Title: I Will Wait (You Forgave And I Won't Forget)
By: garlic
Disclaimer: The 100 and affiliated property of Jason Rothenberg, The CW.
Summary: Five times Clarke went to Lexa and left her, and the one time she stayed.
AN: In celebration of the season 3 premiere, here is something that is completely NOT CANON. Ah well. It was itching to be written.
Clarke appears in front of Tondc's gate like she first appeared on the ground - suddenly, with no warning. Lexa is drawn to the commotion from her tent, her heart already tight in her throat at the hurried whispers (full of fear, full of awe) from her warriors, the harsh bark of Indra's voice.
The crowd parts for her, and Clarke is there, dirty and ragged and worn, but tall and tense and firm. The strength in her is different from before. Where once she flickered like fire - banked low like embers one second then roaring hot like an inferno the next - she now gleams hard and still in the light, cast in cold gold with chips of ice in her eyes and steel under her skin.
She still takes her breath away.
Her warriors shift uneasily around her, Indra growls agitated and angry, but all Lexa sees is Clarke, gaze boring direct and unafraid into her own. She knows what her warriors are thinking, she knows what has Indra wary.
She's not sure she knows Clarke. Not anymore.
But still...
Her hand raises, and the camp falls silent. Clarke reaches to her waist, and every warrior tenses, knuckles white where they grip their swords.
For a brief moment the pistol shines in the sun, and Lexa thinks Clarke has been broken past what could be fixed, what could be healed. That she has finally given into the ghost of that boy she loved, and would follow his footsteps.
Instead the gun falls heavily to the ground at Indra's feet, empty palms bared in supplication.
Lexa finds the glare in her eyes cuts more deeply than any bullet.
She gives a sharp nod to Indra, and a quick command spit into the restless air sends everyone back to their previous tasks. When she turns on her heel to stride back to her tent she can hear Clarke's heavy footsteps follow, and she counts them silently in her head to calm the agitation pinging through her nerves, the whirl of thoughts muddying her mind.
Stepping into her tent settles her somewhat. She anchors herself in the middle of her space, spine straight, hand tight around the hilt of her sword. A few deep breaths center her, head cocked lightly to one side, ears pricked. She doesn't have to wait for long before she can hear the flaps of her tent rustle, hear the other woman stop a few paces behind, hear the rasp of deep breaths.
There are novels of words written on the tip of her tongue, but she knows none of them would be welcome, would be right. I'm sorry, she cannot say. I am glad you and yours are alive, would be an insult. I wish I had not taken the deal, would be a lie.
She turns, and then Clarke is on her, one hand grasping hard at the back of her neck, the other driving up to the top of her chest. It takes all her effort to let it happen, forcefully clenching her muscles against every instinct trained into her body since she could walk. It's the flash of metal from the corner of her eye that tells her Clarke has a knife to her throat, and that the freezing line pressed to her skin isn't actually Clarke's rage taken physical form, manifesting from the glower in blue eyes.
Clarke didn't shoot her outside, but it's not impossible that she changed her mind in the brief walk to her tent. Still, Lexa bared her throat. She could feel the tremble in the hands at her neck. Anger? Uncertainty? Conflict ranged over Clarke's features, face twisting from hate to sadness to regret and everything in between. Lexa tracked each expression, refusing to blink or look away.
If she was to die, she would go with Clarke as the last thing she sees, even if it meant she would carry that gut-wrenching look of loathing imprinted in her spirit to the next Commander.
At one point not long ago she had thought maybe she deserved more than that. Now she is sure she deserves no less.
She raised her chin, released her sword, dropped her shoulders. Clarke's eyes snapped to hers, blade pushing harder.
"You think I won't?"
Lexa's couldn't help the flutter of her eyes at Clarke's voice. Even ragged and hoarse as it was it lit warmth in her veins, quickened her heartbeat.
"It is your kill, Clarke."
