4.17.16
Why can't I write about healthy relationships? Idk why I'm like this...
Anyway, like everyone else lately, I've had all these feelings about Clarke and Lexa, so, naturally, I decided to write about it. It was just a few drabbles at first, some slice of life stuff, but it's starting to turn into a cohesive, coherent thing so I'm posting them here in regular installments.
Oh, and also, I got a tumblr account (finally) so I can interact with my readers a little more. I may be a luddite and a total tumblr n00b, but I'll do my best to respond to any questions, requests, or comments. Find me at aeschylusrex
Thanks!
-Rex
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
-Robert Frost
1.
Clarke Griffin makes Lexa come on a rainy Sunday afternoon in the middle of February, and it ruins everything. There's no time to gather her defenses. There's no time to prepare. It's a storm with no warning. Lexa scarcely realizes how close she is to the edge until she's dangling off it, fingers slipping, scrabbling for holds, closing on air as she falls, tumbling into the enveloping white light below.
It's a lot to take in all at once, frankly.
Panic knocks her head over feet like a tidal wave, shaking her bones, and all Lexa knows is that she has to run. She has to get away. She stumbles out of bed, naked and heaving, tripping over the twisted white sheet between her legs. The polished hardwood leaves floor burns on her knees, drawing sharp curses from her swollen lips between heaving breaths, reminding her of all the years on the basketball team when her aggressive, defensive style of play landed her face down on the court. She recovers gracelessly, legs wobbling like a newborn calf, and Clarke sits up silently in bed, watching with narrowed eyes as she embarks on a treasure hunt through the room, gathering up articles of clothing like they're Hansel and Gretel's trail of breadcrumbs leading right out the bedroom door.
The living room feels ten degrees colder, especially as the sweat cools on her skin. Lexa's shirt sticks in uncomfortable places, and she doesn't get her bra fastened quite right. The prongs dig into her back as she shimmies into her skinny jeans and combat boots. She makes an executive decision to leave her elusive pair of socks behind, shucked and forgotten somewhere in Clarke's room. It would take far too long to find them, far too long fumbling about under Clarke's accusatory gaze. She has more at home, anyway, and it's time to go.
She'll have to take an Uber or the bus, since the weather's too awful to walk to the train. Lexa wriggles her toes and heels into her clammy boots doesn't bother knotting her laces. She stuffs them under the flaps, plotting a route to the nearest bus stop in her head. An aftershock rips through her and she has to grip the back of the couch for a full five seconds before she can move on, stumbling slightly, still off-kilter as she moves on.
"Fuck." Lexa pats herself down as she goes to leave and finds her wallet missing. Or wait, wasn't it in her coat? Where is her coat?
"It's on the radiator." Clarke's raspy voice shatters her quiet panic, and Lexa jumps, hand flying over her heart.
"Clarke."
"Your jacket. It's on the radiator." Clarke pulls the loose sheet tighter across her chest, until two stiff nipples can be seen poking through. "That's what you're looking for, isn't it?"
"Yes. Right." Lexa tears her lingering eyes away. "Thanks."
She turns robotically and strides over to the large window on the opposite side of the room, seeking out the abandoned article. It's still damp, not yet dry from their disastrous picnic in the rose garden, and her lips droop into a frustrated pout. She'll have to walk home in the deluge with wet, sticky clothes. As if on cue, the wind drives a sharp volley of raindrops into the windowpane next to her face.
"Did I do something wrong?" Clarke crosses her arms defensively over her chest and her voice sounds like smoke and burnt molasses, a sweet bite with a bitter finish. "...Are you at least going to tell me why you're leaving?"
Lexa doesn't turn. She reaches up to feel the pulse in her neck, a habit formed in school, when the attacks were worse. She's been on top of it since college, since coming out, but the inclination remains. She slides her fingertips along her jugular until she finds the beat and counts.
"Hello. Earth to Lexa."
"I'm thinking," Lexa snaps, or tries to snap. She doesn't really have the energy to snap. Her words are thick like the mixture of mucus and bile creeping up the back of her throat.
