Clarke is avoiding Lexa. Not really, she tells herself, it's just that this is her last semester of her senior year, and she has to stay sharp and ace her classes and decide if she's going to take a gap year or accept one of the acceptance offers on her desk for medical school. So it's not avoidance, it's just that she doesn't have time to nap on the dining room table early in the morning until Lexa comes in from her run and pours them coffee and sneak sips of Clarke's because she refuses to admit she enjoys sugar and she doesn't have time to skulk around the kitchen while Lexa makes dinner to try and steal bites from under her watchful, amused eye.
"I am," she tells Raven while they stagger up the front steps, "extremely..." she loses track of the plot for a moment.
"Drunk," Raven fills in.
"No. Busy!" Clarke flails slightly. "I am extremely busy. And that's why."
Octavia wrenches the door open and grabs Clarke's free arm, hefting it over her shoulder. "That's why what?"
Clarke goes quiet, stumbling down the hall to her room. The light under Lexa's door is on, even though it's nearly three in the morning.
/
She wakes up still drunk, with a headache and a fuzzy tongue, and a post-it stuck to her forehead telling her to drink water and eat something. She checks her watch and groans-it's halfway through the class she's supposed to be sitting in right now, taking notes and absorbing information. Nothing to be done about it, she figures, and drags herself into the shower.
She falls asleep standing up under the spray, and jolts awake at some interminable point later, when the water gets cold. She pads back to her room in a towel, dripping, and Anya is sitting on her bed. She squeaks, flailing, and just barely manages to keep her towel around her. "Um."
Anya drops a notebook on the mattress. "Notes." She stands, shouldering past Clarke, and it takes Clarke another minute to walk over and flip the book open. It is notes, from the class she missed, in black ink, including diagrams and corresponding page numbers from the textbook, all in perfectly readable print, oddly similar to Lexa's.
Clarke storms Anya's room. "Why," she demands, a hand around her chest to keep the towel steady.
Anya glares. "What do you care?"
"Seriously? You hate me. I want to know why you would go out of your way, all the way to a class you're not even in and take the best notes I've ever seen in my life."
Anya advances on her, snarling. She backs Clarke up past the doorframe. "You know why," she hisses, and slams the door in her face.
/
Clarke is on her way back to her car when she sees Lexa standing under an awning around a building, an isolated corner, arguing with someone. She honestly means to go over and rip Lexa a new one for sending Anya off on Clarke's personal errands, and maybe hash out whatever the oddness between them has become, but she gets close and slows, because Lexa looks genuinely upset, pacing and releasing torrents of furious trigedasleng, gesticulating, and the man she's with is frowning, appeasing. Lexa shouts, a hand flying up, and then sees Clarke.
"Are you following me?" Clarke goes from apologetic to indignant in half a second flat.
"Delusions of grandeur much?" she snarls, and when she moves to get in Lexa's face the man shoves her back, hard enough she stumbles into the wall.
"Em pleni," Lexa snaps. "Lincoln, we will speak at another time. Leave us."
The man-Lincoln-backs off, nodding, and takes off across the lawn at a loose jog.
"Explain," Lexa demands.
Clarke glares. "I don't have to explain myself to you. I especially don't have to explain why I'm walking across the campus of the school I attend." She walks past Lexa, knocking their shoulders against each other, and stomps all the way to her car.
She's turning the engine over when Lexa opens the passenger door and slides in. "Clarke."
"I don't want to talk to you right now. Get the hell out of my car."
"I'm sorry."
"Great. Get out of my car."
Lexa sighs. "Clarke, please. There is a-" Lexa fumbles, stumbling over her words, "a situation. It requires my complete attention, I-"
"Lexa, just stop, okay? I'm tired. And we don't owe each other anything, because we were never anything. Right?"
Lexa is silent. "Right," she says, flat. She slams the door as she leaves.
Lexa leaves the house before Clarke wakes up, comes home after Clarke's gone to sleep. On Tuesday Lexa doesn't give Octavia any money. She stops coming to dinner.
/
Clarke is drunk at a frathouse, and Octavia is refusing to let her into the car. She paws at the backseat door, growling when the handle clicks away futilely under her palm. "Stop it." She glares through the window.
"Lose the dead weight," Octavia hollers through the glass.
"Sorry, Nora," Clarke tells her date.
"It's Niylah," Nora says.
"Sure." Clarke thumps her fist on the car door. "Stop being a bitch, O!"
"I don't like Party Girl Griffin anymore! I want Clarke back."
"I'll kill you! Let me in the fucking car!"
"It's okay," Nicole says. "You should just go with your friend. Nice to meet you, though."