Disbelief sparked first, then wrath once again. Fingers dug bruises into her neck and Clarke snarled, pressing into her harder. A sting bloomed at her throat, and Lexa felt warmth spill and drip down her neck. But as abruptly as Clarke had grabbed her she was free, and Lexa reeled back from the release, hand automatically rising to clasp over the cut.
Clarke stood before her, trembling and staring glassy-eyed at the blood that leaked from under Lexa's fingers. Her head shook minutely as if in denial, in horror, then jerked to stare at the blade in her hand, edged in red. The knife fell from nerveless fingers, palms coming up to press desperately over teary eyes. Lexa felt her heart wrench as she watched Clarke collapse in on herself, head in her hands, swaying back and forth, the soft chants of "no, no, no" threading out on a thin, breaking voice.
"Clarke."
The other woman just shook harder.
"Clarke." Lexa reached out, but just as her hand brushed Clarke's sleeve she was batted away.
"No! Don't touch me!"
Clarke's eyes were wild and furious, and Lexa flinched back, withdrawing her arm at once. The unwelcome feeling of uselessness washed over her as Clarke stepped back taking deep, unsteady breaths. Being unable to help, to offer comfort and only watch as Clarke struggled to regain herself struck a hard blow.
It was something she had relished in her relationship with Clarke. Being support. A haven. Knowing any aid would now be spurned left an aching maw in her chest.
Instead she stood silently, eyes cut politely to the side, to let Clarke compose herself. She only looked back at the other woman's deep, calm breath.
"What can I do for you, Clarke of the Sky People?" Lexa figured formality was the safest approach, and was reassured when the lancing glare of hate was swallowed swiftly in more general stare of stoic dislike.
"I need to know that Camp Jaha is safe." Blue eyes darted briefly to the sluggishly bleeding cut on her neck before shying away. "That you won't attack my people."
Lexa shook her head, kept her voice even and soft. "We will not. We will only act in self defense."
Clarke's voice was sharp and bitter, glare hard and fixed to the side, refusing to meet Lexa's earnest gaze. "It won't come to that. Leave them alone, and they'll leave you alone."
"...Of course."
Clarke nodded jerkily. "Good." Her head rose, eyes briefly meeting her own and flitting down to her lips, the blood on her throat. Clarke's fists clenched at her sides and Lexa once again tamped down the urge to touch, to soothe tense muscles.
One last nod and Clarke turned, making to leave. Lexa's heart leapt again to her throat. "Where will you go?"
Clarke paused, still turned away. "None of your business."
One step. "Winter will be upon us soon." Clarke ignored her.
Another step. "It is dangerous in the woods." Lexa hated the note of desperation in her tone.
Clarke lifted the flap of the tent, back rigid and unforgiving.
"Clarke." Please, she couldn't bring herself to say. It wouldn't make a difference anyways.
Clarke left, and Lexa was alone.
Her eyes and the cut on her throat burned.
The itch at the center of her back was a warning. They were being watched.
The distant rustle from beyond the brush was a sign. They were being followed.
The flash of blond between the trees was proof.
Clarke.
In low tones Lexa ordered her men to stand down, and the convoy continued. The burn of Clarke's glare warmed her blood, Lexa taking comfort from her presence when it should instead worry her.
Clarke had held a knife to her throat.
Lexa had let her.
Clarke had demanded no harm to her people.
Lexa had wordlessly provided food and provisions to Camp Jaha, asking nothing in return.
Clarke hated her.
Lexa abruptly yanked the reins, her horse dancing to a stop with a whinny. The rest of the convoy quickly followed suit.
"We will make camp here for the night."
The group rapidly broke apart, moving to a small clearing to the side of the road and setting up camp with the swiftness and ease of a people long used to such labor. Lexa dismounted, pulling off her heavier armor and collecting her bow and arrows and leaving the rest for her attendant to handle. A few fleeting hand gestures dismissed her guards, and Lexa slipped into the forest alone.
