, and blows out the candle on the bedside table.

//

“Everything about this is terrible,” Clarke groans. Lexa snorts, walking easily beside her.

“Hiking is good for you, Clarke.”

“Fuck this. You’re royalty, right? Buy me one of those motor wheel skateboard things, I never want to walk again.”

Octavia jogs down the path from ahead of them. “Hurry up guys, Lincoln says the view is incredible!” She bounds back up towards where Lincoln is waiting.

“I should have stayed with Raven,” Clarke mutters. “I could have a leg injury no one knows about.” Lexa eyes her, doubtful. “Fuck you, I totally could.”

“We’re almost done.”

“No,” Clarke says, her calves burning, her thighs aching. “No, we’re almost halfway done. Unless there’s a horse waiting at the top of this fucking mountain.”

“It’s a hill,” Lexa says, unimpressed, and Clarke sits down hard on a nearby rock, perfectly flat.

“Take a picture for me.”

“Clarke.”

Clarke fumbles for her water bottle and drains it. “I’m not taking another step until it’s time to begin our descent.”

“We’ve walked half a mile, Clarke.”

“Pure uphill,” Clarke hisses. “You never said it would be straight uphill.”

Lexa sighs, then squats in front of her. “Come on.”

“Are you peeing? You should take off your pants if you want to pee.” Lexa casts her a look back, slit-eyed, and Clarke sighs, using the rock to boost herself up on Lexa’s back. “You’re sweaty,” she grumbles, but can’t help the abrupt uptick in her mood. She can see the bruises, fading but clear, on Lexa’s neck, and she knows there’s another under Lexa’s long sleeve, on the inside of her wrist. She bites at the faintest purple mark under the side of Lexa’s jaw, sucking it dark again, and feels Lexa’s pulse flutter faster under her tongue.

“Clarke,” Lexa says, her voice two octaves lower than it usually is. “Stop distracting me.”

Clarks starts on another hickey, a new one, under Lexa’s ear. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll drop you.”

Clarke pulls back. “Okay, fine.” She digs her heels into Lexa’s sides. “Onwards! Mush!”

Lexa rolls her eyes, then breaks into a trot, Clarke yelping in surprise and clinging tightly to Lexa’s back. They make it to the top easily, passing Lincoln and Octavia making out against a tree, and Clarke slides off her back with a thump. “Show off,” she says, and Lexa smirks. “Woah.” The view really is incredible, the forest a green and brown sea before them, gently sloping away.

Lexa presses a water bottle into her hands. “Drink.” Clarke tastes a hasty sip, passing it back quickly, her fingers itching for a camera or a sketchbook. “More,” Lexa insists. Clarke gulps, obedient, and shoves it back.

“Leave me alone, I’m finally having a feeling about nature.” Lexa rolls her eyes. She goes to the cliff’s edge, peering out. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on her skin; when the breeze whistles it flutters her hair. “Come here,” Clarke says, soft and low, and Lexa turns, eyes darkening.

“I thought you were having a nature feeling.”

“It passed. I’m having other feelings now.” She shuffles closer and Lexa kisses her, indulgent, her fingers careful and gentle against Clarke’s jaw, the back of her neck.

//

“How was it?” Raven asks when they get back.

“Eh,” Clarke says, flopping into a chair. “Nature.”

“Gross,” Raven agrees. “We’re hitting the lake tomorrow, though.”

Clarke arches an eyebrow. “I thought we were leaving tomorrow.”

“Well.” Raven coughs. “Anya said Lexa could do one more day. What’s one more day?”

“Sounds great,” Octavia says cheerfully, bouncing to the counter. “What’s for eating?”

Anya slams a some kind of bird on the counter, a bloody heap of feathers. “Needs to be plucked.” She leaves, the door banging shut behind her.

“Not it,” Clarke says swiftly, backing away. “Call me when it looks less like an animal and more like an entree.”

She goes out to the porch, slipping onto the porch swing, and watches Anya and Lexa move around each other, sparring. Anya has a staff, twirling easily in her hands, and Lexa has two sticks, the ends taped.

“Hey.” Raven joins her, nudging the swing into motion, and they watch Anya and Lexa go hard, grunting, slamming into each other and the ground. “Octavia lost rock paper scissors, but Lincoln’s there, so dinner should turn out okay.” Anya sweeps Lexa’s legs with the staff, barking in trigedasleng, and Lexa rolls smoothly to her feet, catching Anya under the ribs with her right stick while the left cracks into the back of Anya’s thighs. Anya roars, furious, and catching Lexa in a tackle, her shoulder slamming into Lexa’s sternum. “Hot,” Raven notes.

“Mm,” Clarke agrees. She watches them tussle on the ground, cursing, and Clarke thinks it’s the closest she’s ever seen Anya to being happy, a serious spar turned into what’s clearly a wrestling match between close friends, Lexa smirking as she says something teasing to Anya’s growl.

There’s a shriek from inside, a loud squawk, and then a crash. Lexa and Anya still, looking over, and Clarke cranes around to peer in the window. Octavia appears in the doorway, flustered. “It’s fine, it’s fine! The bird was actually just stunned, but Lincoln… fixed it. Dinner will be ready shortly.” She backs away, flashing a thumbs up.

“Damn,” Raven says. “She totally did that on purpose. That’s hot.” She stands and cups her hands around her mouth. “Hey! You down or what?”

Anya disengages from Lexa, smooth, and walks up the porch, catching Raven firmly by the wrist and tugging her along behind her. Raven waves at Clarke with her free hand. “See you at dinner!”

Lexa is still half knelt on the grass, blinking, and Clarke joins her, flopping on her back. “Lie down with me,” she demands, and Lexa stretches out next to her, their sides pressed together. Clarke watches the clouds float by, gentle, and yawns. “You’re all sweaty,” she mumbles. “Gross.”

“You’re sweaty too.” Lexa moves an inch closer, as close to an overt cuddle as she’ll ever allow herself, and Clarke leans her head on Lexa’s shoulder.

“Yeah, but I’m cute.”

Lexa snorts. “I’m not cute?”

“You’re fearsome,” Clarke says solemnly. “I tremble in my boots just at the thought of you.”

“Shut up.” Lexa’s smiling again, soft and almost drowsy, completely relaxed, and Clarke rolls onto her, throwing a leg over Lexa’s hip. “I thought you were cloud watching?”

“Ssh,” Clarke whispers, slapping a clumsy hand over Lexa’s mouth and moving it, fumbling, to cover Lexa’s eyes. “Naptime.” Lexa’s breathe blows gentle against her arm, exhaling, and Clarke feels her go boneless as she dozes.

//

Clarke wakes up because someone’s licking her cheek. “Stop it Lex,” she mumbles, batting her hands at the intrusion, and her eyes snap open when her fingers feel fur. She squeaks, sitting straight up.

“I think he likes you,” Lexa remarks, sitting a foot away and grinning.

Clarke scoops up the cat, settling it in her lap and rubbing under his chin to make him arch and butt his head at her fingers. “How’d he get here?” He’s a light grey tabby, darker stripes over his back and haunches.

“He lives in the cabin. A mouser.”

“I haven’t seen him around.”

Lexa shrugs. “Cats are quiet creatures.”

Clarke rubs his head, soft and fluffy, his ears silky triangles. He purrs, kneading at her leg. “What’s his name?” Lexa shrugs again. “Aren’t you helpful.”