"No," Clarke protests. She leans in, turning to pin Nadine against the car and kissing her, messy and dirty. "I wanna take you home with me." She licks her way down the other girl's neck and rolls her hips, smiling when she feels the moan rumble against her hair. Octavia shrieks a protest and Clarke flips her off. Octavia doesn't want to take her home? Clarke will have sloppy drunk sex against her car.
Octavia shoves the door open, throwing Clarke forward. "You disgust me," she says, and there's genuine anger that Sober Clarke is going to have to deal with in the morning. But that's a problem for Future Clarke, so she crawls in the backseat and pulls Natalie on top of her, giggling and softly moaning and whiskey sour in the twist of her tongue.
/
She wakes up naked in her bed, a familiar pounding in her temples. She sits up, looking around-Naya-Nala?-the other girl. Is nowhere to be found. She fumbles under the bed for a bottle of water, wincing at the flat stale taste. There's a crash in the kitchen, followed by a roar, and Clarke trips over her own feet, dragging on the first shirt her fingers find that falls low enough to cover her junk and stumbling to get her head through the right hole.
She flies into the kitchen, careening off the wall, and Raven knocks into her back. "What's going on," she mumbles, and Clarke squeaks. Lexa has-Nancy? Fuck, Clarke is a terrible person-Lexa has Clarke's one night stand up against the wall, her fingers twisted in the girl's see through blouse.
"Chit laik yu dula hir?!"
"Lexa!" Lexa whips around, teeth bared, and Clarke fumbles for words. "What the fuck?" It's not the most eloquent attempt at conflict de-escalation Clarke's ever put forth, and not only does Lexa not release Nina, her forearm begins to inch towards Naomi's neck with deadly intent. "Na-Nadia is on her way out."
"It's Niylah," the girl says, mild annoyance in her voice, and Lexa snarls. Then she looks at the bruises on Niylah's neck, the scratchmarks from Clarke's fingernails on her shoulders. She turns, shocked, and Clarke's in a shirt that barely falls below her ass, obviously naked underneath, with her fuck me makeup still on, a cloud of hard liquor and old cigarettes hanging about her. Lexa steps back, her eyes cast aside, her fists clenched. Niylah falls to her knees, tipping her head back in submission.
"Heda. I didn't know."
"Gyon op." Lexa is breathing through her nose, hard, but her face is blank. "I apologize. I misunderstood the situation."
Clarke gapes at them both. "You're Trikru?"
"Really Clarke," Raven mutters, "with the surprise? You don't even know her name."
"I know it now."
"I will," Lexa says, stiff, "leave you in peace. Bosh moba, Niylah."
"No," Niylah says, "please. I was on my way out." She hesitates at the door. "Hofli keryon kom Heda na fleim au ona oso ogeda.."
"Oso gonplei nou ste odon kos oso gonplei don jos stot au," Lexa responds, quiet, and Niylah leaves without another look back at Clarke.
"Huh," Raven says. "I expected something more climactic, to be honest."
"Again, I apologize. I was taken off guard, and I assumed incorrectly."
"Lexa…"
"Please excuse me. I have an appointment I must get to." It's a pretty blatant lie, since Lexa has never left the house in sweatpants and a t-shirt with frayed hems and holes in the sleeves, and she isn't wearing any socks, but she commits, grabs her keys off the counter and walking out barefoot, the clicking the door shut firmly behind her.
"Fuck." Clarke collapses onto a dining chair. "Fuck."
"Octavia's mad at you."
"Yeah, I'm a fucking mess. Tell me something I don't know." Clarke smashes her head onto the table, facedown.
Raven sits in her armchair and pats her lap. "Come to Momma Rae."
"No," Clarke says into the tabletop, her voice muffled. "I don't deserve your warm embrace."
"Did you get drunk and slutty." Clarke groans. "I thought you retired Party Girl Griffin?"
"She made a comeback."
"Gross, I don't want to know what you do in the privacy of your own bed." Clarke grumbles, wordless, and hears Raven sigh. "Clarke, really? You're going to make me be the emotionally mature one? This goes against the very basis of our friendship." Clarke throws a hand in Lexa's direction and growls. "Have you talked to her? Did she make any promises or tell you anything that wasn't true?"
Clarke sighs, peeling her face off the table. "God, fine. I could talk to Lexa. Or… I could make red velvet cupcakes."
Raven does a passable impression of a dog sighting a squirrel. "With cream cheese icing?"
"Maybe." Clarke drags the word out, tempting.
"Name your price."
/
Clarke pays Raven ten dollars and four red velvet cupcakes to hack the student information system.
