Chapter 1/12
Clarke's eyes traced the light as it bounced off the tile. She thought it bright, piercing enough that it should have hurt, should have made her eyes water and sting and burn. But she thought her eyes not quite so capable of any of that anymore, she thought much of that not quite so possible. Not now, anyway, not when the smell of death lingered in the air, not when her fingers trembled, not when her eyes felt dry and itched and raw and numbed to whatever things she was sure flitted past her gaze.
And she hated it. She hated the way she felt, she hated the way her mouth tasted, whatever toothpaste she had used leaving behind an acidic burn that did little to distract from the pain. She hated the way her back ached from sleeping in that chair all those nights, she hated the way her neck cramped and her body shivered in the too cold nights she had found awaited her. But most of all? She hated the hurt and hopelessness that seemed to bleed into her waking moments.
And so she paused outside the door. She paused long enough that she thought she may turn, may flee, may even try to pretend. Just for a moment, just for long enough that she could remember what it felt to not feel anymore.
But she watched as her hand reached out, she watched as fingers curled around the doorknob, and she watched as her eyes blurred and she listened as her heart began to break.
Again.
It was cold, it was cool, the snow drifted down just a little as her feet continued to fight through the shallow blanket of snow. But Lexa didn't mind. She never did, not when the land shone brightly in the light of overhead warmth. But maybe Lexa could resent, maybe she could feel frustrated at the way her hands were smothered in the mitts, in the way her fingers were useless. And as she swiped at a strand of hair, as she tried to tuck it back under her hood, she knew she heard the laugh and the chuckle and the warmth of his laugh.
"Need a hand?" and Lexa looked up, she squinted through the haze of light and she glared. For she knew he was smiling at her, she knew he was finding joy in her predicament, in her inability to do things for herself.
"No," and Lexa huffed at the hair that seemed to freeze to the tip of her nose.
And so the man took her hand in his and continued to guide her through the carpark, his steps slower now, more cautious as they crossed ice and sleet and melting snow.
It didn't take them long before they began to approach the doors, and Lexa looked up. She looked up and she let her gaze take in the familiar neon sign, the way the light would flicker just a little, the way the blue seemed to border on a purple, or a red depending on when and where and how long she looked upon it. But she didn't mind. She didn't mind its imperfect life, she didn't mind the way the rust seemed to cling to the bolts that kept the sign attached. If only because she thought it gave it character, if only because she thought it spoke of life, of the times she had been to this very place.
"They need to fix that sign," and she looked up at the man's face again, and she saw him eyeing it cautiously, she saw him frown just a little as his chin raised.
"Why?" she asked, and she thought her voiced sounded small, sounded dwarfed as it followed his rumble, his depth and baritone.
"It might fall," he shrugged as he looked down at her.
And Lexa frowned, she tilted her head and she tried to imagine the sign falling, crashing and clanging.
"It might fall?" she asked.
"And crush little girls," and he poked her shoulder. "And that would be very bad, wouldn't it, Lex?" and she heard him laugh as she glared.
"I'm not little," she said.
"You're not little?" and she thought he must have been teasing, she thought he must have been joking.
"No," she said simply.
"Ok," and he laughed, and she thought it filled with warmth.
"It won't fall," she finished simply.
And so the man tugged her hand lightly as he pushed open the doors, his eyes smiling and her own ears perking up to the sounds of skates slashing against ice and the sounds of laughter and excitement filling the air.
Perhaps the only frustrating thing about ice skating was needing to wait in line, was needing to simply wait. And Lexa could never quite understand why she couldn't just come whenever she wanted, she couldn't quite understand why she couldn't just take her skates and enter the rink. If only because she thought she must have spent years of her life here, and she knew the woman at the counter recognised her each winter, she knew the woman at the counter had memorised the days she would come, the days she would spend hours skating in circles, hours moving and weaving and bobbing between the kids that were slower, that weren't so sure on their feet, weren't so worthy to enjoy what it was she enjoyed so much about skating.
But she'd wait. Lexa would wait in line just like every other person. If only because he waited, if only because good people were polite people. And so she sighed, she hitched her skates over her shoulder just a little higher, and she let her mind wander and picture what it would be like when she was older, when she was old enough to play, to fight and to win.
And as she let her eyes move from trophy to trophy, from image to image on the wall, she couldn't help but feel a longing, to feel a thrill and an excitement at the way the faces smiled back at her, the way hands clutched medals and trophies.