 

He sits on Clarke’s shoulder at dinner, a limp comforting weight that purrs nonstop, and she feeds him tiny bites of shredded meat, smiling when his rough tongue drags on her fingers.

“Tigger,” Octavia suggests, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“Overdone.”

“Mouse,” Raven offers.

“It’s a cat,” Anya says. “It doesn’t need a name. It has a purpose.” She walks her dish to the sink, patting the cat once on the head as she passes.

“Damn,” Octavia says, “did you fuck the words loose or what?”

Raven preens. “I’m talented.”

//

Clarke lies in bed with her eyes screwed tightly shut. Squeak goes the bed next door, squeak. Octavia moans, throaty, and Lincoln’s voice murmurs indistinctly. mm Octavia says, dripping sex, yeah, come on--. Clarke’s eyes pop open. “Tell me you’re hearing this.”

“I wish I could say otherwise,” Lexa says, staring straight at the ceiling like she’s hoping she can rise through it with the force of her will. “She is your friend, this is on you.”

“Lincoln’s your friend, we share this trainwreck.” A rhythmic banging starts up directly behind Clarke, a headboard slamming against the opposite wall.

Clarke jumps ship, hopping onto Lexa’s bed. “They’re being inconsiderate,” Lexa mutters.

“So go tell them to knock it off.”

“I believe the suggestion would be more welcome coming from you,” Lexa tries.

“Fuck off. You’re the leader of the land, this is your responsibility.”

“Maybe they’ll be finished soon,” Lexa says, glum.

“Okay,” Clarke says. “Fuck this.” She strips her shirt off, tossing it aside. Lexa blinks at her. “Roommate wars, sexile style.”

“I understood very little of that.”

“We’re going to fuck,” Clarke says, kicking off her sleep pants and her underwear and shoving the blanket aside. “And we’re going to be louder.” She undoes her bra just as Lexa opens her mouth to argue, and Lexa’s mouth goes slack, her eyes glazing over. “Take off your clothes.”

Lexa regains her senses. “I’m not going to be loud just to be petty, Clarke,” she says, stern, but she also puts her arms up and lets Clarke pull her shirt off.

“That’s fine,” Clarke says around Lexa’s nipple, Lexa arching up under her and already panting hard. “I’ll take it as a challenge.”

 

In the morning, Octavia and Clarke high five. Lexa flushes, very faintly, and she and Lincoln do not make eye contact.

//

The lake is too cold for anyone but Anya to swim in, and she doesn’t so much swim as she wades in until the water hovers just under her nose, like a swamp monster, and watch them with slitted eyes of rage.

“You all kept her up last night,” Raven tells them. “So thanks for that cockblock, assholes.”

She and Raven also disappear into the woods for two hours around lunchtime, so Clarke doesn’t spend a lot of time feeling bad about it.

 

It’s fun in a way Clarke never considered, sitting on the rough gravel sand by the lakeside and watching Lexa and Lincoln go out on a flat raft and come back with a bucket of fish. Lexa tries to teach Clarke how to clean a fish, and Clarke smirks when she takes to it like a pro, much to Lexa’s obvious surprise. “Med school,” she says, smug, and Lincoln cooks the fish over a fire.

 

“Fuck,” Clarke gasps, ragged, “oh fuck me, fuck.” Her legs twitch, weak, and Lexa’s smile against the side of her neck is unbearably pleased. “Fuck you,” Clarke pants. “God, I’m never going to able to look at a tree again, you asshole.”

Lexa hums against her skin. “How often did you ever look at trees before?”

 

Lexa gives Clarke another piggyback ride back. “I think riding you is my favorite thing,” Clarke says, without thinking it through, and Lexa trips over nothing.

//

“He’ll come down when he’s ready,” Lincoln says.

“I’ll go get a treat to bribe him with,” Raven suggests, heading back into the house.

“You spread your idiocy wherever you go; you’ve started to infect the animals.”

Clarke glares at Anya. “I liked you better when you were silent.”

Lexa takes off her jacket and hands it to Clarke. “Stop antagonizing Anya. I’ll be right back.” She goes to the base of the tree and wraps her hands around the lowest branch, bracing a foot on the trunk.

“What--Lexa!” Clarke’s protest is overlapped by Anya’s, and they both pause, annoyed at their agreement, before turning twin looks of disapproval at Lexa, who’s already disappearing into the leaves.

“Don’t fuss, Clarke.” Lexa’s voice already sounds far away; of course she can scale a tree like a champ, Clarke doesn't know why she’d ever think different. A branch creaks ominously.

“Don’t--don’t fuss?” Clarke shakes her fist in Lexa’s general direction. “You better live in that fucking tree from now on, because if you ever come down I’m going to fucking kill you.”

The sharp crack of wood breaking rings out, and the leaves shake. Clarke hears an impact, and Lexa’s grunted curse. “I take it back,” she says swiftly, “get down here right now.” Another branch creaks. “Not right now! At a safe speed. A reasonable point in the near future.”

Lexa’s hand extends past the leaves. “Stop chattering, Clarke.” The cat leaps from where it was clenched around Lexa’s arm, panicked, and Clarke catches him, soothing. Lexa slides down the trunk, unwinding smoothly from the branch, and Clarke gets distracted by the play of muscles in her arms and her back, sharply defined and flexing as she dismounts. Then Lexa winces, hunching slightly, and Clarke’s eyes narrow.

“Let me see.”

“It is nothing,” Lexa dismisses.

Clarke passes the cat to Octavia. She props her fists on her hips. “Uh oh,” Octavia says, and leaves, tugging Lincoln along behind her.

“I’m tired,” Raven agrees. She pokes at Anya’s shoulder. “One for the road?”

“Yes,” Anya says, and if Clarke wasn’t so pissed at Lexa she’d be gaping at the gentle way Anya links her fingers with Raven, how their shoulders brush when they walk away.

Lexa looks past Clarke’s shoulder, deliberately casual. “Bedtime?”

“No.”

Lexa sighs, heavy, but pulls her shirt up, showing her hip. “It is just a bruise. A branch broke as I put my weight upon it.” The bruise is just starting to darken, faintly swollen, and Clarke presses probing fingers against it, ignoring Lexa’s faint flinch.

“It feels okay.”

“It is okay.”

“You shouldn't have climbed up there. You didn’t even try anything else! I do not want to go down in history as the idiot who stood under a tree while the Commander killed herself.”

Lexa tugs her shirt back into place, stiff. “I--you like the cat. He makes you happy.”

Clarke turns on her heel and walks away. She only gets a few steps before Lexa yanks her around by the wrist. She shoves Lexa hard, both hands on her shoulders. “What is this, Lexa? Tomorrow I go back and what?”

Lexa frowns. “What do you want?”

“I want a real conversation.”

Lexa’s brow creases. “This isn’t about the cat.”

Clarke sits in place, her legs abruptly weak. “No, Lexa. This isn’t about a cat.” Lexa stands quiet, patient, and Clarke fumbles her way through a thought process. “I like you. And it’s kind of fucking me up, this weird thing. I’m not crazy, right?”

Lexa sits next to her. “You’re not crazy.”

“Maybe--” Clarke’s heart is galloping, her mouth dry. “We could, you know? Do you think--do you think we could?”