"You're lucky I have loose morals." Raven taps a few keys and her printer hums to life. "Promise you won't do anything super stalkery with this?"
"I just need to know where to wait for her, after her class."
"Right. You know we live with her, right? You could sit in the living room and achieve the same result. Without breaking any laws."
"That's different." Clarke crosses her arms. "I was reading about conflict resolution-"
"Oh my god."
Clarke ignores her, raising her voice slightly. "And, it's better to hash out disagreements in a neutral environment."
"Take this schedule," Raven says, thrusting the paper at her, "and get out of here with your gross Dr. Phil shit." Clarke snatches it out of her hands, scanning. There's another quick clattter of keys, and then Raven sucks in a breath. "Holy shit."
"Hm?"
"Anya has a zero GPA. Literally. Not a single fraction of a point. You know I was kidding before, but there's something seriously off about-"
"Yeah," Clarke says absently, wandering out with her eyes still fixed on the paper in her hands. "Sure, Rae. Whatever you want for dinner's fine.'
/
Clarke lurks in the hallway of the political science building, shifting on her feet and fucking around on her phone until the doors start to open, students spilling out. She goes on her tiptoes, eyes narrowed, until she sights her target. "Lexa!" She catches Lexa's eye and Lexa's face sets, but she allows Clarke to fall into step beside her.
"Is there something you need from me, Clarke?"
"Maybe we fucked it up," Clarke says, brutally honest, and Lexa's strides falter before smoothing back out. "Over Christmas. I liked being your friend. Did you like being my friend?"
Lexa waits a few seconds before answering, something thoughtful and complicated chasing over her face as they make their way down the steps outside the building. "Yes."
"Then can we just do that?" Clarke kicks at a rock. "I miss you." She coughs. "And uh, you promised Octavia you'd teach her how to ride your motorcycle."
"Of course," Lexa says, "I never break a promise." Clarke smiles at her, testing, and Lexa smiles back.
"Good. Tomorrow's Tuesday, make sure you give her the grocery money after the lesson." Lexa rolls her eyes, but it's not a no, and it's going well enough Clarke powers through to part two of her hastily constructed plan.
"About Noelle." She knows it's Niylah, but she doesn't miss the flash of satisfaction in Lexa's eyes at her bumbling of the name.
"You don't owe me an explanation. We have no claim on each other."
"Right," Clarke agrees. She chews her lip. "We really did fuck it up, huh?"
"Maybe," Lexa says, but she doesn't pull away when Clarke links their arms. "Maybe not."
/
Lexa's late for dinner, and Octavia and Raven are getting mutinous. "She won't care," Raven hisses, her wrist straining against Clarke's hand, trying to get a forkful of mac and cheese into her mouth. "I've been awake for fifty seven hours, Clarke. I need sustenance."
"It's not polite-" Clarke's voice ratchets up, strained as Raven uses both hands to try and get to her dinner. "Raven!"
The door bangs against the wall, Anya's boot receding as she kicks it open and comes through, supporting a figure against her side. "We need the first aid kit," she snaps, and Clarke shoves herself up, hurrying to the bathroom for the white box and a pair of latex gloves. When she gets back Lexa is slumped in her vacated chair, the food hurriedly shoved to the counters to clear the table.
Clarke opens the kit up on the table, digging for the antiseptic and snapping on gloves. "Where did Anya go?"
"To retrieve my motorcycle." Lexa pulls at her jacket, wincing, and Octavia eases it away from her body. Lexa grunts as she leans forward, and Octavia tosses the jacket over the table. Lexa peels her shirt up, frowning down at her side. "I was involved in a minor accident."
"No shit," Raven says from the kitchen, through a mouthful of food. Clarke rips an antibacterial wipe free of its packaging and crumples the wrapper before throwing it at Raven's face. Lexa stands, unbuckling her belt, and Octavia squeaks, averting her eyes. "Damn," Raven says, faintly approving, then grunts when Octavia elbows her. Lexa shoves her pants down, squinting at her upper thigh, then nods her head and pulls her pants back up. She sits again.
"No broken skin." Lexa doesn't hiss when Clarke digs into her side with tweezers, but her face flinches once before going flat and hard.
"Christ," Clarke mutters, leaning in. "Octavia, can you-" Octavia flicks on her cellphone flashlight, aiming it. "Thanks. Why didn't your jacket protect your torso?" She peels away a scrap of fabric, Lexa's entire right ribcage covered in road rash, tiny bits of rock embedded in her skin, her shirt shredded to ruin.
"It wasn't zipped." Clarke looks away from her work, incredulous, and Lexa shrugs.