She tries to swallow it down, but it hurts.
"Wow." Clarke's answering chuckle is harsh. "You have to think about why you're hitting-and-quitting me?"
Lexa hangs her head.
"Well, then, I don't think I want to hear this." Clarke turns away and shuffles into the bathroom, calling out over her shoulder. "The front lock is broken! Make sure the door clicks when you leave!"
The bathroom door closes softly behind her, and through the wall, Lexa hears the old shower sputter to life.
She decides to take an Uber home.
. . .
It's almost dark as she leaves Clarke's building. The air is cold and damp, and she hugs herself tighter to ward off the chill, but she can breathe out here. Already, her heartbeat is slowing. Her head is clearing up.
Around the corner, near the new tea bar, Lexa spies a lanky blonde kid in ripped clothes sitting under the awning of a dirty tent. His Chucks are soaked and his eyes are glazed. He drags from a stubby cigarette and scratches at the stubble on his hollowed face. He has to be a new one because she hasn't seen him around before. She remembers them all.
Her boots scuff against the sidewalk, heralding her approach, but he just casts his gaze down.
"Spare some change?"
Lexa purses her lips. "Why? So you can shoot it?"
His eyes flick up and pin her, and Lexa stuffs her hands into her pockets, waiting for him to make the next move. He doesn't hesitate.
"Fuck you, lady."
"Yeah, no thanks."
"Come over here to judge me?"
Lexa shrugs and peers up into the sky, blinking away the raindrops. "No."
He shifts and tosses his cigarette butt into the gutter. A young couple passes them on the sidewalk with a covered stroller and sympathetic glances. Does she look so terrible? Do they think she's one, too? So much has changed. So much hasn't changed at all.
The kid in the tent waits until they're halfway down the block, then fixes Lexa with a scowl. "You tryna sell me Jesus?"
"No."
"Well, what the fuck d'you want, lady?"
"Lexa."
He scrunches his nose. "What?"
"My name's Lexa."
"I don't really fuckin' care. You're blockin' my view."
Lexa bows her head, scraping the sidewalk with the toe of her boot. "Where's home?"
He spreads his arms, and a bit of greasy hair flops over his forehead. "You're lookin' at it."
"Some home."
"Yeah, well, fuck you. Get outta my face."
She hums and nods. "Who kicked you out?"
The boy pauses, sucks a chapped lip between his teeth, and glowers. A sharp wind buffets them both, rocking the side of the tent. Lexa grimaces. Night is falling and it's only getting colder.
"My aunt," he says, finally, grudgingly.
He reaches back into his tent and emerges with a red pack of Pall Mall cigarettes. The sides are bent and the front is crushed, but the plastic is still there, shining dully in the orange streetlight. He stuffs a white cylinder in his mouth and fumbles around through piles of dingy blankets and clothing for a lighter. The one he finds is reluctant to light. He has to flick it several times, even scrubbing it furiously against the front of his stained jacket to dry excess moisture. Lexa looks around at the driving rain with despair and decides that it's mostly futile. She fishes a pack of dry matches from her bag and offers it to him.
"I'm sorry. That sucks."
He accepts the matches warily, watching her all the way, waiting for the catch, the flash of a Bible emerging from her pocket, the glint of a knife tugged from her belt.
"Thanks."
"Sure."
"It's Aden."
"Nice to meet you."
He nods and offers her the pack of Pall Malls, which she accepts without question. It's been some years since she really kept up the habit, but he's looking at her now like a kicked dog, and if she can gain his trust this way, she will.
She takes a match and lights it. The cigarette catches immediately and she breathes in, resisting the urge to choke. It's like riding a bike. She'll keep telling herself that. Her healed lungs still feel virginal, but they smoke in silence together for a full minute. Lexa studies an old bar across the street with a neon red and white Trailblazers sign hanging in the window. The thick, wooden door swings open and lets a couple of skinny hipsters in flannel and glasses out into the rain. They round the corner, out of sight. Lexa flicks the ash off her cigarette.