Lexa is silent for a long moment; Clarke can hear insects singing in the woods, the indistinct murmur of Anya and Raven’s voices, Lexa’s soft breathing. “I am very grateful to you Clarke, and very fond. But tomorrow you go back to your people, and I stay here. I--it is my long term plan, to put into place a peaceful transfer of power. It is a benchmark of lasting stability. But that is very far away, and not at all assured.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “I figured.”

“You will make a very fine doctor. Or a very gifted artist.” Lexa shifts her weight. “Whatever you choose to be, I believe you will excel. You are exceptional in all the ways that matter. It’s why I--it’s because you’re you.”

Clarke swallows. She tries to smile. “Maybe someday, you won’t owe anything to your people.”

Lexa kisses her cheek, so careful. When she speaks her voice is heavy, her eyes wet. “Maybe.”

//

Clarke lies quiet in the bed, her bags packed against the wall, and rolls over and over, unable to find a comfortable position. Finally, she sits up and scrambles ungracefully out from under the blankets. “Hey.”

“Clarke?” Lexa doesn’t sound like she’d been sleeping either.

Clarke steps closer to the other bed. “It’s our last night, right? Do you want to maybe--just sleep, I promise.”

Lexa lifts the edge of her blanket up. “I would like that very much.” Clarke slides under the sheets, feeling the warmth of Lexa’s body, and tangles their legs together. Lexa presses her forehead against Clarke’s, their arms overlapping across each other’s waists. Lexa looks tired, worn out, but every time her eyelids dip she jerks them back open again, like she doesn’t want to sleep if it means she has to look away from Clarke’s face. Clarke understands the feeling.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, pressing their lips together awkwardly, their noses slightly smashed together. Lexa clings to her, trembling very faintly, tucking her face into Clarke’s neck, their chests rising and falling against each other.

//

Clarke stands at the foot of the airplane stairs, her hands shoved awkwardly into her pockets. Lexa is in a suit again, and the marks from Clarke’s teeth and lips are covered in carefully applied layers of concealer and foundation. In a few weeks, it’ll be like they were never there at all.

“Farewell Clarke,” Lexa says, formal.

“Leidon, Lexa,” Clarke says, and Lexa’s face creases in a smile to hear her language on Clarke’s tongue, even it is a shade more bitter than sweet. Clarke stands slightly to the side, watching Raven and Octavia make their way onto the plane. Lincoln follows, and he and Lexa simply nod to each other before he slings a duffel bag over his shoulder and climbs to join Octavia.

“He will look out for all of you,” Lexa promises. She hesitates, then extends her arm. Clarke takes it, almost bemused at a handshake; how oddly formal. She’s had Lexa in her mouth, on her tongue, around her fingers; she knows what Lexa sounds like begging and what she looks like possessive, what her morning breath tastes like, which spots on her sides makes her giggle. But it’s a gesture that must mean something to Lexa, to extend it out in the open, and Clarke reciprocates.

Lexa pulls her into a hug, surprising, close and intimate, their bodies pressed as close together as physics will allow. “May we meet again,” she murmurs, for Clarke’s ears only. By the time she releases and steps back, her face is a flat mask again.

Clarke’s the last passenger to go up the steps, and right before she ducks into the plane she looks back. Lexa is already turned away.

Notes:

THE END.

 

haha just kidding. just the resolution left now. incidentally, this is the fastest I've ever been able to produce content; I hope it doesn't feel rushed or poorly written. and anya/raven because they're my secret wishful otp and why the fuck not, amirite.

 

edit: actually, I'm looking at this and it kind of looks like an ending in itself? maybe it would be best just to leave it there? I will ruminate on this for a few days, but tbh I never plot anything out because I'm a moron and I'm not sure how to resolve their Issues

 

tell me what you think and catch me on tumblr as sunspill

Chapter 6: epilogue

Summary:

Resolution.

Notes:

thank you to several people who helped me with this, esp. jixorpuzzle who took the time out of their busy life to read it over and catch capitalization issues

extra kudos to jixorpuzzle \o/

“This is an intervention.” Raven thumps two bottles of whiskey on the counter, hard enough Clarke looks at them, worried about cracks. “They’re fine, they’re sturdy.”

Clarke rings her up, glaring daggers, and presses her lips together, stubborn. She jabs a finger at the display, showing the total.

“Really?” Raven digs a credit card out of her front pocket, wiping it against her pantleg before swiping. “You’re going to try the silent treatment? On me?”

Clarke taps the sticker taped to the lotto display inlaid into the counter, We Card.

Raven glares. “You know I’m old enough.”

Clarke shrugs, and cancels the transaction.

“Bitch,” Raven mutters, and storms out. Clarke reshelves the liquor and goes back to behind the cashier. She picks at the plastic covering the greasy keys with the tip of one fingernail.

“Ha!” Octavia says triumphantly, slapping her driver’s license on the counter. “What now, bitch?”

“Don’t you have classes to go to?” Clarke mutters.

“She speaks.” Octavia unwraps a slim jim and gnaws on the end. “Are you ready to get the fuck outta here?”

Instead of answering, Clarke rings her up, seventy-five cents.

“Put it on my tab.” Clarke glares and Octavia digs in a pocket for a dollar, grumbling. “I liked you better when you were getting laid.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, shoving the bill in the tray and digging out her change, “me too.”

//

“Here.” Clarke thumps the whiskey down in front of Raven on the coffee table. “Sorry I’m a raging bitch all the time.”

Raven blinks, sleepy from napping in her armchair, and her smile is softer than it might be if she was fully awake. “It’s okay.” She wiggles to the side and Clarke wedges herself into the space, settling Raven half in her lap.

“No it’s not. You’re missing someone too, and you’re still--” Clarke waves a hand, vague, “--functioning.”

Raven’s quiet for a bit, nuzzling into Clarke’s sweater. “It wasn’t the same, me and Anya. Not like you and Lexa.”

“Still.”

Raven sighs, big. “Yeah. Anya wasn’t so bad, right? She was cool, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Clarke lies, because she’s a good friend. They cuddle for a few moments, and Clarke is just starting to get sleepy when Raven pokes her.

“Can you quit that fucking job please? The house is starting to smell like gasoline and regret.”

//

“This is good, Clarke.” Clarke pins her phone between her neck and her ear, contorting awkwardly as she tries to free up both her hands to unwrap the chips. “I’m glad you’re finally starting to move forward.”

“Thanks mom, that was only a little passive aggressive.”

Abby sighs over the line. “I only want what’s best for you. Now that Lexa’s out of the picture--”

“Do you have to say it with such relief?”

“--it’s time for you to get your life back on track.”

Clarke shoves three chips in her mouth at once. “Great chat mom, let’s do it again never.”

“You know I hate it when you talk with your mouth full,” her mother scolds, and Clarke chews, exaggeratedly loud, to make her mother sigh.

“It’s been months, Clarke. Are you finished with this immature excursion from the real world?”

Clarke hangs up, her mood ruined, and stomps around the kitchen, hurling food into a frying pan and turning the heat up too high. By the time Lincoln comes in, the room smells faintly burnt, the fan sucking up smoke almost as fast as the pan produces it.

“You know I don’t mind cooking,” he says, taking the pan out of her hand and moving it off the burner.

Clarke scowls at the counter. “I’m the deadbeat, I should be cooking to make up for it. I know you guys are cutting me a break on the rent. I have savings, you know.”