"When can I do that?" she asked, and she looked up to see him following her gaze towards the images that lined the walls.
"Soon, Lex," he smiled. "But not yet. You're too young to be playing with the big girls just yet," and she saw him shrug before taking a step forward, one more person having been let through and into the rink.
"But I can skate," she countered, and she eyed the way one girl held the stick comfortably in her hands. "I can shoot and pass," and she knew it was true. If only because he had taught her, had shown her how to hold the stick properly, had taught her how to wrist shot, snap shot, even to slap shot — despite it not quite having the crack and the power of his.
"You can," he laughed. "But they're all a head taller than you."
"Soon?" she asked as she glared at that same image of the girl, her eyes smirking, her cheek bones high, the blonde tips of her hair muddy and messy and frenzied and her expression proud as she looked down at Lexa from where the image hung on the wall.
"Soon," and he laughed again and she saw him pull his wallet from his pocket as he stepped forward once more.
Perhaps Lexa rued the day she had realised she couldn't tie her own laces without asking for his help. Perhaps she resented the fact that the older girls were able to do it, were able to tie them tight enough without help from the parents. And Lexa knew she rued this day, she knew she resented needing help in this very moment. If only because that same girl from the image sat near her, that same girl effortlessly tied her own laces, effortlessly tied the knots and effortlessly smirked and stepped away with little more than a glance and a quiet lifting of her lips.
"Next foot," Lexa heard, and she grunted out a sigh as she placed her left between his knees, and she watched as his fingers tugged and pulled quickly. "You're growing too fast, Lex," he sighed, and she knew it wasn't to be taken as a slight or a curse or annoyance. And she knew it so, if only because he insisted that he mark off each day, each little increase with a pencil marking against the doorframe, the date and her height always quickly scribbled next to it as his eyes smiled proudly.
"Does that mean I get new ones soon?" she asked, and she knew that he knew exactly which skates she wanted, which ones would show the others that she could play, could skate and keep up with the fastest. If only because she knew herself to be the fastest. But not quite just yet.
"Maybe," and he smiled as he tied off her skates and patted her head before rolling onto the bench besides her, his fingers quick to tie his own laces.
Lexa's feet took her faster and faster. Her eyes scanned each face she passed and she let the smile spread just a little more prominently across her lips. And she knew she needed to not make mistakes now, she knew she needed to be able to avoid each person she passed, even if it was just a general skate, even if it wasn't a game or a competition. But she knew she needed to make a good impression on those that were already on the team, already playing, already older than her. And so she sighed as she passed a blonde once more, the other girl's hand holding onto the side of the rink carefully, the girl's father right by her side as she continued to take cautious step after cautious step.
And maybe Lexa couldn't help but scoff, couldn't help but think the girl just a little lame. If only because you didn't step when trying to skate. You didn't try to walk.
And so Lexa pushed off prominently as she passed the girl, she pushed off easily, her blades slashing through the ice as she glanced over her shoulder to see the girl glaring at her, to see the girl's father merely eyeing his daughter, hands hovering just shy of her shoulders.
"What's your name?" and Lexa started and glanced to her side to see that same girl who could tie her laces herself, that same girl who was in the image on the wall. That same girl who smirked.
"Lexa," she said simply, her eyes only once glancing to the way the girl had her hands in her pockets, eyes not quite paying attention to where she skated.
"Lexa," the girl repeated as she eyed her for a long moment, her body easily moving around a child who slipped and fell to the ice with a cry of shock. "Short for something?" the girl said as she fell back into sync with Lexa's own movements.
"Alexandria," and Lexa glanced around just for a moment to see her father eyeing her from across the rink as he made his own way through the crowds of people.
"Weird name," the girl shrugged as she moved to skate in front, and Lexa merely glared as the girl turned and began to skate backwards, her eyes smirking easily. "Your dad used to play," the girl finished.
"Yeah," and Lexa eyed the girl for a long moment.
"He was good," and the girl gestured to the wall of images at the entrance, "won a few trophies."
"Yeah," and Lexa couldn't quite tell where the girl was headed with her questions.
"How old are you?" the girl asked, and Lexa couldn't quite shake the feeling that this conversation was turning into an interrogation, into a careful prodding, careful scouting.
"Seven," she said, her chin raising.