It had been a few miles since she had last spied their stalker, but Lexa was sure she was there. Her head swiveled slowly, taking in the sounds of the forest, searching for any noises that didn't belong.
Nothing.
Lexa frowned, and turned her attention to the forest floor, picking out the fresher animal tracks.
There was no need to hunt for Clarke, so she would hunt for dinner instead.
...
She was waiting patiently at the edge of a small clearing when the snap of twigs sounded behind her. She cocked her her head when the new arrival hesitated at her back before dropping silently next to her.
Lexa tilted her head to glance at her side, taking in the huddled form. Clarke crouched, hands wrapped around her shins and chin on her knees, staring resolutely forward, brow furrowed. Lexa bit back a smile, and returned her gaze to the front as well.
They sat in quiet as the sun slowly sank. Lexa could feel Clarke's ire as it ebbed and flowed, and let it wash against her. Sometimes she could sense Clarke's eyes at the healing scar at her throat, and it took all her willpower to not turn and reassure her she was fine.
Frankly Lexa wasn't sure if Clarke would be relieved or put off at that.
Dusk was beginning it's descent when Lexa's prey finally appeared - a large boar snuffling and grunting into the clearing. She could feel Clarke tense as she raised her bow, and Clarke's violent flinch as she released and the arrow struck fast and true into the boar's neck. Another rapid shot and the boar staggered and fell, wheezing and weakly churning it's legs. She was surprised when Clarke followed her to the animal, and swallowed the lump in her throat when Clarke squeezed her eyes shut and turned away when Lexa drew her knife through the boar's neck.
As Lexa set about prepping the carcass for transport Clarke wandered around the area, aimlessly peering into the trees, the grass, anywhere that wasn't Lexa. Lexa glanced up periodically from her work, frowning at the other woman's bedraggled state. It had been less than a week since Tondc, and already Clarke was showing signs of malnourishment, clothes starting to hang loosely over her frame. The dark shadows under her eyes evidenced her exhaustion, but it was the dull glaze there that pointed to her true hurt.
At this point it would be a race to see which would give out first - her body or her soul.
With a final tug Lexa finished trussing up the boar, rising slowly. She stepped towards Clarke slowly, purposefully, making sure to weight her footfalls as to not startle.
"Clarke." She stopped a few paces away, but Clarke only shifted minutely in response, angling only slightly towards her, eyes still on the ground. That spelled out enough for Lexa. This was the limit for Clarke. She stooped, lowering the item in her hand gently to the floor, and turned back to boar. She hauled her kill over her shoulder with a grunt, and from the corner of her eye she could see Clarke snatch the trussed boar leg before retreating back to the woods. She watched until she could no longer see the glimmer of gold winking between the trees before heading back to her camp.
Lexa was just grateful that Clarke had not refused that small gesture of aid out of pure spite.
She caught glimpses of her throughout Polis. And although her heart ached at the way it happened (she hoped, wished so ardently that the circumstances that brought Clarke here were different, were happy) having Clarke in her city, her home, set off an uncontrollable thrum of excitement coursing through her veins.
Lexa didn't know what life was really like in the sky beyond her brief conversations with Clarke. She knew enough though, that the sheer expanse of Polis would be a marvel; the open air as buildings stretched upwards and outwards unfettered, the bustling crowds filled with mundane, everyday life. War was a distant threat here. Out of the Mountain's spidery grasp, nestled as close to the center of the coalition of twelve as possible.
If she could not provide peace for Clarke's troubled soul, perhaps Polis could.
...
It was only a couple of days after they settled back into the capitol when Lexa found Clarke waiting for her in her home. She was stood rigid at the balcony window, gazing over Polis with a distant glaze in her eyes.
"Clarke."
Lexa stepped cautiously into the room. Her guards would have checked any guests for weapons, but she was still unsure of this new Clarke. She knew how tragedy could twist a person. How despair could cloud judgement. And the hard set of Clarke's shoulders, the barely constrained tremble in her limbs...Lexa could practically smell it in the air. Anger. Rage.