"So, why'd she kick you out?"
"My aunt?" Aden shrugs. "'Cause she's a bitch."
"Clearly."
"Her new boyfriend didn't like me."
Lexa snorts. "Oh, well, that seems like a perfectly valid reason."
Aden picks up on her sarcasm, but he scowls anyway, scoffing around his cigarette as he takes another ambitious drag. "Yeah, fuck her."
"Quite."
He holds out his pinkie and smirks at her, cigarette aloft, and Lexa rolls her eyes. Clarke has a fatal weakness for Downton Abbey and it's already rubbing off on her.
"So, what're you doing out here talkin' to a winner like me? The weather's fuckin' shit."
"Yeah." Lexa watches an ancient Cadillac roll past with a squeaky axel and mismatched wheels. "I'm a winner today, too."
"What'd you fuck up?"
"A girl."
"You a lesbo?"
Lexa snorts, eyes trained on the street. "Fuck off."
Aden laughs and coughs into his fist. There are dark crescents of dirt under his fingernails, and he has swollen knuckles on his right hand. Lexa guesses, without asking, what it's like to try and defend his turf in the city. He bounces his heels on the pavement, eyes fixed somewhere low and away.
"What'd you do?"
Lexa clears her throat and starts to speak, but the words catch. She clears her throat again.
"I ran away."
Aden cocks his head to one side and looks up at her, cigarette dangling loosely between two fingers. "Why?"
"I'm...not sure."
"She like you?"
"Yeah. Maybe not anymore, though."
Aden shakes his head. "Idiot."
"She's really smart, actually."
"Not her. You."
"Me?"
"Yeah. Girls don't work like that."
Lexa crosses her arms. "I'm not taking girl advice from a homeless 17 year old."
"Hey, fuck you!" Aden squawks. "This tent sees plenty of action!"
"Sure."
"Look, she's prolly just upset, but she still likes you, even if she tries to play like she doesn't." Aden leans back on one hand. "She does. She prolly just hates herself a little bit for likin' a fuckin' jerk like you."
Lexa quirks a brow. "You know this from personal tent experience?"
"Piss off." His grin is lopsided. "Only God can judge me."
"God, huh?"
"Yeah." Aden snickers and stamps out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe. "I don't need your waspy suburban bitch ass throwin' shade at me."
A flash of red catches Lexa's eye on the street, the Uber car she ordered just a block down, waiting at the light. She sighs, flicks the cigarette away, and reaches into her pocket. Aden watches curiously as she pulls out her wallet and flips it open, peeling out a fresh five dollar bill.
"Right, well, good talk." She smirks. "I have to go. Promise you won't spend this on meth?"
Aden rolls his eyes. "Whatever you wanna hear."
Lexa hands over the money. "My parents died when I was eleven and I ended up in the system. My aunt wouldn't take me in because I was 'a little faggot'."
Aden's fingers clasp the bill, but he freezes, staring at her. His mouth opens and closes. Behind her, the light turns green. Lexa releases the money into his care and stows her wallet away.
"Don't do drugs." Lexa casts a grim smile over her shoulder. "There are things worse than death."
He blinks, gives a slight shake of his head, and tries to recover his teflon exterior. "Yeah, well… Maybe I don't care."
"Don't say shit you don't mean. See you around, Aden."
Lexa flags down the car and leaves Aden on the sidewalk in his dirty tent, pondering over the five dollar bill in his hands. The rain eases up as night falls and he packs his things.
He spends the money on a sandwich and a new lighter at the 711.
. . .
The drapes are too thin and they don't quite block out the sun. Lexa lies in bed, naked and sweating, listening to the birds in the garden. The traffic has died down again now that school is in session and rush hour is over, but it'll pick up again for lunch. A delivery truck roars by on a creaking frame, squealing as the driver brakes for a turn. It makes her ears ache and her head pound, but she's too tired to do anything about it. She's already rubbed the moisture out of her bloodshot eyes.