"I'm surprised," Clarke says, hooking a heel around a chair and pulling it close so she can sit. "That Anya lets you roar around on that thing, if it's so dangerous. Get up on the table, I can't see shit from this angle."
Lexa slides up into a sitting position on the table, leaning back on her elbows. Clarke's scoots closer with a scrape. "She's voiced her objections. I think that was my last ride."
"I got this," Clarke says to Octavia, "thanks. You and Raven can go eat." They shuffle off to the living room, and Clarke hears the television click on. "You seem pretty calm about all this."
"It's not the first time."
"This really isn't psyching me up for Octavia to get a motorcycle license, you know."
Lexa grunts. "She's tough. She'll be fine."
"At least you were wearing your helmet," Clarke says, sitting back and putting the tweezers aside. She strips off her gloves and shuffles through the kit, looking for the big square bandages and tape. There's a short, guilty silence, and Clarke narrows her eyes at Lexa, her hands stilling. "You were wearing your helmet. Lexa. You were wearing your helmet, right?"
"It is a short ride from campus to here," Lexa mumbles. "I had a headache-what are you doing?"
"I'm getting the rubbing alcohol out."
"I thought you already cleaned it?"
"I did, but I want to hurt you some more now." Lexa makes an offended noise. "Lexa, are you serious? You could have died! And who would protect the world from Anya after that, huh?"
"Trikru believe in reincarnation," Lexa says, then knocks Clarke's hand aside when she comes at her with another wipe. "Touch me with that and my spirit will come back to haunt you."
Clarke leans in until their noses touch. "Your spirit stays where it is. Or I'll bring you back to life just so I can kill you myself."
"That's counterproductive, Clarke." Clarke flicks her third rib and Lexa twitches under her finger, a small noise escaping before she can bite it back. Clarke blows cool air across Lexa's skin, lays down white gauze and layers tape around the edges. When she's done she hesitates, then tugs at the edge of Lexa's bloody shirt.
"You should take this off."
Lexa grunts when she tries to lift her arms above her head, and Clarke watches her struggle, unimpressed, before sighing heavily and going to the kitchen drawer for a pair of scissors. "I like this shirt," Lexa grumbles, but she drops her hands and lets Clarke cut her free. Clarke balls up the shredded bloody fabric, tossing it into the garbage with the rest of the used materials on the table. She stands, meaning to wash her hands at the sink, but then she's in the 'v' of Lexa's legs, Lexa stretched back onto the table, sprawled and breathing a little harder than normal from contorting to get her shirt off. Her brastrap has fallen off one shoulder, and Clarke stares at it, her mouth dry.
"Just friends," she says outloud. She flicks her eyes to Lexa's and watches them go glassy and dark.
"Clarke," she murmurs, low, and Clarke slides closer, a knee up on the table. She hefts herself up and hovers, waiting, and Lexa's the one to close the distance. Lexa pulls her down, a hand on her hip, and nips at the underside of Clarke's jaw, mouthing down her neck with a soft sigh. Clarke goes straight for the cups of Lexa's bra, biting above them and then soothing the indents with her tongue. Her thighs tremble from keeping her weight off Lexa's injured side, and she's thinking about how to flip them and get Lexa on top when water droplets hit her face. She splutters.
"Stop it!" Raven and Octavia flick their fingers at them, water flying. Raven's eyes narrowed. "Bad Clarke. We eat there!" Clarke slides off, feeling blindly for the floor, glaring murder, and is opening her mouth when the doorknob turns-Anya returning.
"Lexa." She doesn't say anything more, walking straight back into her room, and Lexa stands with a wince.
"Thank you for your assistance," she says to the fridge, refusing to meet any of their eyes, and follows Anya. Music clicks on, muffled, the same radio station that broadcasts at the dentist's office, generic and inoffensive and more to fill the silence than to play good music.
"Thanks," Clarke says, sitting with a sigh. Octavia pats her shoulder, sympathetic, and Raven dishes her up a bowl of food. "It would have been a mistake, right?" She bites her lip. "We shouldn't."
"Oh Clarke," Raven says, then appears to run out of comforting material. She shrugs, pushing the bowl across the table. "Eat something."
/
Lexa falls asleep at dinner. Her forehead actually smacks into the table, rattling her plate, and she jackknifes back up, bleary eyed. "Yes," she says stupidly, blinking fast. "What?"
"It's probably a pretty good thing you gave up the motorcycle," Raven says, looking at her sidelong. "You'd definitely be dead." Clarke kicks her under the table, stubbing her toe on Raven's brace.
"Son of a bitch!"
Raven looks smug. "Instant karma."
Lexa picks up a spoon and peers at herself in its bended reflection. "This isn't my watch."
