Thank god for fanfiction so frustrated people like me can have an outlet...because I need these two to be together, that despite all the bitterness and hardships, they can still have the "better than that" that they deserve, and because they make sense somehow, they complement each other.
It's been three days...three days since she was found by Indra, and three months since she walked away from Camp Jaha, wandering, trying to reconcile what she did, trying to see if there's still some of the old Clarke left recognizable in her. Three months of figuring things out, processing everything that happened. Guilt, sorrow, anger, despair, hate, a love lost, and just how unfair everything is made her strong enough to not look back as she walks away from her family and friends. However, it is the blood on her hands that hounds her, the willing decision of massacring everyone from Mount Weather, even the children and the people who helped them. Her mind keeps turning things over, thinking of the possible other ways and other outcomes. She has managed to shut some parts of herself down so she can sleep easier and keep moveing forward, but when she saw Lexa again, sitting in that usual quiet and dangerous way that only she can manage to pull off, everything she has pushed away came rushing at her in full force, triggering every excruciating moment of that night to come back.
Now the ghosts are back, and it is her third night of having to see them in her dreams. This particular night, however, is hell.
She is trying to sleep, losing count on how many hours(or is it minutes) she's been tossing and turning on the bedfurs. She can sense someone in the shadows, near the foot of where she lay, and she jolts upright, squinting her eyes, trying to see who it is. Judging by the built of the body, she guesses a female.
"Who is it?" Her voice, already a normal husky tone, is even lower and rougher from the sleep she couldn't get.
Slowly, the figure steps forward into the soft glow of the solitary lamp by her bedside. When she sees who it is, she gasps, and she can hear her heart beating at her eardrums.
It was Maya.
"Hello, Clarke." she greets, sitting at the edge of the bed. Clarke could only numbly stare, her already strained mind threatening to break. Maya looks t her curiously, cocking her head to the side.
"Come on Clarke, don't tell me you've already forgotten? I was there, remember, in Mount Weather? I helped you." The blonde was still frozen, her mouth opening and closing, no sound coming out, and she's not sure if it's because there's nothing to come out or because everything wants to come out.
Maya purses her lip in thought. "Hmmm, all right, I'll call in some help, maybe it will jog your memory." She turns to the shadows, calling out to someone.
"It's okay, come on over, we'll help Clarke remember us." Another figure detaches from the darkness, timidly approaching. It is a child, holding a soccer ball. Clarke didn't think it was possible, but the beating in her ears now turns into full on rampaging noise.
Maya sits the child on her lap. "This is Clarke. Go on, say hi." He appears to be shy, then squeaks out a small "Hi Clarke," then tosses the ball at her, shocking her out of her frozen state, catching it out of instinct honed after being alone for three months. She smiles back at him, glancing down at the ball on her hand, and her smile vanishes. The soccer ball is streaked with blood, an imprint of a small hand. Her head whips up, aghast at the sight before her. Maya and the boy were bloody, their skin seemingly melting off, the effect of the radiation that killed them.
"Do you remember now Clarke?" Her voice was tainted with venom, dripping with hate. "You said you'll help us, but you sacrificed us, you are no better than those grounder savages." From behind her, more people come forward, all of their skins breaking out in bloody crusts.
"N-no. I had to."
A tall man slowly makes his way to her side, a small red dot on his chest, blooming into a dripping dark red circle with every step he takes."No, you didn't. There could have been another way. You chose blood over peace." It was the president, the bullet wound in his chest now soaking the furs.
"I chose blood to have peace, I had to carry it so they wouldn't, you told me that." her voice was bordering on desperation, her eyes streaming with tears.
He bends to her eye level, his own eyes full of malicious anger, and he growls his words "I would never kill the innocent children,"he gestures behind him, the children looking at her with the same expression, and it breaks her heart " the very people who have helped protect your friends...Murderer." his voice has gone low, very low.
"Murderer." the kid with the soccer ball whispers.
"I'm-I'm sorry." tears were flowing freely down her cheeks, sobs wracking her body, her throat gasping for air.
"You do not know the agony of it, the agony of dying." one of the people who helped hide her friends. "You choke on tears, we choked on pain." another one says.
"You do not know how it truly feels to not be able to breathe, every gulp of air burning our lungs. "
"I'm sorry!" Clarke's voice was faltering, the tears clogging her throat.
"You walked free at the cost of our lives!"
"Murderer.."
"Murderer!"They were beginning to chant, ambling forward, surrounding her, the president looming over her with a sick smile on his face.
"No. Please, I had to."
"You're a muderer Clarke." he enunciates each word. "..derer..murderer..mur.."
"I had no choice!" She was screaming now, trying to drown out their growing voices.
A low chuckle comes from the president, the sickening grin still plastered on his face.
Their voices are drowning her."..arke..murder...mur..Clar..murderer..Clarke..murderer!"
"NO!" with a desperate roar, she pulls the president , holding him down by the throat. With the same motion, she unsheathes the dagger under her pillow, pressing it against where she knew the carotid is located as she straddles him, her chest painfully heaving and constricting.
"Clarke." The sound of her own name makes the noises stop, and there is only deafening silence.
Under the dim light, dark green eyes are calmly staring at her. She draws back, sitting up in confusion, but keeps her hands where they were.
Where are they? Where's the blood? Her head is frantically sweeping side to side, trying to see anything on her rumpled but otherwise spotless bedfurs which were soaked red just a few seconds ago.
A palm on her right cheek stills her movements, forcing Clarke to look at the person beneath her.
She has dark brown curls splayed out, her wide and knowing eyes holding Clarke's blue ones, and it takes her a moment for recognition to kick in.