The sunlight bends steadily across her bedroom wall, and she watches it and waits for a change.
She's still waiting when the sun glows orange and fades.
She's still waiting when the sun comes up again.
. . .
Lexa can't eat or sleep. She paces her apartment in nothing but socks and a ratty old t-shirt, throwing up bile every few hours. Nothing sits right. The whiskey comes right back up. The vodka hits her even worse. She skips work and talks to herself, running her fingers through her tangled brown hair while the tabby cat winds between her legs, mewling for attention.
She knows what it looks like from the outside. Her foster parents weren't shy about telling her, and neither were the shrinks, scribbling down her symptoms like they scribbled down her life, one bullet point at a time. But it's okay, her therapist assures her, smiling every week in his tiny, beige office, legs crossed in his brown leather chair. It's okay because everybody falls apart sometimes.
She just falls apart a little more.
On Wednesday afternoon, Clarke opens the door to her highrise apartment with a scowl, though her expression softens slightly when she takes in Lexa's general state.
"You look like shit," she says in her dry, heavenly voice.
Clarke's blonde hair is braided, draped like a golden vine around the side of her pale neck. It's frayed and frizzing a bit from the humidity, but Lexa thinks it looks like art. Her gut twists. She wants to take pictures and frame them and put them up all over her walls. She wants to light candles and memorize the way the soft glow changes Clarke's striking features. If the scene in her imagination reminds her too much of an actual altar, she's not thinking about that. She's just thinking about Clarke. Always Clarke.
Lexa slips in through the crack in the front door before the blonde can change her mind and strides over to the radiator straightaway. Her coat comes off first, followed by her boots, hat, gloves, and scarf. She's dripping onto the floor and chilled to the bone. Her teeth are chattering so hard that her jaw is sore from clenching them, trying to hide her weakness to the wet Portland winters. She knows, unfortunately, that her body won't warm up again until she holds down some food.
"Staying for a while?" Clarke's arms are folded. Her pretty eyes are grey.
Lexa throws all of her sodden items over the hot, iron grate, and turns, reluctantly, to face the girl who has haunted her thoughts for every minute of every hour since the previous Sunday afternoon.
"If that's alright?"
Clarke's eyes flicker, but Lexa can't read them. Clarke is hard to read when she's truly upset.
"I don't know," she grits out.
"...You don't know if it's alright?"
Clarke sighs and pads away toward the open kitchen, rumpled and beautiful in a simple flannel shirt and leggings, lumpy wool socks bunched up over her ankles. "You heard me."
Lexa balls her shivering hands into fists and stuffs them into the pockets of her oversized sweatshirt. Her heart is racing again, but, really, it's been racing since she left the first time, and her stomach is upset again, too, soured by hours and hours of mental agony. She hasn't slept in days. Her eyes are dry and aching in their sockets. Her limbs feel like rusting mechanical parts on the verge of falling off, gradually becoming more unhinged as their nuts and bolts loosen.
She's a wreck, and Clarke has ruined everything.
"I wanted to explain."
Clarke grabs a kettle from the cupboard and fills it with water. "So explain."
Lexa shifts her weight. "I was scared," she begins, uncertainly.
Clarke's hands pause over a box of black tea. Her throat bobs as she rips two packets out and places the kettle on the stove.
"Scared of what?"
Lexa swallows and looks up at the ceiling, searching for strength. "...I don't date."
"You don't date."
"No." Lexa bites her lips and shuffles on the spot. "Not really."
Clarke starts the burner with a click and rounds the counter, fingertips dragging along the tile. There's a darkness in her gaze that is horribly familiar. Her shoulders are squared the way they always are when she's bracing for a fight. She advances on Lexa like an angry mountain lion and Lexa takes an unsteadied step backward. Her hands find the ledge. Her back bounces against the frigid windowpane.
"Aren't we dating, Lexa? Isn't that what we're doing?" Clarke leans into her space, eyes narrowed. "Because what do you call this if it isn't dating?"