"Okay," Clarke says, casting Octavia and Raven a quick look. "Time for bed." She pulls at Lexa's arm and she melts out of the chair, sagging until Clarke hooks an awkward arm around her waist. "Come on, Lex."
"I have class," Lexa protests.
"It's nine pm," Clarke informs her, and Lexa blinks.
"I… need to go to bed." She gets her feet under her and makes it to her room mostly under her own power, with Clarke stepping in to steer only twice. She staggers to her bed and flops across it, sighing.
"Where's Anya?" Lexa slurs something into the pillow, garbled. "What?"
"Gone," Lexa mumbles. She looks so exhausted, lying there fully dressed, and when Clarke looks around the room is… not at Clarke's own level of messy chaos, but noticeably less neat than it has been in the past. Clarke takes off Lexa's shoes, letting them fall from her fingers and bounce away on the floor, and sits on the edge of the bottom bunk mattress, next to Lexa's knees.
"What's running you ragged?" she murmurs, rubbing a hand down Lexa's thigh, comforting and soothing. Lexa mumbles something that definitely isn't English but doesn't sound like trigedasleng either, and drools a little. "Lexa," Clarke says, leaning close. "What time should I set your alarm?"
"No," Lexa explains, and pulls Clarke down on top of her. Clarke crashes into her chest, groaning, and goes up on one elbow. Lexa peers at her. "Are we having sex?"
"No."
"Good," Lexa sighs, some of the tension bleeding out, "because I don't think I can, right now." She sighs again, her fingers flexing on Clarke's shoulder.
"Go to sleep," Clarke orders, fond despite herself, and starts to stand.
"Will you stay?" Lexa asks, the smallest whisper. Clarke hesitates. "Please, Clarke. For a minute."
Clarke looks at her, the bags under her eyes and the weight on her shoulders, the ink dotted around her fingers and her hair limp from the grease of her fingers running through it, over and over and over and Clarke wonders if Lexa has ever, in her whole life, asked for anything for herself until this minute, just for someone to stay. "Okay," Clarke murmurs, and lies down, between Lexa and the wall. It's a tight fit, and it's not comfortable, and Lexa's gotta feel squished but she just sighs really long, like she's sinking into a hot bath. Clarke turns, really slow and really careful, until she's on her side, and gathers Lexa up, draws her in until she's tucked into the curve of Clarke's own body.
Clarke leans her cheek over Lexa's neck, breathing her in. "Is this okay?" There's nothing sexual about it, no thrum of desire in the way she smoothes Lexa's hair away from her face or the kisses she drops on Lexa's closed eyes. It's something different, somehow more intimate than Lexa's body clenched around her fingers or her tongue in Lexa's mouth.
Lexa hums, relaxing back against Clarke, and she's asleep in the next second, her breathing going even and deep, but Clarke stays awake, Lexa's pulse fluttering against her cheek, Lexa's ribcage rising and falling under her hand, making soft shushing noises when Lexa stirs and murmurs.
/
She must fall asleep at some point, because she wakes with the sun on her face, streaming through the windows. The mattress next to her is cold, but she can hear the shower running. She stretches, arching her back, and grimaces at the taste of sleep on her tongue. She rolls out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom. "Hey," she says over the water and through the curtain. "I gotta pee. Don't look." Lexa doesn't respond until she's finished and flushed the toilet and washed her hands and is stealing a swig of mouthwash from the bottle on the counter.
"You could have used the other bathroom, you know." Clarke blinks at Lexa's face, peering out from behind the curtain. The thought hadn't even occurred to her. It had felt so natural, to shuffle in while Lexa was showering and to listen to her lather her hair.
"Yeah. Sorry."
"It's okay."
"I'm gonna go…" Clarke points, "brush my teeth."
"Okay."
/
"Okay," Clarke says, barging in without knocking. Lexa throws her a pointed look and Clarke shrugs. "I don't knock. You know this by now. Anyway, I'm kidnapping you. If you want."
Lexa's hair is still wet and uncombed, falling down her back in a tangle, and she's wearing a sweatshirt that Clarke think might be Anya's. She's sitting at her desk, frowning at papers she'd covered as soon as Clarke had come through the doorframe. "It's not kidnapping if it's voluntary, Clarke. Unless you intend to coerce me in some way?"
"Just with the powers of verbal persuasion. You faceplanted into Chef Boyardee; you need a little hooky."
"Not into," Lexa mutters, put out. "Beside, perhaps." Clarke scoffs. "I have been… overextending myself," Lexa admits. "I have my reasons." She pauses. "Anya usually helps."
"So," Clarke drawls. She jingles her car keys. "Hooky?"