And when Clarke turned to face her she felt it sear against her skin.
"Clar-"
"Shut up!"
Lexa obeyed, if only out of complete bafflement. Clarke stalked towards her, and Lexa could only watch with wide eyes, unasked questions dying at her lips.
"Do you think that this would work? That letting me stay here would make me forgive you?"
Lexa stiffened, jaw clenching at the affront. "I did not extend hospitality with ulterior motives in mind." She bored her gaze into Clarke. "You do not need to concern yourself with food or shelter here, there is plenty, and it is one less worry for you."
"I don't need your charity," Clarke hissed, eyes narrowed slits. Her hands fisted at her sides, knuckles white.
"It is not charity." The slightest sigh escaped, and Lexa searched for the correct words. "It is...gratitude." She held Clarke's gaze evenly. "However you may feel about it, you have rid us of a life-long foe." She could see Clarke's hackles rise, but she pushed forward regardless. "This is irrefutable, Clarke. The children here, they have a chance to grow in peace, without the shadow of the mountain looming over them."
That was a miscalculation. Lexa had thought seeing the effect of her actions, the good, could help. Instead Clarke spiraled, losing whatever tentative hold she had on her composure.
"It's not fair! Why should you have peace, when you didn't do anything?!"
The first punch was wild and clumsy, and it was sheer surprise that rooted Lexa immobile. Clarke's fist cracked sharp across her cheekbone, snapping her head back. She quickly steadied her footing, blinking at the flare of pain. The second swing she was prepared for, softening her body and turning with the strike, lessening the blow that glanced against her ribcage.
"Fight back, damn it!"
Another punch rocketed towards her face, and Lexa finally acted, snapping her arm up catch Clarke's wrist in an iron grip.
"Clarke." She grit out from behind clenched teeth. "Stop."
That only seemed to fuel Clarke's anger more, and Lexa had to quickly bring up her other arm as Clarke swung her free fist at Lexa's side. The ensuing struggle when Clarke realized both arms were trapped dragged them haphazardly around the room before Lexa finally managed to corral them against the wall, pushing Clarke's wrists firmly to the surface.
They leaned there, breathing ragged and harsh, glaring at each other. "I am sorry you are still troubled, Clarke, but you cannot come in here and attack me. There are limits to what I can allow."
By the look on Clarke's face, Lexa had a feeling she was lucky she hadn't spit at her.
"Allow?!"
Lexa tightened her grip at Clarke's renewed struggle, riding it out until the blonde slumped in defeat. It was a horrible sight, seeing Clarke so beaten. And it tore at her inside, raising bile to the back of her throat and tears behind her eyes, to know she played a part in the other woman's suffering. She gentled her grip, softened her voice.
"What is it you want, Clarke?"
She seemed at loss for words, sullen and silent. Lexa released her, stepping back, weary. Her heart constricted in her throat when Clarke finally raised her head, the gleam of cruelty in her eyes.
"Not you."
Lexa clenched her jaw, not expecting that blow. But what else should she have expected? Clarke had always been eerily attuned to Lexa's emotions despite Lexa's best efforts, and more than willing to use that to her advantage. She could feel the ghost of a table digging into the small of her back, the echo of Clarke's accusing voice in her ear. Anya, Costia, Gustus, Tondc.
The spark of anger, of guilt, was the same now as it was then. Her response too, was the same, despite herself. "Get. Out."
Perhaps Clarke was also reminded of that time, still felt just enough for Lexa to feel a smidgen of remorse, because she backed off, eyes cast down. But as she turned to leave Lexa felt her traitorous heart crack again.
"Polis is large. We need not cross each other's path if you do not wish it."
Lexa would put in the extra effort to avoid Clarke if that meant she would stay.
Clarke was in her room. Again.
Staring at her with that inscrutable dark glare. Again.
"If you are trying to avoid me, my room is a poor choice." Lexa barely bit back a sigh.
"If you didn't want me here, your guards wouldn't have let me in."