Tears prick the corners of Lexa's eyes and her chin quivers. She's surprised. With all the moisture spilled onto her pillows and her sleeves, she hadn't thought there was anything left to wring out. Clarke continues to surprise her.
"Just...hanging out."
"Liar."
"I'm not a liar, Clarke."
"Don't Clarke me. You're completely full of shit, Lexa. You know exactly what this is."
"I don't-"
"Goddamnit!" Clarke throws up her hands in exasperation. "If it looks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, it's dating!"
"But you just showed up out of nowhere!" Lexa counters, growing louder in her agitation. "I didn't plan for you! I wasn't ready!"
"You can't plan life!"
"Yes I can! I do it all the time!"
Clarke huffs and presses closer, pressing her advantage. Lexa's throat bobs. She's already backed up as far as she can. To say this moment is a visual metaphor for how her relationship with Clarke has gone so far would be an understatement.
"So- what? I show up in your life all deus ex machina and now you're freaking out because you didn't build a contingency plan for dating me into your organizational spreadsheet?"
"Yes!" Lexa cries. "Exactly! You just showed up out of nowhere and blew the doors off! You ruined everything! It's not okay, Clarke! I wasn't ready!" A hot tear tracks down Lexa's cheeks and she swipes at it angrily. "It's not…" She takes a shuddering breath. "...I'm not prepared."
Clarke's eyes flick to Lexa's lips. "Blew the doors off," she murmurs, gaze wandering.
"Yeah."
"What do you mean?"
"It's just- I've never-" Lexa shivers and tucks her hair behind her ear, eyes slipping shut. She knows what she's going to say, and already she wants the words back, but it doesn't matter, Clarke is a magnet and Lexa's heart is made of iron. "...I've never come before. Like that. With anyone, or at all, actually. I don't really let people...do that...to me."
"Wait, that's what this is about? You've never…?" Clarke trails off, gaze wide.
Lexa turns her head. "Never."
"But we're 27."
Lexa grits her teeth and fights the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes. "Time flies."
"But not even once? Not even a little one?"
"Clarke-"
"-Sorry, sorry."
The blonde backs away a bit, frowning to herself in thought. "Didn't it feel good? Orgasms are supposed to feel good, right?" Clarke looks up and freezes when she finds a sudden torrent of tears on Lexa's face, pouring from both eyes. "Oh, babe."
Lexa wipes them roughly on her sleeve, and now Clarke can see the slight irritation on her cheeks where the same fabric has chafed many times before.
"Babe, look at me."
Lexa shakes her head emphatically, because there is no way. There is absolutely no way she's going to let Clarke look at her when she's falling apart like this. Her eyes are windows. That's what Anya always said, and it's true. It's so, so true, now more than ever. Her eyes are windows and her soul is pouring out like a flood. Clarke can't look at her like this. Clarke can't see the truth, because if she does it'll drown them both, and Lexa absolutely couldn't live with that.
If her obsession ruins them she won't survive it.
"Babe."
"Don't look at me!"
"Lexa."
"Clarke, stop! Don't look at me!"
Lexa grabs her biceps and tries to push away, but Clarke surges forward, trapping her lips in a bruising, molten kiss. It's like the strings holding her up have been cut. Lexa collapses against her, groaning somewhere deep in her chest. Clarke's mouth feels like silk and fire. She tastes like astringent black tea and honey. It's a fitting flavor for her, Lexa decides, because everything about Clarke, from beginning to end, has been a little bittersweet. Clarke's tongue teases Lexa's lips, tracing and flicking, entertaining ideas that make Lexa's knees weak.
Clarke pulls away and Lexa shudders.
"How did you even get here in the snow?" She presses their foreheads together and fusses with Lexa's hair.
"I walked."
"You're kidding."
"I never kid."
Clarke snorts, but her smile grows and grows until she's brighter than the sun and Lexa has to drop her gaze.
The kettle on the stove begins to whistle, but Clarke ignores it, electing, instead, to tug off Lexa's dirty, black sweatshirt.