"I'm eight," and the girl shrugged. "We need more people on our team soon," and Lexa couldn't quite dash the sense of hope that began to flit through her mind in this moment.
"I can play," Lexa said simply.
"You can?" and the girl glanced behind herself just once as she heard someone fall.
"I can shoot and pass and stop and skate backwards," Lexa continued quickly.
"But can you play?" and the girl smirked as she glanced up and down Lexa's body briefly before she turned and began to skate away. "I'm Anya," the girl called over her shoulder as she slipped through a small gap in a group of children who tried moving across the ice.
Lexa woke to the banging on her door and the sun gleaming off her bedside table. It took her a moment to let her thoughts shift from sleep to alertness, and perhaps she let herself sink just a little deeper into her covers before the banging came just a little more loudly, just a little more forcefully.
"I'm up," she called out, and she knew she heard the grogginess to her voice. And she was sure she heard the laugh and the steps that began to fade away.
And so Lexa rose, her eyes squinting and her hand rubbing at her face as she fumbled her way through her room and down the corridor, the sounds coming from the kitchen all she needed to let her know he was waiting.
The kitchen swam in a warm light, the sun already beginning to stream in from outside as it dappled against the kitchen bench. Lexa's gaze traced the patterns that seemed to reach up the window from outside, the cold and snow and morning frost in constant battle with the warmth that kept her mornings pleasant for only as long as she was allowed to stay inside before she needed to brave the elements outside.
"Breakfast," he said and she smiled for a moment as she lifted herself into a chair and turned her gaze to the bowl of cereal before her.
"They want more people on the team," she said simply, eyes meeting his as she saw her words sink in. "Soon."
"I saw you talking to the player," he began, a hand carding through his beard as he sighed and sat opposite her, a cup in his large hand, and the scents of coffee making her nose twitch and scrunch up in distaste.
"Anya," Lexa added as she saw him laugh as she recoiled just a little from the coffee.
"It'll grow on you," he laughed as he took a sip from the cup. "You won't survive without it when you're old like me."
"Maybe," and she turned her attention back to her cereal as she spooned a large bite into her mouth.
"Definitely," he laughed.
"Never," and she stuck her tongue out only for milk to dribble down her chin.
Lexa's feet wended across the ground, and her gaze followed the stone she kicked as it tumbled and bounced and rolled ahead of her. Walking to school had never been an issue. The cold had never bothered her as it had others, and she had always felt safe as she walked with the other students, the route taken the neighbourhood's favoured one. If only because it ran down the main street, cars and houses and adults always present, always going about their own mornings, always in careful proximity to the children on their way to and from school.
And so Lexa smiled up into the sky as snow began to drift and flutter on the breeze, as the wind picked up and as it began to breathe a little more fiercely through her hair.
But a shadow fell across her face, and as she squinted past the morning sun she saw a halo of blonde hair that walked besides her, and a body not much shorter than hers wrapped in a large scarf, its ends tucked into a downy jacket, blue and far too large for the wearer.
It took Lexa a moment to register that the person looked at her cautiously, it took her a moment to register that the person was a girl, her nose reddened in the cold, and her hands clutched at the straps of a bag slung over her shoulders. Lexa's eyes narrowed just for a moment as she let her gaze move from the face to the blonde hair and then back to the other girl's face before recognition dawned on her.
"You're the one who can't skate," and Lexa's chin raised slightly, and she knew she felt the smirk that began to spread over her lips as she saw the girl glare and hitch the bag higher onto her shoulders.
"You're the one who was showing off," the girl answered simply.
"It's not showing off if you can actually do it," Lexa challenged.
"Yes it is," the girl countered, her voice muffled by a scarf.
"Whatever," and Lexa turned her attention back to the way she walked.
"You want to join the team, don't you?" and Lexa looked up at the girl to see her still eyeing her carefully.
"Yes," and Lexa thought answering a question as simple as that safe enough. At least for now.
"I think you'd be good," the girl said simply.
That gave Lexa pause though. And as she tried to think of just how to respond she couldn't help but let her eyes wander over the girl's face for a moment longer, she couldn't help but to marvel at the way the girl's eyes shone a quiet blue in the sun and the way her hair seemed to fluff out from around the scarf and the large jacket that smothered her body.
"You do?" and perhaps it would have been rude to shrug off the girl's words, the way she had reached out and tried to start conversation in the cold.