Lexa didn't have a response for that. Just as she had arranged for Clarke free room and board in Polis, she had instructed her staff that Clarke would be free to come and go unharassed from her abode. She had given Clarke her space, making sure to avoid of her known haunts. And even when she made her public appearances, as she did at tonight's festivities, she made sure to have Clarke's guards inform her so she could steer clear if she should so choose.
A month had passed in this fashion, Lexa comforting herself with the barest amount of information. As long as Clarke remained safe, it would have be enough.
So to have Clarke in front of her, after so long of her being just outside her orbit (tantalizingly close, yet impossibly out of her reach)...Lexa was not used to be being caught off guard, but it seemed Clarke was the perennial exception to that rule.
"Why are you here, Clarke?"
Much to her chagrin, Clarke ignored her. "It's quite the party out there." The blond head jerked to the open balcony, to the continuing revelry of the fete outside.
"...Party?" Lexa formed the foreign word tentatively on her tongue.
"It means celebration."
Lexa raised a brow. "Yes, I inferred." She may have had a glass too many of wine, because she took quite a bit of pleasure at the red flush that crawled up Clarke's neck.
"Right. Sorry. Didn't mean to insult your all-knowing-ness."
Lexa did sigh then, closing her eyes in exasperation. The day had been long, and the wine heavy in her veins. She was too weary to deal with this, with Clarke's vitriol, with the aching longing that constantly pulled at her heart and only worsened in Clarke's presence. She strode to her dresser, yanking off her light armor, letting it clatter carelessly to the floor. She was in the middle of taking off her shirt when Clarke's sputter finally registered.
"Wha-what are you doing?!"
The embarrassment and incredulity that colored her voice nearly made Lexa smile, but she schooled her expression to her default stoicism.
"I am tired." She tossed her shirt towards the hamper. Turned and inwardly smirked at the light blush on Clarke's face. Her pants were next, and it got very difficult indeed to hide her amusement when Clarke bodily jerked her head to the side to avoid looking at her.
Clarke clearly found no humor in this. "So what, you don't have any pajamas or something?"
Lexa paused on her way to her bed. "Pajamas...?" This time the word tripped clumsily over her tongue.
Clarke glanced at her, eyes wide and briefly scanning her form. "Um, sleepwear." She practically choked on the word when Lexa nonchalantly untied her breast bindings. Her eyes snapped back to the wall.
Lexa hummed in acknowledgement, gratefully noticing the lack of contempt in Clarke's voice this time around. "I wear...pajamas...while on the road. Here in Polis," she let her voice rise a bit in challenge, "...in my room, I wear what is most comfortable."
"And that's nothing?"
Lexa rolled her eyes at the return of heavy sarcasm in Clarke's voice, and chose not to grace her with a response, walking to her bed and pulling back the covers. She had one knee on the mattress when Clarke's unmistakable presence prickled goosebumps on her skin, and froze when soft fingertips brushed lightly at her shoulder blade.
Lexa was suddenly very, very awake, and very very sober.
"...Clarke."
The pressure on her back increased, and wordlessly Lexa obeyed, lowering slowly to the bed. She could feel Clarke follow, the soft press of a rounded hip settling beside her own.
She didn't dare look up.
When she had descended fully on her front, those fingers began to meander. The touch was slow, ever-changing, facilitating between light and hard, between the soft pads of fingertips to the harder scrape of fingernails. They trailed burns, hot and cold, over her shoulder blades, down her spine, and Lexa quickly realized Clarke was tracing her tattoos, and tripping over her scars.
They stayed like that, silent, perhaps even content, and Lexa could feel her muscles relax with every pass. She was on the verge of sleep when Clarke's touch disappeared. Lexa stirred as her weight lifted off the mattress, but stayed put, eyes still stubbornly closed. She would stay in this dream state as long as she could, sure this reprieve from Clarke's anger was a temporary thing.