"When's the last time you changed your clothes?" She asks, clucking her tongue. Lexa's shirt and bra hit the floor next. "And when's the last time you showered?" Lexa doesn't answer, doesn't feel the need to answer, just hums under her breath when Clarke kisses her on the cheek. "I bet you haven't eaten either 'cause you're a massive drama queen."
Lexa smiles and leans forward to kiss Clarke properly, bare chest pressed flush against Clarke's soft flannel, biting down into wet, pliant flesh until they're both dazed and breathing hard. Needy fingers wind into Lexa's greasy hair and pull, and she can't help her reaction. Her hips roll and her mouth falls open, and Clarke is quick to fill the space with her tongue.
"What- do you- do to me?" Clarke murmurs between kisses. "God."
Lexa moans as Clarke's tongue skates along the roof of her mouth. "Fuck."
"You smell like ass, but-" Clarke grips Lexa's shoulders and shoves them back against the window, rattling the glass. "God, I just can't-" She dips down to Lexa's neck and licks a path up her jugular, from her collarbone to her ear. "Jesus, I just want you more."
"Fuck," Lexa says again. Her vocabulary has been severely reduced.
Clarke bites her earlobe and nuzzles into Lexa's dark, wavy hair, breathing deep. "Christ, I think I like it when you smell like this."
Nimble fingers tug at Lexa's belt buckle and she gasps as the seam of her pants presses up between her legs. Is she wet? Already? The stickiness is too distinct to miss, but really, when did that happen? So fast. Always with Clarke. Always so fast. Clarke watches her breathless, blissed out expression with rapt attention, a cheshire cat grin slinking across her hungry face, and it leaves Lexa absolutely winded. The belt clicks as it comes undone, as Lexa comes undone, as her pants, and her resolve, pool on the hardwood floor.
Clarke ducks down to suck a stiff nipple into her scalding mouth, rolling it deftly with her magic tongue, and Lexa's hands fly to Clarke's neck, pulling her closer even as her knees tremble. Her back arches and her lungs catch, and then she's crying out, in chorus with the kettle, still whistling from it's forgotten place on the kitchen stove. The window is so cold, and Clarke's mouth is so hot. Lexa is so dizzy. When Clarke switches sides, when Lexa's knees finally give out, Lexa isn't surprised at all. It's the new normal, one where she never lasts long. Clarke goes down with her like a captain with her ship, cradling Lexa's body in her arms, lowering her the rest of the way to the ground. Lexa's back sticks and catches against the cold hardwood and she gasps out, bending up instinctively into Clarke's warmth.
"I've got you," Clarke murmurs against her mouth, biting Lexa's lip, tugging possessively. Soft hands caress Lexa's face, slide into her hair. "I've got you, you dork." Clarke kisses her again. "I can't believe you walked all the way here." Clarke sucks a mark into Lexa's clavicle. "I can't believe you didn't just wait out the snow."
Lexa wraps her legs around Clarke's middle and rocks gently. "I wanted to get stuck here with you." Her head falls back against the floor as Clarke thrusts with her hips. "Fucking- God, fuck!"
Clarke smirks. "I plan to."
"Are you gonna take off that shirt?" Teeth close around Lexa's nipple, tugging roughly. "Jesus!"
"Are you gonna ask nicely?"
Lexa groans, eyes fluttering, gazing into the void. Clarke is stripping off her underwear. Clarke's fingers are spreading her open. Clarke's hands are covered with her. Lexa moans. She sounds so weak. It's so embarrassing. She just can't help herself.
"I'm dirty," she pleads.
"I know," Clarke purrs, licking up Lexa's ribs. "I like it."
"You're mad at me," she pleads again, breath hitching as Clarke presses down on her clit with two strong fingers.
"Furious," Clarke agrees.
She circles and slides and pinches and Lexa writhes, hands fisting uselessly in the back of Clarke's shirt. Her legs are shaking. Her heart is racing. Her nerve ends are burning like the hottest wild fire in the west, and each stroke from Clarke's deft fingers sends a jolt of lightning up her back and down her legs, straight to the pulsing mess in her core. God, she's such a mess. Clarke always makes such a mess of her. Clarke always. Always Clarke.