“You shouldn’t deplete your savings.” Lincoln dumps everything in the trash, sets the pan soaking in the sink, and takes out a package of hamburger from the fridge. “I hear medschool is very expensive.”

“Maybe I won’t go to medschool,” Clarke says, giving up on the pretense of cooking and hopping up to sit on the counter. “Maybe I’ll become a starving artist.”

“Then you’ll definitely need your savings.” Lincoln washes his hands and starts sinks his fingers into the raw meat, massaging. “Whatever you choose, I’m sure you’ll be exceptional.”

Clarke frowns, the words triggering a memory. “Lexa said that, too.”

“Heda is wise,” Lincoln agrees. “She asks about you often. Hand me an egg?”

Clarke has the fridge open before she processes his statement. She slams it shut. “She what?”

“She speaks of you, often.” Lincoln smiles. “Only good things. Egg?”

Clarke digs an egg out of the fridge and hands it over, chewing her lip. “You should, uh, add crumbs.”

“Crumbs?”

“Yeah.” Clarke goes to the cabinet and finds the cannister. “It helps hold the patties together.”

Lincoln holds the bowl out and Clarke shakes the crumbs into the mixture, watching them float on the film of egg. Lincoln mixes it and Clarke watches, frowning. She shifts on her feet. “You want to know what she says?”

Clarke exhales. “So much. Thank you.”

Lincoln smiles. “She says you are brilliant, kind. Your heart is strong. You elevate yourself.”

“I work at a gas station,” Clarke mutters, blushing despite herself.

Lincoln shrugs. “That doesn’t change who you are.” He forms patties in his palms, easy. Whenever Clarke tries it they fall apart but he slaps them on a plate, perfectly round and pressed. “Just because someone stumbles, loses their way, doesn’t mean they're lost forever.”

Clarke finds the big pan and sets it on the biggest burner. “That’s X-Men. You stole that from X-Men.”

Lincoln’s smile turns into a full fledged grin. “Maybe.”

“You’re really just a big nerd, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Clarke gives in to her own grin, sighing. “You want help cooking?”

“Sure.”

Lincoln does most of the work, Clarke leaning against the counter and handing him things when he asks for them. He tells her about his job, a nurse at the closest emergency room, and she tells him about the time someone drove away from the gas station with the hose still attached, ripping the pump right out of the ground. She insists on wielding the pepper mill, to his amusement, and when he plates the hamburgers, the cheese melted just perfect, he lets Clarke tell everyone that she made them herself.

//

“Okay,” Clarke says, walking into the house. Raven and Octavia are sitting at the table, eating Chinese takeaway, and Lincoln must be at a shift. Raven and Octavia look up, smiling a greeting, and Clarke watches both their faces morph into disgusted horror. “You were both right.”

“Dear god,” Octavia chokes, slapping a hand over her nose and mouth.

“I need to quit my job.”

“You need to quit my nose,” Raven says, and stands, picking up the dining room chair and approaching Clarke like a lion tamer. “Out!”

“Hey,” Clarke protests. She’d taken her shoes off on the porch. “There was a… situation. In the bathroom. A sewage situation. I just need to--”

“Get out!” Raven pokes her with the legs of the chair, not as gentle as she might have. “Back, demon!”

“Asshole,” Clarke backs up over the threshold onto the porch. “Come on! I need a shower.”

“There’s a hose,” Raven says, and slams the door. Clarke can hear the locks flip.

“I still have my keys!”

“Fuck off,” Raven suggests from a safe distance, muffled by the door, but after a minute it opens again and Octavia comes out, Lincoln’s scrubs hanging loose off her frame. She’s holding a pair of Clarke’s sweatpants, a soft pajama shirt.

“Okay Griffin,” she says, grim, “let’s do this.”

//

“Well,” Octavia says, tossing Clarke’s ruined uniform shirt and sodden jeans into the trashcan by the curb, “if anything, the neighbors got a good show.”

Clarke shivers violently, glaring daggers, and wraps her arms around herself. “I hate you.”

“Can you hate me while you quit your job?”

“Yeah,” Clarke mutters, her sights set on the hottest shower of her life. “Whatever.” She squishes into the house, grimacing, and goes straight to the bathroom. It’s locked. “What the--”

“Occupado!”

“Raven!” Clarke bangs on the door. “I’m going to kill you!”

“Sorry,” Raven calls back. “I’m taking a bubble bath.”

“Just use the other bathroom,” Octavia says, coming in behind her and flopping onto the couch. “She’s facetiming Anya, you probably don’t want to hear that anyway.” She cranks the volume up on the television, some old movie blaring away, and Clarke shuffles down the hallway, feeling the carpet between her toes.

She hesitates, then pushes the door open. It’s Lincoln's room now, technically, which means the bunkbeds have been delofted and pushed together, and some of Octavia’s clothes are scattered on the floor, her phone charger plugged in near the bed. But the bookshelf is still half full of Lexa’s textbooks, and the chips in the paint from Anya’s knife above the ceiling are still there. Clarke goes to the shelf, touches the titles of the books, pulls one from the stacks. It’s a slim book of poetry, the cover worn, the spine cracked. It’s in French and Clarke doesn’t recognize the author’s name but she stands there for a moment, paging through carefully, and wonders which ones Lexa liked, what she felt when she read them. Then she puts it aside with a soft exhale and pads into the bathroom.

She opens the cabinet under the sink on a whim and finds a bottle of the shampoo Lexa had used, and she takes it into the shower with her. When she gets out, dripping everywhere because she’d forgotten to snag a towel, she smells like Lexa, and she curls in the middle of her bed, soaking her sheets, and thinks about what Lexa’s voice sounded like, the softness of her hair.

//

Octavia poked at her face with a spoon. “Eat your cereal,” she coaxes, and Clarke groans, swatting at her. Cheerios spill to the floor, the spoon clattering duly on the carpet.

“Go to class, O. I’m jobless and I’m wallowing.”

Raven props her hands on her hips. “You’ve been wallowing for four days.”

Octavia shoots her a look and pats Clarke’s shoulder, comforting. “Okay, but… maybe you could wallow while you eat something.”

“My breakfast is liquid,” Clarke says like a badass, then chokes when the whiskey burns more than she expected. “God, this cinnamon shit is fucking gross.”

“Really?” Raven asks, inching forward, “let me taste.”

Clarke cradles the bottle to her. “Nice try.”

“Okay,” Raven says, after a half-hearted grab for the bottleneck. “Fine. You get one more day. One! When I get home…” she trails off, pointing threateningly, and Clarke takes another drink, sinking further into the couch cushions.

She waits until they leave to flip the television on, hesitating on the news before steeling herself and changing it to something meaningless. She lasts only two hours, because with every show she turns, wanting to tease Lexa or crack a joke or lean her head in Lexa’s lap, and it’s all very overdramatic and irritating, even to herself.

She’s napping when Octavia and Raven almost kick the door down, falling over themselves to get into the house. She cracks open an eye, yawning. “Forget something?” She squints at the clock. “You’re not supposed to be back for another three hours.”

“And you’re--” Raven snatches up the television remote, clutching it to her chest. “Sleeping. Good! Do that… some more.”

Clarke stretches. The empty bottle rolls out from under her body and falls, and Octavia and Raven don’t even look disappointed, odd strained smiles fixed to their faces. “What’s wrong with the two of you?”