So she almost startled out of her skin when Clarke returned, closer than before, the drag of the other woman's clothes rough against her thigh. And then...cold. Lexa let out a surprised hiss when a dallop of some cool substance dipped at the base of her neck, then drew a line over the top bump of her spine.
Paint. Clarke had mentioned it in passing, what seemed like ages ago. Before the burden of duty had left the taste of ash and betrayal sour her mouth.
"I used to draw on the walls of my...my room. What the ground might look like."
Lexa had told her of the rudimentary inks and paints her people had created, how away from combat, away from war, colors bloomed bright and vibrant and alive among her people.
It seemed Clarke had found them, here in Polis. She wondered what color Clarke had chosen to paint her back. The same black she used to mask her eyes? Or the green of the trees of her native clan? Or red. Like blood. Like betrayal.
Fingers slipped wetly to the small of her back, and Lexa was helpless to stop the shudder at the sensation.
Red like passion.
She was almost relieved when the touch rose back up, spiraling to draw down her sides, across her ribs. Safer, but only just. She could feel her face heat as warmth settled languidly under Clarke's hand, sinking through skin and flesh and bone to light upon her soul. Bare like this she knew there was no hiding anything, that all she was, was left open for Clarke's considering gaze, and embarrassed she pushed her cheeks hard into her pillow.
The brush of fingers was steady and hypnotizing, and before long Lexa struggled to stay awake. The fog in her mind from the wine and Clarke's silent presence - no longer sharp and accusing, but calm and soft - slowly dulled her senses, and it was to those wandering, whispering fingerstrokes that Lexa drifted to sleep.
She awoke as the morning sun broke the horizon, streaming through the open balcony window to shine directly across her eyes. The first thing she noticed was that Clarke was gone. The second was the warmth of a blanket pulled neatly over her shoulders.
The third was the arcing lines of indigo paint sweeping across her back, following the curves of her tattoos before breaking off in abstract swirls.
Lexa did not wash them off until late that night.
"Hello, Clarke."
Lexa was no longer surprised to find Clarke in her room, puttering about as if she owned the place. Since that night when Clarke had decided to use Lexa's back as an impromptu canvas (and Lexa still shivered at the memory) she had made a habit of dropping in. Whatever Clarke was doing out in Polis in the light of day had finally blunted the edge of her anger, and they spent many nights together in the most mundane ways.
Clarke taught her the game of chess, while Lexa offered lessons in Trigadasleng.
Clarke brought little tasty treats from the day market; Lexa brought books, musty and yellow with age.
Clarke talked about life on the Ark, of her father. Lexa spoke of the various grounder cultures, of Anya, of what little she could remember of her birth family.
They didn't speak of Finn. Or Costia.
It was comfortable. And with every new smile Lexa coaxed out her heart fluttered with satisfaction.
It was healing.
Lexa offered a small smile of her own when Clarke looked up at her greeting.
"Hey." Clarke didn't quite smile back, but there was a softness in her gaze as she held up the trinket she had been handling. "What's this for?"
"It is a decorative sword scabbard mount." Lexa shuffled to Clarke's side as she continued to inspect the gilded ornament. She reached out to tap at the shining gems inset into the metal. "Fire stones. Gifted from the Rock Clan. Utterly useless on the battlefield."
Clarke shook her head, smiling (Lexa preened a little at eliciting that) and setting the piece down. "Well at least it's pretty."
The setting sun chose that moment to throw one last ray of light, bouncing it off the gemstones and casting a shower of iridescent colors over Clarke's skin. Lexa swallowed hard.
"Yes."
Blue eyes flit up to meet hers, and Lexa could see it dawned on both of them how close they were. She cleared her throat, taking a deliberate step back.
She didn't get very far.
Lexa's eyes darted down, retreat halted by the iron grip that appeared at her coat's lapels. Clarke shifted, and Lexa sucked in a hard breath when she was tugged closer.
"Clarke…" It stammered out, weak and needy and not at all commander-like, and Lexa would have cursed herself if she hadn't frozen or Clarke wasn't coming closer, fitting their hips together and tilting her head to stare boldly into her eyes.