"God!" she screams. "Jesus god!"
"Eyes on me, babe." Clarke's grin is positively feral. She thrusts two fingers in deep, up to the second knuckle, and twists. "Who's fucking you right now?"
It's the straw that breaks the camel's back.
Lexa's eyes fly open.
"Clarke! Fuck, Clarke! Jesus fucking christ!"
Lexa's eyes are wide open, but she can't see. She hears a husky laugh below her ear and nearly screams out again.
"Leave him out of this, please."
Clarke begins to thrust in earnest, and Lexa's hips are thrusting with her, canting up to meet every stroke like she's gagging for it, like she's starving for it. Because maybe she is. Maybe she is starving for it. Lexa tugs Clarke's shirt so hard that a button pops, skittering across the floor, clicking against the wood as it settles. Her ears are full of cotton. Her head is full of static. Clarke's hands are made of heroin and fire, and Lexa's body is moving on its own, like a marionette on strings, like Clarke's the puppeteer, tugging, pulling, and directing. It's everything she was afraid of. It's everything she feared it was. Who is she anymore? Who is this person that screams and begs for Clarke? Who's in control? Because it's not Lexa. It hasn't been Lexa for weeks. She's on a crash course with ruin and she isn't in the driver's seat.
Her muscles all seize at once, and for the second time in four days, Lexa loses control.
She comes with a sob in Clarke's arms, wrecked, ravaged, shaking as the blonde collapses on top of her, whispering quiet assurances into her neck. Lexa clutches at Clarke's back with weak hands and lets herself cry. There's nothing else to do. Clarke smells so good and the weight of her body feels so right. She relents. She lets go. They ride out her aftershocks together.
This time, when she comes back down, she's too exhausted to leave.
. . .
Eventually, Clarke gets up to pull the kettle off the stove, when they're both tired enough that the buzz of sexual energy evaporates and the keening whistle fades back into their consciousness. By now, Lexa's body is sticky and cold, utterly fatigued, and she notices, without the heavy blanket of nerves on her senses, that Clarke isn't fairing much better. Her hair and makeup are on point, but there are circles under her eyes. She moves slowly and carefully through the apartment. Her sighs are a bit too labored.
The blonde dips two sachets of Twinnings black tea into two white mugs and carries them over to the coffee table, nudging a pair of coasters into position before setting them down. Lexa reaches for her dirty clothes, but Clarke pads over and swats them away. Her thick flannel shirt falls around Lexa's bare shoulders.
"I'm sticking those in the wash."
"You don't have to do that," Lexa murmurs, but Clarke just wrinkles her nose.
"I kinda do."
"Okay… Thanks."
Clarke helps her to her feet and points to the couch. "Sit," she says. "Drink your tea. I'll be right back."
Lexa does as she's told, because she's really too tired to think about much of anything else, naked and curled up in Clarke's shirt at the end of Clarke's couch. She drains half her tea before her eyes begin to droop. There's a dark place inside her and it's beckoning, tugging her down into the quiet abyss. She's falling before she realizes it. She wants so badly to go there. Sleep is a luxury that she never takes for granted. There were so many years without it. There were so many sleepless nights in strange beds. Lexa takes nothing for granted anymore, least of all the affection of the people close to her.
Nothing is guaranteed.
Soft hands pull the mug from her grasp. Fingers stroke the hair from her face.
"Not yet," Clarke murmurs. "It's four in the afternoon."
Lexa blinks awake. "Oh, sorry."
"Soon," Clarke promises, kissing Lexa gently on the mouth, "but there are things we need to take care of first."
"Oh!" Lexa's eyes widen. "You- I didn't even- shit! I'm sorry-"
Clarke rolls her eyes and kisses away Lexa's panic. "Shhh. That's not what I mean. You need a shower. And food. In that order."