“Nothing.” Octavia edges towards the kitchen, her fingers white where they’re clenched around Raven’s sleeve. “Nothing! Lincoln said there’s… a stoppage. In the kitchen sink. So we came to uh,” she falters.

“Fix it,” Raven chimes in. “So--you’re gonna nap, and we--we are going to go… fix the toilet.”

“Sink,” Octavia mumbles.

“Sink,” Raven agrees. Clarke watches them go, sideways like crabs holding claws, her brow furrowed.

She’s sinking back into the couch, shrugging, when there’s a loud crash from the kitchen, followed by the hissing of lowered frantic voices. She sighs and drags herself up, ignoring the headrush. “Okay, what’s up.”

Raven and Octavia fly apart, guilty. “Nothing,” they chime together. Raven lunges, grabbing the remote off the counter and hiding it behind her back.

Clarke narrows her eyes. “What’s on tv that you don’t want me to see?”

“Nothing,” Raven squeaks. She shoves the remote into her bra.

“That’s not going to stop me.” Clarke takes a threatening step forward. Raven throws the remote on the floor, shattering it; plastic flies everywhere, skittering on the floor; the batteries roll away under the fridge.

They stand in silence, avoiding Clarke’s eyes, and she turns on her heel. She get as far as the sofa before Octavia hits her in a tackle. “No,” she yelps as they tumble down, Clarke’s elbow banging painfully on the table. Clarke is flat on her back, Octavia on top of her, limbs akimbo.

“What the fuck?” Clarke shoves Octavia off her, cursing, and takes a step toward the television.

“Oh my god,” Raven cries out, lying prone just in front of the hallway, clutching her brace. “My leg!”

Clarke turns, alarmed. “What happened?”

“It uh… hurts?” Raven twists her face up into a grimace. “Ow?”

Octavia lunges for the television, yanking the power cord. “Oh no! I… tripped.”

Clarke swings her gaze between the two of them. “What the fuck is happening. Someone explain. Right now.”

“Okay,” Octavia says, climbing to her feet and letting the cord fall from her fingers. “There was… an incident. But everything’s fine, and Lincoln is going to check on everything, so there’s no need for panic.”

“You two are the only ones panicking,” Clarke snaps. She shoves Octavia to the side and plugs the television back in, using the buttons on the set itself to turn it on.

“I think I need to go to the hospital,” Raven tries, and Clarke cuts her a glare. “Fine, god. Turn to the news.”

It takes a minute, Clarke fumbling with the unfamiliar buttons as she clicks through the channels, but finally she lands on a news report, moving back in front of the television. The first report is about a large forest fire in Northern California. Then it loops back to the main story, and Clarke only parses the first few words Attempted assassination of Trigeda Commander during international address before her brain whites it out, fixated on the looping footage of Lexa, standing at a podium, suddenly pitching sideways, her hand pressed to her sternum, her blood so dark it’s almost black.

“It’s okay,” Octavia is saying when Clarke comes back to herself, slumped in Raven’s armchair, “she’s okay. Put your head between your knees.” She pushes Clarke’s head down and Clarke rests her elbows on her legs, looking at the carpet fibers and gulping air, her vision going black around the edges.

Raven rubs her back in soothing circles. “We were on campus when we heard. We came straight here.”

“What,” Clarke gasps, and wrenched her gaze back to the screen, where Lexa staggers to her feet and tries to complete her speech, her face going white and whiter, until blood bubbles over her teeth and Anya carries her away, the remaining press screaming questions as she goes. “Who?”

“Don’t know,” Octavia says, and the door opens again; Lincoln, looking as serious as Clarke’s ever seen him.

“She’s alive,” is the first thing he says, and some of the tightness in Clarke’s chest eases. “She’s in surgery.”

Clarke barks out something that she thinks is maybe a laugh, then claps a hand over her mouth as everyone peers at her, concerned. “Sorry,” she whispers against her palm. “I--uh.” Tears well up and spill over and she flees to her room, curling under her blankets with a pillow over her head. “I’m fine,” she yells when they bang at her door. “I just need a minute.”

She clutches her phone against her chest and goes through their old texts; nothing meaningful, nothing poignant, just little messages asking who’s home, what time should Lexa pick her up from her last class of the day, does Clarke need anything from the corner store?

The window squeaks and Octavia climbs through, muttering when her shirt catches on the latch. She crawls under the comforter and Clarke turns her face into Octavia’s chest, crying as quietly as she can until she falls asleep.

//

“Clarke,” Lincoln murmurs, kneeling beside her bed. “Wake up.” Octavia stirs and Clarke listens to them mumble to each other, Octavia leaving with a last kiss to her temple and a quiet caress of Lincoln’s shoulder, Lincoln smiling up at her.

Clarke sits up and rubs at her eyes, feeling gritty and drained. “What time is it,” she croaks.

“Late.” Lincoln hands her his phone. “She’s a little out of it.”

Clarke practically snatches it out of his hand, pressing it against her ear. “Hello? Lexa?”

She hears a slow exhale, wet and faintly pained, and then: “Clarke.” Her name on Lexa’s tongue, slurred and too slow and fumbly, and she presses her back against the headboard and tries to keep her voice from shaking.

“Lexa.” Lincoln pats her knee, comforting, and leaves, closing the door quietly behind himself. “Hey. Are you--how are you?”

“High,” Lexa sighs. “I told them not to give me the pain medication, but the doctors were insis--insista--Anya made me.” Her accent is harsh, almost to the point where Clarke can’t quite make out the words, and she slips into trigedasleng once before correcting herself.

“But you’re okay? The--it looked bad, on the news.”

“I’d hoped you hadn’t seen.”

“I did.”

Lexa sighs again. “Sorry. I don’t want you to worry.”

Clarke slides down until she’s lying supine on her back. “Too late.”

“I will be in the hospital for some time,” Lexa admits, “but my accovery has been ressured.” There’s a pause. “Recovery. Assured.”

“If you weren’t suffering from serious blood loss, I’d make fun of you,” Clarke tries to joke, and then can’t quite stifle a sob.

“Don’t cry,” Lexa mumbles, sounding halfway to sleep. “I’ll… I’ll call you tomorrow, ‘kay?”

“No,” Clarke blurts, “just--wait. Can you stay on the line? Just for a little while?”

“Yeah,” Lexa agrees.

“It’s okay if you go to sleep,” Clarke assures her, “you need to rest.”

“I don’t want to stop talking to you,” Lexa admits, “but I don’t think I’ll be awake much longer.” Her voices fades towards the end of the sentence, fainter and fainter.

“That’s okay. You need to rest.” Clarke rolls over, grabbing the charger and plugging it into Lincoln’s phone. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, swallowing so hard it hurts. “I promise.” She listens to Lexa’s breathing go even and deep, straining to hear, thumbing the volume on the phone all the way up, and presses her own hand to her chest, feeling her heartbeat and willing Lexa’s to keep going, thump thump thump, thousands of miles away.

//

“You’d tell if she was, right?” Clarke flops onto the couch, kicking her shoes off and propping the magazine open in her lap, her purse dropped to the floor carelessly.

“If she was what, Clarke?”

“Like… a highly advanced android. Like in the movies.”

Clarke is pretty sure Lexa’s rolled her eyes, but her voice still sounds vaguely amused. “Anya is not a highly advanced android.”