/
"I know I promised we could go anywhere," Clarke says, cutting the engine and peering out of the windshield. "You sure?"
"It's my day off," Lexa says. "Humour me."
Clarke follows her through the park, winding down the paths. It's not completely deserted, but it is the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday, so it's not thrumming with people. Clarke bounces her step a little, shivering. "I should have brought a hat."
"I enjoy the winter." Lexa tips her face into the chill wind, the cold bleaching her lips pale pink.
"Yeah," Clarke says, watching Lexa tuck a piece of hair behind her ear before rubbing her hands together, smiling. "I guess it's not so bad."
They walk until they reach the monument, a tomb made of stone and a marbled flag flying high, no color or design carved or painted onto the banner. "I thought this was in Virginia," Clarke remarks.
"The most famous ones are. This is just a memorial statue, not a crypt." Lexa stands at the base, looking up at the flag, pensive.
"It's kinda depressing," Clarke says, fidgeting. "I guess that's the point, though."
"Yes." Lexa sighs. "This is what it is to be a leader, Clarke. To look people in the eye and say: 'go and die for me'." Her shoulders hunch, then straighten. "It is a reminder."
"Of what?"
"Victory," Lexa says, heavy, "rests on the back of sacrifice."
"I disagree," Clarke says, and Lexa turns, surprised. Clarke steps up next to her, takes her hand. "I think it's a reminder to value peace above war."
Lexa shakes her head. "War is necessary for survival."
"Yeah but…" Clarke bites her lip. "Nevermind. What do I know, right?"
"I value your opinion." Clarke checks Lexa's face for a lie, but she looks genuinely interested, even if her brow is creased and her expression tight.
"I just think that… people deserve more than just surviving, you know?"
"I think I do," Lexa murmurs, and they kiss once, infinitely slow, Lexa's hand so gentle against the side of Clarke's face, their noses brushing.
/
Clarke frowns into the fridge, trying to decide if she wants to go through the trouble of making hot cocoa on the stove. She checks the clock and shrugs, pulling out the milk and nudging the door shut with her foot. She sloshes some into a saucepan, nudges the dial to medium high and flops into a chair, digging out her phone to kill some time. The light from under Lexa's door keeps catching her eye and after a minute she gives it up, tucking her phone away and padding down the hall to rap lightly on the door. It swings open after a few seconds, Lexa in pajama bottoms and a tank top, frazzled hair.
"Clarke?"
"Can't sleep?"
"I'm working." Lexa nudges her glasses up, rubbing harshly at her eyes. "Do you need something?"
"I'm making hot chocolate. You want some?"
"No." Lexa shuts the door in her face and Clarke rolls her eyes.
"I tried," she mutters, and goes back to the kitchen to poke at the pot with a spoon until it bubbles.
She's walking through the dark living room, blowing across the surface of her mug, when she glances up and sees someone looking through the window. Her shriek starts out terrified and turns pained, hot milk splashing her as she loses her grip on the mug and it shatters at her feet. She jumps back, fumbling for her phone, and screams again.
Multiple doors slam open, but Lexa gets to her first. "Clarke!"
"There's someone outside!" Clarke points to the window, which is empty again. "I swear, I saw-"
"Clarke?" Raven and Octavia appear by her side, Raven clutching an aluminum baseball bat.
"Stay here," Lexa orders. She heads for the door.
"What?" Clarke lunges for her sleeve. "Lexa, are you kidding? I'm calling the police."
"Stay here," Lexa snaps, "I'll be right back." She flips the lock on the doorknob as she goes, slamming it shut and locked behind her.
Clarke stays still, Octavia and Raven murmuring stressed comforting nonsense, for three whole seconds before snorting. She grabs the bat out of Raven's hand. "I'm going to get Lexa."
Octavia, on the phone with the 911 dispatcher, squawks. "Clarke-" she slaps a hand over the bottom half of the phone. "They'll be here in two minutes-" There's a banging on the door and they all shout, jumping.
"It's me," Lexa says through the door, and Clarke lunges to let her in. "He's gone," she reports, coming in and locking the door behind her. She turns, keeping one hand behind her thigh. "Are the police on their way?"
"Sorry," Octavia is saying into her phone, "that was our other roommate." She holds up two fingers to the rest of them.
"I'm going to bed," Lexa says. "I don't think they need to hear from all of us." Raven and Clarke exchanged incredulous glances, and Lexa edges around them, keeping her front to them as she backs down the hall into her room.
"What did you see?" Raven asks.