Lexa isn't sure she can stand on her own, let alone shower, but Clarke leads her into the bathroom and pulls off the rest of their clothes, confident with the lead, comfortable with control. She tests the water temperature and sets out cleans towels, and Lexa admires in Clarke the domestic instincts that she, herself, has always lacked. Clarke is someone to be counted on, and Lexa can't be counted on to even remember the days of the week.
"Come on," Clarke says, guiding her by the elbow.
Lexa slips as she gets in, knees wobbling precariously, but Clarke's arms tighten around her waist. Clarke tugs Lexa's body back against her chest, and holds them like that for an indeterminable amount of time, lets the water soak them both, lets it rinse away the grime, the chill, the acrimony, the sheer exhaustion of the past few days. It's nice.
Eventually, Clarke sets about washing both their hair, massaging a gratuitous helping of fancy, organic shampoo into Lexa's scalp. Lexa wants to close her eyes and drift away, let Clarke work out the tension and the grief and the little knots of anxiety that have gone to seed in her muscles. Clarke's fingers slip up behind her ears, brushing tender skin, and Lexa sighs out her pleasure. She's so whipped. It's uncanny how she yields, how she wants to yield. How it reminds her of her early years in the Klickitat house, which she rarely thinks of anymore. The bathroom had been cramped, and the tub had been green porcelain, a color that still draws Lexa's eye, clinging to old lamps and dishware in Portland's consignment stores. That pale hue speaks of an era lost, of things that can be remembered, but not recovered, and for Lexa, it speaks of her mother, who washed her hair hundreds of times in that green tub, taking great care to comb out the knots in Lexa's dark curls. Now, it's Clarke, all these years later, touching her in that familiar way, and Lexa feels that maybe something of that lost era has been recovered, if only for a moment.
Lexa blinks back to the present as Clarke finishes lathering, pushing her further under the spray to rinse. It's still uncanny how Clarke brings these things out of her, these forgotten memories and their companion feelings.
"I have to tell you something," Lexa says.
The hot water feels so good against her sore muscles. It's a spell she's reluctant to break. But Clarke isn't careless like some of the others. Clarke listens with rapt attention to everything Lexa says, and really, it's the greatest comfort she's ever received, because she doesn't bother to talk much. Every word, every phrase, is so carefully chosen, and Clarke isn't careless.
"Tell me," Clarke replies, wet lips brushing against Lexa's wet shoulder.
Lexa leans into her touch. "I was on meds for a long time. Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors and beta-blockers and benzodiazepines." Her eyes slip closed. She's so tired. "They suppressed my sex drive, and my ability to...finish."
Clarke is silent for a long moment. "When did you go off them?"
"Six months ago."
"Why?"
"I was stable, finally." Lexa smiles ruefully. "For a minute."
"Stable?"
She hears the edge of concern in Clarke's voice, and her tone grows wistful. "For a minute."
. . .
Clarke's hands swim through the sheets and find Lexa. The room is pitch black and the world is quiet, muffled by a layer of new snow. Clarke's arms circle her waist and tug until their skin is flush. Lexa's never felt so warm.
"I don't really know what that all means," Clarke confesses.
Her lips brush nape of Lexa's neck and leave goosebumps there, indelible even as they fade, tiny needles soaking into her spine. Clarke smells of apricot, honey, and mint. Nothing will ever be the same.
"It means I'm crazy sometimes."
"That's a harsh word, isn't it? I don't like the way it sounds on you."
Lexa hums and Clarke's arms tighten. "Being crazy is a harsh thing."
Clarke's breath catches, and Lexa reaches back to soothe with her fingers, whatever she can find and hold. Whatever she can keep.
"It's okay, Clarke. I'm not made of glass."
"I think you are, though. Sometimes." Clarke pulls on her waist until she rolls, their legs breaking apart and re-tangling, bringing them face to face in the dark. "Are you here now?"
"Yeah." Lexa kisses her.
Clarke nudges their noses together. "What do I do when you're not?"
Lexa breathes in and kisses Clarke again, lets their lips linger together when she speaks. "Please just love me me anyway."
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