“But are you sure? She’s older than you, right? So you might not even know.”

“And what has brought on this unique line of questioning?”

Clarke grins. “I’m looking at the cover of this month’s Time magazine.”

Lexa groans. “I thought perhaps you’d miss that.”

“Because I’m too busy at my brand new internship?”

“Because your usual reading choices fall more in line with Highlights.” Lexa’s murmur is so fucking self-satisfied, pleased at her own joke, and Clarke can’t help her own smile, even as she sneers into the phone.

“Anyway, here in the article, which I totally read first and not at all skipped straight to the photos--” Clarke can hear Lexa’s huff of laughter because she’s listening for it, and her smile only grows “--it says she’s much older than you. But honestly, she hasn’t aged at all, based on this picture.”

“She has good genetics,” Lexa argues, mild.

“And she never smiles.”

“You have seen her smile.”

“Only when she sees someone in pain. A human in pain. How very… android.”

“Anya smiles,” Lexa repeats.

“Coronation,” Clarke lists, flicking through the photos, “meeting of the United Nations. Lexa, in this picture she’s literally kissing a baby. She looks like she’d rather be doing my homework for me.”

“She doesn’t care for children,” Lexa admits. “Although she was always an excellent caregiver for me.”

Clarke hesitates, considering not going forward into serious waters. “So she did raise you?”

“Yes, Clarke. Why would I lie to Time magazine?”

Clarke snorts. She flips a page and reads directly from an article. “‘I am very grateful to the group of extraordinary women who opened their home to me for the duration of my last year in the States, and for the invitation of friendship they extended.’”

“I don’t hear a lie.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, “sure. Invitation of friendship. To my vagina.”

Lexa coughs, sudden and abrupt, and when she speaks it’s slightly strangled. “Did you really want me to disclose our---our relationship to the press?”

“No, I’m just giving you a hard time.” The conversation lapses into a slightly awkward silence. “How are you feeling?”

“Just the same as the last five times you have asked,” Lexa grumbles. “I have been out of the hospital for a week. I’m fine.”

“Mm,” Clarke hums, “Anya smothering you a little?”

“In between physical therapy workouts.” Lexa hesitates. “I… took your advice.”

“Which? I give out a lot of advice, and it’s all great.”

“To tell people that you care about them. To stop pretending I don’t feel for other people.”

Clarke sits up straight, holding her breath. “Oh?”

“Yes. I told Anya I cared for her, and appreciate her guidance, her counsel. Her presence in my life enriches it, and I would miss her deeply if we were to part.”

“And how did she take all of that?”

“She attacked me with a training knife.” Lexa pauses, thoughtful. “Perhaps I should have chosen a more appropriate setting.” Clarke exhales, snorting softly.

“Did she chant hodnes laik kwelnes or just go straight for your heart, screaming kali ma?”

“That’s culturally insensitive, Clarke.”

“It’s pop culture, Lexa.”

“I think,” Lexa starts, and her tone makes Clarke pause. “Love is weakness. But some weaknesses cannot be avoided.”

“That’s a lot of personal growth. Does Trigeda do Edible Arrangements? Because I could send you some flowers made of melon.”

“Fuck off,” Lexa says, cheerful again.

Clarke’s watch chimes on her wrist and she silences it with a mutter. “You have that meeting in ten minutes.”

“I’m aware,” Lexa sighs. “I should have majored in managing logistics instead of political science. It would have been vastly more helpful.”

“We’ll talk again tomorrow?”

“I look forward to it,” Lexa murmurs, unbearably fond, and Clarke has to hang up before she starts spouting her feelings out like some kind of girl.

//

Anya shows up at four in the morning on a Thursday, and makes her presence known by climbing silently through Clarke’s window and sitting motionless on the foot of Clarke’s bed until she opens her eyes a crack to check the clock, her stretching foot hits something unfamiliar and she screams for ten straight seconds.

“Does Lexa know you are this loud?” Anya asks when Clarke finally stops to breathe, the blankets clutched to her chest and her lamp raised in her right hand.

“What the fuck,” Clarke hisses, her heartbeat thundering. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” The house is suspiciously silent. “Oh my god, did you kill everyone?”

Anya rolls her eyes. “They are fine.”

Clarke narrows her eyes. “You told them, didn’t you. And then you climbed in here to freak me out.”

“You told Lexa to discuss her feelings for me,” Anya shoots back, sulkier than Clarke has ever seen her, ever. She stands. “Consider this payback.”

The only thing Clarke is considering is flinging the lamp at Anya’s head, but she puts it down with an effort. “I hate you.”

“We will speak in the morning,” Anya says, and has the audacity to wave as she leaves, the cheek.

//

They don’t actually speak until lunchtime, Clarke sleeping in on her day off, and when she shuffles out Anya has poured her a cup of coffee. Clarke takes it, trying to look like she’s enjoying the smell of the brew and not like she’s investigating for traces of cyanide.

“I don’t know how you take it,” Anya says. She slides the ceramic sugar jar across the tabletop. “You seem like the sweet type.”

Clarke shakes a spoonful into her mug, suspicious. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Anya frowns. “This will be… a difficult conversation. There is no need to start off badly.” She looks down and to the right.

“Lexa told you to be nice, didn’t she.”

Anya grimaces. “Even worse than an order; a request.” She sighs, sliding into a chair across from Clarke. “I have always found it difficult to deny Lexa her requests.” She looks up at Clarke, catching her eyes. “She makes them so very rarely.”

Clarke sits, sipping at her coffee. She usually takes it with creamer but this is an odd atmosphere, the air between them, and she doesn’t want to break it. “I see.” She’s hoping Anya will explain herself, but Anya just looks at her, searching, and it’s unnerving enough Clarke breaks the silence. “I’m surprised you’re here, so soon after Lexa’s injury.” Anya’s eyes flash. “Not that it’s your fault, I just--I’m surprised. That’s all.”

“I am on ordered vacation,” Anya mutters. “The destination is of my own choosing.” Her eyes soften. “Reivon is… fond, in my heart.” The phrase is clumsy, like she’s translated it from something else, but it makes Clarke smile, tentative. The sliver of softness disappears as soon as Anya sees that Clarke has noticed. “I also need to talk to you. You need to make a choice.”

Clarke thinks about the stack of medschool applications, filled out and ready to be submitted, on her laptop and her desk. “Oh?”

Anya’s frown deepens. “Lexa came… quite close. Her fight was nearly over.” Clarke’s fingers clench abruptly on the handle of her mug, her breath quickening. “These experiences provide clarity, but she is stubborn.” Anya’s pupils flick up, the barest hint of an eyeroll. “She will never ask you to leave your home.”

“Um,” Clarke starts, but Anya ignores her, continuing.

“It may not be fair, but it’s on you. Commit or break it off. You can’t keep talking every other day.”

Clarke glares. “We’re friends.”

“You will never be friends.” Anya stands, dropping her own mug in the sink. “Make her happy or put you both out of your misery, I grow tired of her teenaged sighs.”

//

Lexa calls her and Clarke hesitates, before clicking it through to voicemail. She shoots off a text, saying she took on a shift last minute, and paces in her room before going out to the kitchen. Lincoln is there, humming as he bakes what looks to be a cake, and Clarke realizes with a guilty jolt that Raven’s birthday is in three days. She makes a note to tease Anya about being a softy at her next earliest convenience.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Lincoln says, layering the batter into a cake pan. She leans against the counter, clicking her nails on a cup of orange juice, until he slides the pan into the oven and turns to her. “Something on your mind?”