"You can skate," the girl said simply. "I'm still learning," she finished as she looked away.
And so Lexa bit her lip and swiped at a strand of hair that she felt tickle her nose.
"Thank you," Lexa said after a moment. And she felt that that answer was safe enough, was polite enough. "You should push out," she said after a pause though, her mind turning back to when she had seen the blonde trying to skate. But Lexa saw the look the girl sent at her, head tilting to the side in confusion. "When you're skating," Lexa added. "Don't try to walk. You won't go anywhere," she said. "Push out like this," and she mimicked the motions in her next step, and she felt the girl's gaze follow her legs as she mimed for a moment longer.
"Oh," and Lexa saw the girl bite her lip cautiously before she looked away. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Lexa answered, if only because she was polite. Or perhaps just not rude.
But Lexa saw the girl glance further up at another group of children before looking back, her eyebrows quirked together in thought.
"Clarke," she said after a moment.
And Lexa couldn't help but to frown and tilt her head in confusion.
"My name," the girl added.
And maybe if Lexa was ruder, was less polite, or if she didn't quite register that she thought the girl's hair pretty, she would have said that the name was a boy's, that she'd never heard of a girl called Clarke before. But she wasn't rude. And so Lexa smiled, just a little, just a small thing that she thought shy and bashful and unfamiliar to the confidence she so often thought she felt.
"Lexa," she said in answer, and she saw the girl — Clarke — smile behind the scarf.
Clarke woke with a start, her mind frantic and pained frayed at the edges. It took her a long moment to settle her mind, to force her thoughts and heart to settle. But as she let her eyes stay closed, as she let the warmth she felt in her hand linger, she tried to hold onto the memory, she tried to hold onto whatever dream she felt slipping away. But she knew it would do so. She knew it would never, could never, stay for longer than it took for her heart to slow its beats.
And so she took just one last shaky breath before her eyes opened to the pain she felt so often pierce through her mind.
Clarke took in a shallow breath as her eyes opened to the bed before her, and she thought the darkness of the room too bright for her. If only because she couldn't remember the last time she had felt the brightness of a day without worry, without pain and hurt and anguish. But she knew things changed, she knew life would change. And she knew things were never permanent. But perhaps she had thought, she had hoped, and she had begged for her time to not be so soon.
But she thought life unfair.
And so she sat up a little straighter in the chair, her eyes tracing the hand she held in her own, and she couldn't quite let the fact that the warmth she felt wasn't so real that she could laugh with her, could speak to her, could whisper and share thoughts and words of comfort.
Clarke's gaze wandered over the fingers that sat loose in her hand, and she knew she hated how thin they seemed. She knew she hated how motionless they were. And she knew she hated it. And so she pulled her gaze away, she glanced at the wall, at the clock that ticked away slowly. And she waited until she knew her voice wouldn't break, wouldn't die in her throat.
"Good morning," Clarke whispered out into the quiet, the only sounds to respond the constant whirring and quiet beep that seemed to live freely in the room.
And maybe she half expected to hear a response though. Maybe she half expected to feel the fingers move in her hand, to feel them squeeze, to feel them tighten their grasp. But after all this time? She thought it not so likely. Not so certain. But yet, she thought she could hope. For what else could she do?
"Anya says hi," Clarke whispered out quietly, her eyes falling to the faint rising of a chest. "Raven, too," and she winced at the roughness she felt claw at her throat. "Raven apologises for not coming sooner," and Clarke wiped her free hand across her face. "Work was busy," Clarke added quietly. "But I said you wouldn't mind," and Clarke knew she wouldn't. And maybe it helped to talk, though. But perhaps Clarke didn't quite know who exactly it helped. Not yet, anyway. "Bruce misses you," Clarke continued after a moment, her eyes tracing the lines of her cheek and the way the pulse in her neck strummed weakly, mutely, gently. "I miss you, too," and she knew she felt her eyes begin to water once more, and she knew it pointless to try to stop the tears and the pain that seemed to always take a hold of her in moments like this. "There's still time," she managed to force out past the hurt. "Please wake up," but perhaps Clarke thought her words futile, perhaps she thought her words meek and lame on her tongue.
And so Clarke let her shoulders shake as the hurt took hold, she let her mind crumble as her vision blurred, and she let her heart break just a little more than it should as Lexa's body didn't quite do much more than survive with the help of the machines that kept her alive.