"Just a face," Clarke says, her heart finally starting to slow. "A guy-hold on." She fumbles to the kitchen table, rummaging through the mail for the usual cable provider offer. She flips it over to a blank page and Raven, catching on, passes her a pen. She sketches the face she'd seen, a man with ratty hair to his shoulders, dark circles around his eyes and streaks on the bridge of his nose.
"Woah," Octavia says, and a siren whoops from their driveway. "I'll let them in."
"Do you recognize him?" Raven asks, taking the sketch away and squinting at it. It's rough, done in harsh lines and just under a minute, and it's not like Clarke had gotten a good look at him through a dark window in the middle of the night, but the drawing had got her thinking, and she what she thinks is that the lines on his face looked a hell of a lot like the ones she saw at the Trikru ceremony, with Lexa.
"Hold on," she says to Raven, "I'll be right back, okay? Give that to the police."
She opens Lexa's door, half-surprised it's not locked, and Lexa is standing at her own window, looking out. "Clarke," she says without turning around. "Are the police here?"
"Yes." A knife dangles from Lexa's hand, not a kitchen one or a boxcutter, but a folding knife, four inches long, with a guarded grip that fits around her knuckles. It gleams dully, serrated at the base, and Lexa's thumb strokes along the back of it. "Did you-do you know what's going on?"
"My position grows precarious," Lexa says, and a frown flits across her mouth. "I'm sure you can imagine."
"Uh," Clarke says, confused. She doesn't watch the news as often as she should, but she knows Trigeda is unstable, and there are many Trikru in the States who'd come seeking asylum. Does Lexa have beef with other refugees she'd immigrated with? "You're active in Trikru organizations, right?"
It's Lexa's turn to look confused. "Clarke, you know I am-"
"Clarke?" It's Raven, cracking the door open. "Lexa. The police want to talk to you."
The knife disappears up Lexa's sleeve so fast Clarke is almost unsure it'd ever been in Lexa's hand to begin with. "Of course." She strides past Clarke, not without a last searching look, and Clarke follows quietly at her heels.
Clarke retells the story twice, shows the policeman where she'd been standing, agrees the drawing was who she'd seen. Lexa says she went onto the porch and saw nothing, her voice completely flat, and halfway through a probing question her phone rings, she excuses herself to her room, and doesn't come back.
It's another forty five minutes before the police leave, with a promise for a cruiser to roll around their block once every half hour for the next four hours, and then Octavia makes another batch of hot chocolate with a splash of bourbon and they fall asleep on the couch, curled up with each other and the armchair pushed against the front door. Clarke listens to Octavia and Raven sleep, her own eyes drooping shut and then fluttering open again, and at some point she realizes Lexa's kneeling in front of her, her hand hovering over Clarke's shoulder.
"Clarke," Lexa whispers when she sees Clarke's eyes focus on hers. "May I speak with you?"
"Okay," Clarke whispers back. "My room?" Lexa nods, leaving noiselessly, and Clarke extricates herself from the cuddle pile, murmuring comfortingly when Octavia or Raven stir. She slips into her room and shuts the door behind her. "Lexa?"
Lexa melts out the shadow behind Clarke's dresser. "Clarke. Are you alright?"
Clarke shrugs. "Not really." Her hands have stopped shaking, though, and that's something. Lexa exhales, sharp.
"I'm sorry. I never meant to…" she trails off, locking her hands together behind her back. "I never should have moved here. Anya was right." She looks exhausted, and resigned, and miserable, and Clarke forgets about demanding answers.
"I don't regret you." Clarke steps forward, stopping when Lexa retreats from her, her back bumping against the wall.
"You may, someday. Someday soon."
Clarke shakes her head. "You don't get to decide that." She hesitates, then slides closer, a hand cupping Lexa's jaw, her thumb stroking Lexa's cheekbone. "Do you regret it? Us?"
"It doesn't matter," Lexa tries, and Clarke curls her other hand around Lexa's waist.
"It matters to me."
"No," Lexa says, like it's been ripped from her chest. "I could never." Clarke kisses her then, careful and with her eyes open, watching Lexa's face smooth out, go gentle and easy and soft. Clarke closes her eyes when Lexa pushes back, changing the angle, and they stumble to Clarke's bed, landing together on their sides, their foreheads bumping. Their clothes fall away, Lexa's fingers fumbling against her hip and pulling away from her mouth only long enough to strip off their tops, and Lexa trembles under her, breathing quick and quiet, muffling her sounds into her wrist.
"Don't do that," Clarke murmurs, trailing kisses down Lexa's sternum and nudging her thighs apart. "I want to hear you."