“Do you regret coming here?” Clarke frowns. It came out blunter than she intended. “I mean, it must have been hard, to leave your home.”

“Yes,” Lincoln agrees. He steals her cup and swigs from it, grinning good naturedly and holding it above her head when she tries to retrieve it. It makes her smile, despite everything, and she thinks she really does understand why he and Octavia fit so well together, despite not being together for even a year yet. He gives it back to her and she retreats across the tile, hissing playfully.

“Do you uh, need help? With the cake?”

“No.” He starts to mix things together, and it smells like sugar and vanilla and baking things, the sweet hint of cream cheese frosting. “It was hard,” he says after a quiet comfortable moment of shared silence. “I had dreamed about returning home for so long. The trees and the water, the village where my mother was born, the city where she died. I laid a tombstone in the ground for her.” He’s quiet for another moment. “In many ways, Trigeda will always be home in my heart.”

“But you still chose to leave.”

He shrugs. “Maybe someday I return. Maybe I don’t. There are other things to keep in my heart.” Octavia bounces into the kitchen, demanding they allow her to taste the frosting, and Clarke and Lincoln keep her at bay with wooden spoons and plastic spatulas, until Octavia flips the timer on and Lincoln lifts her into his arms, spinning to the sofa, so much love in their laughter.

//

Raven’s birthday is both too much and reserved, drinking around the kitchen table and the walls ringing with laughter. Raven smashes her cake over Anya’s face and then licks it off until they make everyone else uncomfortable, a few people from Raven’s program and Bellamy. They drink some more until everyone else staggers into an Uber, Bellamy passed out on the kitchen floor with a fleece blanket thrown over his legs and a cardboard box placed next to his head just in case of emergency. Clarke is throwing beer bottles out the kitchen window into the recycling bin when she turns and sees Anya and Raven in the hallway, just shadows in the night, kissing softly before slipping into Raven’s room, fingers linked.

 

Clarke showers, fast, and slips into bed still tipsy. She calls Lexa even though she knows Lexa’s in a closed doors meeting, her phone turned off, because she and Lexa had synced their calendars a week ago. “Hey,” she mumbles to Lexa’s voicemail. “I miss you. I miss you a lot.”

//

Clarke storms out of her shift and misdials three times before she gets the number right. Lexa picks up on the first ring, which means she knew, at least a little, about what was going to happen and is at least considerate enough not to keep Clarke waiting. “You asshole,” she fumes, and Lexa makes a noncommittal noise. “Explain yourself.”

“I don’t believe you need an explanation.”

“I was just pulled aside,” Clarke says, fighting to keep her voice even and failing, “by the Department of Homeland Security, among several other agencies, because apparently I’m being vetted for top level ambassador clearance!” Her voice is a shout by the time she finishes, and she hurries the last few steps to her car.

“I doubt that is what your country calls it,” is all Lexa has to say for herself, and since Clarke is safe in her car she lets out a small shriek of rage. “You did tell me to pick someone I trust.” Clarke shrieks again, and Lexa sighs. “You are under no obligation to accept any postings,” she says, oddly stiff. “It is just--it is so you are awarded official status. If you should ever visit Trigeda again.”

Clarke pauses. “Oh. Because I don’t want to be an ambassador, okay?”

“I know,” Lexa says, and it’s quiet and so full of pain.

//

“I’m not happy about this,” Raven announces, crossing her arms as she leans against Clarke’s doorframe.

Clarke freezes, one hand still in her duffel bag. “Um. This is… not what it looks like?”

“You’re going back with Anya.”

“Oh. Well then, it is what it looks like.”

Raven frowns. “I was hoping to sweep you off your feet, in three to four years.”

Clarke blinks, halfway through folding a shirt. “What?”

Raven shrugs. “When you were done with medschool, I was going to like,” she makes a gesture with her hands, “swoop. Whisk you away to Trigeda with me. Have their queen owe me a fat one.”

“Lexa’s not a queen,” Clarke rebutes, automatic. “Wait, what?”

“You’re both just so pathetic, moony eyed and sad. Anya’s beside herself as well. So when you were done, I was going to take the job she offered me and make you come with me. There’s hospitals all up in the capital, you can do your residency in any department you want.”

“You want to move to Trigeda?”

Raven shrugs again. “Space is cool, but it’ll always be there. Planning power lines and roads, building generators, getting clean water to everyone in the country? That’s a challenge I can sink my teeth into. I figure I’ll give them a few years to fuck it all up, make it interesting.”

“And Anya?”

“An added perk. And we’re on the same page about it, which is more than I can say for you.” Raven’s smirk goes smug. “That’s right. We had a conversation about our feelings before you and Lexa. Me and Anya.”

Clarke throws a pair of socks at her. “That’s… not a bad plan.”

Raven takes a hesitant step into the room. “Yeah? It’s uh. It’s big.”

“It is.” Clarke zips her bag up, slinging it over her shoulder, and Anya appears at Raven’s back, dropping a kiss to her neck. Raven’s eyes close, briefly, and her smile goes gentle. “I like it, though.”

“Me too,” Raven says. “I’ll see you when you get back?”

Clarke presses a kiss to her cheek and ignores Anya’s growl. “Promise.”

//

Anya walks Clarke into Lexa’s bedroom, throws a new badge at her chest, and leaves, shutting the door behind her. Clarke takes a shower, wrapping herself up in one of Lexa’s fluffy robes, and combs her hair out on the balcony, watching the sunset over the city. Someone dropped off a bowl of stew while she was in the shower and she eats only a few bites before crawling onto Lexa’s fur covered monstrosity of a bed and dozing. The door wakes her.

Lexa comes in slowly, shutting the door behind her and swallowing hard. “You’re here.”

Clarke sits up, wiping at her eyes. “I am.” Her mouth tastes a little stale, and she starts to rise out of the bed, thinking about the pitcher of water on the small table against the far wall. Lexa closes the distance between them in a blink, her hand gentle but insistent on Clarke’s shoulder, keeping her knelt on the bed.

“Don’t,” she murmurs. “Let me look at you.” She trails her fingers across Clarke’s face, the bridge of her nose and her cheekbone, down to around the underside of her jaw. She tucks Clarke’s hair behind her ears and holds her like that, her hands on either side of Clarke’s head. Her smile blooms, so full of joy, and Clarke pushes up. Their kiss is soft, close-mouthed, almost chaste, except for the flicker of heat under Clarke’s skin.

“Did you get my message?” Clarke slips the blazer off Lexa’s shoulders, and Lexa drops her arms to let it fall off her. Clarke kisses the hollow of her throat, and feels Lexa swallow again, hard.

“Yes.” Clarke undoes the first few buttons of Lexa’s shirt, trailing kisses, and Lexa’s breath stutters. “I--I missed you as well.”

“Good.” Clarke leans back; Lexa’s eyes are dark and blown and still so soft, looking at Clarke like nothing could rip her gaze away. “Take off your pants.”