"Lexa?" she husks out, not sure if it really is her. She still has that calm and calculating gaze, but her eyes are not smeared with black paste, her face is fresh, scrubbed clean of war paint, blood, and grime. She doesn't have her armor on, no metal, no clasp nor coat in their usual places on her body, only a simple sleeveless shirt and black pants, baring her arms and the dark swirling tattoo patterns that draw Clarke's eyes that still reflected the dazed confusion reverberating inside her skull. Her body was still having remnant trembles, but she freezes when she feels the brunette slowly sitting up, going against her blade and the force of her arms.
"Wh-no, don't." there is fear in her voice, but Lexa is still pushing against her hands.
"Stop!" it sounded like a broken desperate plea, and this time, she did stop, halting at an angle, halfway sitting and halfway lying down. Clarke is shaking, blankly staring at the dagger almost breaking the delicate skin, her mind not being able to take anything in anymore. She feels a gentle stroke from a thumb on the hand keeping her head still, prompting her gaze up, to slightly parted lips, to a perfect nose, and to green eyes swimming with worry and concern.
The Commander resumes her movement, more slowly this time, and pushes her body up and forward, not caring that Clarke isn't letting the pressure up on the dagger. She pushes, and pushes, until a crimson rivulet slowly makes its way past the blade, down her clavicle, and disappearing in her shirt below. She doesn't even flinch, doesn't show any outward reaction, and then she is finally upright, their faces a few inches away, Clarke's bended arms keeping their torsos from touching, her hands still holding the dagger's hilt and the column of Lexa's throat.
At this distance, it's impossible for each other not to see everything on the woman in front of them. Clarke is distracted by the beautiful mane of dark brown waves. She always knew Lexa had beautiful hair, but she has never seen it like this: unbraided and free, cascading gracefully down slim but strong shoulders. There is a small part of her that cannot help itself in being mesmerized and saying Oh my god...you're beautiful.
She feels Lexa's other hand come up, so that both her hands are gently cradling Clarke's face. Then with the same slow movements, Lexa reaches her head up a bit.
The blonde feels a gentle kiss on her forehead. Calm your mind, ease your thoughts.
Her left temple. See here? I have jagged pieces.
And then the other one. Let me look at yours.
Her eyelid, trying to squeeze the tears shut at how gentle everything is. Maybe our jagged pieces can fit together.
Her other eyelid. So hush,
Her cheek, still stained with tears. and let me hold you
Her other cheek, her tears being literally kissed away. Let me comfort you
Then oh so slowly, she feels soft lips slowly brushing her own cracked ones, and she can taste the saltiness in them. Let me kiss the tears and pain away
She feels them sharing the same breath, Lexa finding a fit. Even just for tonight.
And then she feels the gentle pressure as Lexa finally presses their lips together. Because I know exactly how it feels.
The brunette shifts her head to the other side, reminiscent of their first kiss, except this time, Clarke doesn't pull away, she couldn't pull away even if she wanted to. Let me heal you.
Clarke can feel a slow and steady warmth spreading through her, but there is nothing sexual about the kiss. Instead, it is comfort, caring, and understanding; something that says a hundred words.
I'm here, you're safe.
It's okay, you can crash your heavy broken heart next to mine.
You're gonna be fine.
Even when you're not, I'll be here until you will be.
Lay down in my arms, let me give you warmth.
Open your lips on mine, let me give you breath.
Let me cradle you, let me help you sleep.
Let me gather your pieces and have your bleeding hands rest, because mine are strong and steady, already calloused from picking my own.
Let me be your ribcage and hold what's underneath.
Let me be here.
Even just for tonight.
For the first time in a long time, Clarke feels what she thinks is peace, safety...love. And everything inside her breaks. All her guilt and sorrow, all the heaviness, Clarke lets them out, her hands(with the dagger) going behind Lexa's neck, pulling her even closer. A sob escapes her lips and is swallowed by Lexa's, as if she expected it.
Clarke pulls away, her hands sliding down and bracing themselves on prominent collar bones. A broken sob spills from her lips, followed by another one, and another one, fat tears springing anew, and she hurls herself at the person who she was never able to get out of her mind, burrying her face on the neck she was holding down moments ago, her tears mixing with Lexa's blood, her body shaking from the onslaught. Never has she fathomed that she would ever feel safe again, but that's how it feels right now; she never found safety nor relief, but against all odds and ironies, she finds it in the arms of the person who walked away from her.
In all those three months, she has never let herself cry like this, never allowed herself to , because for her, she has no right to, and because it is weakness, but now, the quaking moves down from her shoulder blades, reverberating towards the leader who taught her everything there is to know about weakness. The irony is not lost on her, but as of the moment, she is letting her emotions run rampant out of her, sinewy tattooed arms catching her, long fingers splayed out between her shoulder blades.
Lexa puts her chin on the blonde head. She is supporting most of Clarke's weight and it is a testament to her core strength that they are not toppling backwards from the forward motion.
She can feel the shudders from the woman slumped against her chest, the creaking of her bones from the weight she was burdened with. Carry you weight, but let me carry you. And she slowly rocks them, her battle hardened body moving in a slow gentle sway that, in any other circumstance, Clarke would never associate with the tough Commander. But the person holding her is not the Commander, and she is not the Sky princess, they were just Clarke and Lexa. They were just two people needing to comfort and be comforted, letting their hearts do as they please without the scrutiny of a hundred grounders or a hundred friends that they have both been carrying...tonight, they are free.
So she rocks them, until the gasping sobs slowly dwindle down to occasional short gasps.
Until the magnitude of quakes calm down to a few shudders and shakes.
Until the stream of tears trickle to a few drops.
Until the haunted blue eyes are half lidded in exhaustion.
Until Clarke can breathe.
Until Clarke's last teardrop falls.
Until Clarke finally sleeps.
Until the sky above them paints itself from indigo to blue, much like the bruises inside of them.