She tried again, swallowing hard against her suddenly dry mouth. "Clarke."
"Lexa."
There was a tease in that raspy voice, and Lexa's eyes fluttered as it shot straight through her, warming her instantly.
"Ai laik odon hod up."
The words, clumsy but earnest, trickled to her ear and pulled a shaky gasp from her. She'd hardly believe it, but then Clarke was leaning in, slanting her lips over hers in a hard kiss that stole every last bit of doubt and restraint. With a groan Lexa responded, one hand raising to sink into gold hair, the other sliding around to grasp possessively upon a curvy hip.
It wasn't absolution, but it was like forgiveness.
It definitely was desire, heat and want and the thrum of urgency that lit fires beneath her skin.
"Klark."
A push, and they were stumbling backwards.
A rustle and a moan, and Lexa's jacket hit the floor.
"Klark."
Lexa sat heavily when the back of her knees hit the bed.
Another consuming kiss as Clarke straddled her, thighs clamping tight around her waist.
"Ai gaf yu in."
...
Lexa woke to Clarke sliding out of bed. She watched silently, gaze roving over her smooth, pale back, committing every shift of muscle and skin to memory. Clarke twisted and their eyes met. There was no regret, no hurt in blue eyes. Just easy acceptance. The tiniest of smiles crossed her lips, and she leaned over Lexa to bestow a soft, lingering kiss, before rising and gathering her strewn clothing from the floor. A few minute later and she was dressed and out the door with one last, long look.
There was an old saying, from before the bombs fell. If you love something, let it go. If it returns, it is yours forever. If not, it was never meant to be.
Lexa wondered which one Clarke was.
Clarke left.
One of her guards came to the throne room, bearing a hastily written note.
She had gone back to Camp Jaha.
Lexa nodded and dismissed him, brow smooth and unperturbed.
Clarke's kiss ghosted across her skin. Clarke's paint burned like invisible brands across her back.
Clarke came to Polis for a reason. She would only leave if that reason was fulfilled. Whatever role Lexa had played in that she would accept, no matter what ruin it brought her.
It was the least she could do. It was the least she deserved.
She threw the crumpled note into the fire. She was still Heda. She had work to do.
...
The doors flew open violently, banging against the walls and ricocheting back. But Lexa was already inside, fuming as they slammed shut behind her. Her hand came up to pinch at the bridge of her nose, growling and gnashing her teeth at the unmitigated gall of the Azgeda Kwin.
Here, in Polis of all places, she would be so disrespectful. Her fist shot out, knocking aside a vase and sending it shattering to the floor.
"Feel better?"
Lexa whirled at the sound, hand already grasping at her knife even as her mind registered the voice.
"Clarke…!"
Clarke grinned, wide and open and sunny from where she lounged on Lexa's bed, legs crossed with a book splayed across her lap. Lexa wrested her heartbeat to as close to normal as she could manage, wide eyes drinking in the sight. Unbidden her hand dropped from her weapon, legs gracelessly stumbling forward. She managed to rein herself in just as she reached the edge of the mattress.
"...It's been two months."
That blond head dipped in acknowledgement, smile turning a bit shy. Lexa almost wanted to cry at the joy that bubbled in her chest.
"But I'm here now." Blue eyes shined at her, and Lexa gave in, clambering onto the bed. Clarke swiftly parted her legs, allowing her to slide inbetween, book tossed carelessly to the side, forgotten. Warm hands cupped her chin and Lexa leaned in, forehead resting gently against Clarke's.
"You are here. With me?"
"Yeah. Who else is gonna protect all the innocent vases from your terrible temper?"
And for the first time in years, Lexa laughed.
fin.
AN: Terrible Trigadasleng translation corner!
Ai laik odon hod up: I am done waiting (if this is off it's ok, Clarke's still learning, give the girl a break.)
Ai gaf yu in: I want you.