Lexa almost falls over, hopping on one foot and then the other, until her shoes and socks are strewn across the floor, her pants in a puddle. She hesitates, her fingers on her panties, and looks to Clarke for permission. Clarke squeezes her thighs together and nods, and Lexa slides her underwear down her long tan legs, stepping out of them before crawling up the bed and Clarke’s body, nudging her onto her back to settle over her and sinking her teeth into the side of Clarke’s neck with a satisfied sigh. She sucks hard, breaking the skin, then soothes with a soft lick before biting again, just below the first mark. Her hands push the robe aside, baring more skin, and she sighs again.

Clarke lets her make three more marks, layered over each other, before she says, her voice lower than she’s ever heard it, “Stop.” Lexa sits up immediately, even if it is with a small pout, and Clarke splays a hand across Lexa’s belly, under her shirt. “Take off your shirt. Slow.”

Lexa gets to it, obedient, and Clarke slips her hands up Lexa’s ribcage before skimming teasingly across her nipples, making Lexa bite her lip. She keeps going until she finds what she’s looking for. Lexa goes completely still, her hands dropping, and then starts to pull away. “No,” Clarke protests, sitting up and pulling Lexa back into her. “It’s okay.”

Lexa breathes into her shoulder. “It is--I am not vain,” she adds, stiff. “And it does not hurt, anymore.”

“Can I see?” Lexa waits a long time, but then she nods, and sits back, shrugging off her shirt. Clarke scoots them back until she’s sitting back against the headboard, Lexa straddling her lap, and runs very careful fingertips around the puckered scar tissue, darker than the rest of her sin, raised in some places and sunken in others. “You’re beautiful,” Clarke says, and curls to press a single careful kiss to the center of the scar. “And you’re alive.”

Lexa goes a little limp, back against Clarke’s shoulder, and Clarke turns them until Lexa is tucked underneath her, Clarke pressing soft long open mouthed kisses to her collarbone, licking back up to her jaw and fluttering her eyelashes across Lexa’s face to her forehead. She’s ready to curl up and sleep, but Lexa shifts under her, her hips rolling, and Clarke smiles when she closes her teeth around Lexa’s earlobe and Lexa moans. “You sure this is okay? It doesn't hurt?”

“It’s fine,” Lexa affirms, trying to shift her thigh between Clarke’s legs. Clarke pinches her side and Lexa stills, waiting.

“Take my hand,” Clarke murmurs, and their fingers tangle. She sweeps her hair over one side of her neck and learns Lexa’s new scar with her tongue, keeping it careful and gentle, and after three minutes Lexa goes from cringing away to lax and lazy, pliant under her lips and her teeth. Clarke sucks a dark mark into each one of Lexa’s ribs, rewarding, and Lexa dissolves into mumbles and pleas, so perfect, so Clarke slides all the way down on a trail of bruises and bitemarks and settles Lexa’s hands in her hair before taking Lexa apart with her tongue, Lexa’s leg over her shoulder and her hands around Lexa’s hips, pinning her down.

“C’mere,” Lexa says, after she’s settled and Clarke’s soft tongue cleaning her up feels like too much. She pulls Clarke up her body and sucks herself off Clarke’s tongue, sighing and going even limper. “Do you want--”

“Just you,” Clarke says, and Lexa slips three fingers into her, crooked just so, and Clarke comes embarrassingly fast, Lexa’s thumb pressed against her clit and her head thrown back. “Fuck,” Clarke mutters as she comes down. “Tell me you can reschedule that meeting between the two ambassadors and their Romeo and Juliet situation tomorrow.”

“No,” Lexa says, regretful. “But I will be very stressed afterwards.”

“I think I can help with that.”

Lexa hums, then goes oddly stiff. She doesn’t say anything, but Clarke just went through a lot of trouble to make Lexa into the most comfortable pillow under her, and she pokes Lexa in the ribs, questioning. “When do you leave?” Lexa asks, so quiet.

“A week.” Clarke noses into the side of Lexa’s neck. “I uh, I need to talk to you about that, actually.”

“Anya spoke to you.” Lexa’s hands come up, pushing Clarke away and trying to curl into herself, and Clarke slides off, giving her space.

“Yeah.”

“I told her--” Lexa huffs, drawing her legs up in front of her. She looks very small like this, naked and curled up against the end of her bed, Clarke’s marks standing out stark under the candlelight.

“I uh.” Clarke’s hands twist together, nervous. “I have this plan, for how it could go.” she shrugs. “Long distance is hard, but I think we could do it. Maybe. Unless you don't think we could. Which is valid, because this is, you know, a partnership, not a dictatorship.”

Lexa lets her legs unfold. “You--you wish to have a long distance relationship.” She frowns. “I would not ask you to stay, Clarke. And I cannot leave.”

“Well medschool,” Clarke says. “I’ve been accepted a few places, and could get into a few more, depending on what I want to do. I have to figure that out. And that’s four years, and of course I wouldn’t ask you to get me a job after, maybe just help with the forms or something, for--”

“You intend to come here,” Lexa breaks into her babbling. “And to. Live here?”

“Well,” Clarke says, but there’s not really a way to get around this part of her plan or mask its seriousness. “Yeah. If you want.”

“Your mother does not live here. Nor do your closest friends.”

“Well actually--that doesn’t matter. You live here. I want to be with you.” Clarke holds her breath, staring. “If you want me to be with you, too.”

“Nothing,” Lexa says, pulling her close again, “would make me happier.” She pulls a blanket over their heads, but not fast enough to hide her smile, beaming and wondrous and so, so happy. They kiss, lazy and slow.

“If it wasn’t for jetlag,” Clarke mutters. “First thing tomorrow, exuberant relationship sex. Wake me up in time for you to make it to your meeting.”

“Of course, Clarke,” Lexa agrees, indulgent. She bites under Clarke’s jaw and sucks insistently, making soft pleased noises.

“Is this a thing you like? The biting? Because it’s going to make going back to work very embarrassing.”

“Mm.” Lexa nips her shoulder, sharp. “Go to sleep, Clarke.”

“We still have a lot to sort out, you know.” Clarke wiggles until her back is to Lexa, Lexa’s soft warmth pressed along every inch of her body, their legs tangled, Lexa’s breath on the back of her neck. Lexa wraps an arm around her, trailing careful fingers up to rest loose around Clarke’s throat, possessive.

“Tomorrow,” Lexa says.

Clarke reaches back and hooks Lexa’s leg around her hips, wiggling her ass a little to make Lexa bite at her neck again, censoring. “Tomorrow,” she agrees.

Notes:

thank you for everyone for going on this ride with me. this clocks in as the longest thing I've ever written, and the biggest response I've ever gotten, which is super flattering and also surprising. I'm not at all complaining, but I usually average 4-12 comments per work, and the response to this has been incredible. I'm just so chuffed and glad people liked it enough to let me know.

I'm marking it complete and you may be asking: but what about the longterm implications? is there a royal wedding in the works? do people accept them? Listen, I've never pretended to be a deep thinker or a good writer, so we'll both have to use our imaginations. I do think the internet would really embrace Lexa the Lesbian Bringer of Democracy. I have no current plans for a sequel.

as always, let me know if you liked it, and I'm on tumblr @ sunspill (I accept prompts which is ridiculous to say because I've never gotten one, but I'm down), and I accept explicit prompts @ feeltripping, my sin blog.

Notes:

if you are looking for a serious work, this is not the fic you're looking for. it's going to be goofy and full of goofy tropes. hopefully not boring.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of black rebel jackets