Lexa's next moan is a little louder, less muffled, but she pulls at Clarke's hair, urging her back up her body. "I want to see you," she says, and it's more awkward, Clarke half propped on her side to get the angle just right, grinding against each other, and it takes longer and her orgasm isn't as intense as it would be if it was Lexa's tongue inside her instead, but Lexa's hands run up and down her sides, caress her face, and Lexa's eyes are so wide and her kiss so soft and when she comes her whole body freezes, shocked, before melting, and Clarke doesn't think she would have it any other way.
They lie next to each other and Clarke nuzzles into her neck. "I have to go," Lexa says, and it's a whisper but it sounds loud in their silence. "I-I'm sorry." She sits up, and Clarke runs a hand down her spine, questioning.
"Give it a minute," she asks, and Lexa hesitates. "Just one minute. Stay?"
"Okay." Lexa lies back down, tugging a blanket over their bodies. "Just for a minute."
"One minute," Clarke agrees, resting her head against Lexa's chest.
/
Clarke wakes up, very early, and alone. There's a folded paper on the pillow, and she doesn't open it until she's brushed her teeth, flicking it open while she tugs on a pair of socks. She hardly gets through the second paragraph before she's on her feet, storming down the hall. She knocks the door open and she's not sure what she expected-clothes in disarray? Another note?-but it looks almost the same as it always has, except Lexa's bag is missing from the hook on the wall and two of the dresser drawers are slightly ajar. Clarke looks at the letter in her hand and goes to the living room, where Octavia and Raven are still snoring. She kicks at Octavia's leg and she wakes up with a snort, choking on her own spit and flailing.
"What-what?"
"I need to talk to you." Clarke paces in front of the couch, frowning. "Trigeda… who ruled it, before?"
"Before what?" Octavia yawns, half asleep. "Nia Azgeda is in charge, don't you watch the news?"
"Before her-before the takeover, was it like, Kings and Queens?"
"No, they had all these rituals, a conclave. Different families each time, chosen as children. Like the Dalai Lama, sort of, you know. Reincarnation and all that."
"What's a Heda?"
"Yeah, the Hedas. The Commanders. Nia isn't one though, her army just killed all the kids in the last conclave, so the Commander's spirit is… gone, or whatever. I don't know, it's all supernatural mumbo jumbo. My class is in linguistics."
"Lexa is Heda," Clarke blurts, fumbling for the remote.
"What? Clarke, go back to sleep, honestly-"
"I'm so stupid, she fucking told me, months ago, and I thought she was just drunk." Clarke flips the television on, searching for a news channel.
"What's happening," Raven mumbles. "Why talking."
"Clarke thinks 'Heda' Lexa's an exiled Trikru chieftan with a blood claim to the throne." Octavia rolls her eyes. "How much bourbon did you put in your mug last night?"
"Yeah," Raven says, slitting her eyes open and stretching wide, "Niylah called her Heda. And Anya, too."
"What?"
Clarke curses. "Fucking American news, so ethnocentric." She tosses the letter at Octavia's chest and flops into Raven's armchair, fuming. Octavia reads for a moment, brow furrowed. The farther down she gets, the higher her eyebrows rise, and as she turns the page she starts to sputter.
"Stay here," Octavia says, practically running into her room. She emerges quickly, a thick book and her laptop balanced in her arms. "Hold this," she orders, passing Clarke the textbook. "I know," she mutters, typing away, "I know we got sent this reading on the coup, I just have to-ah!" She scans. "It says they were all killed. Did Lexa say…?"
Clarke shrugs. "Just what it says in the letter." Raven looks up from the letter, her mouth hanging open.
"What the fuck, Clarke? Lexa told you she's a modern day Anastasia and you didn't tell us?"
"I thought she was kidding. Were drunk! On plastic bottle vodka. At a Motel Six!"
"I don't think Anastasia planned an assassination," Octavia says thoughtfully, still reading her screen. "I don't remember that part of the animated movie."
"Okay," Clarke says, "we don't know for sure Lexa's going through with the assassination. She could totally be delusional. We have not ruled out her just being plain crazy." She flips through the news channels again. "Let's just wait and see."
"Oh hey," Raven says, reaching the end of the letter. "She left you her bike, O." Clarke glares. "What? Blame a bitch for finding a silver lining, shit."
They watch the news for another three hours, Octavia reading out little bits of information as she discovers them-the Commander was the founder of Trigeda, and is reborn every generation into a new child, identified by village healers and sent to the capital to train. The conclaves consist of several rituals, the details of which Octavia can't find, and the most recent Commander was killed in a bloody military coup by one of the 12 clans that made up the country, along with every child in the capital city.
"There are reports that the army kills kids they think might be-whatever it is that is the Commander." Octavia pulls a face. "Brutal."
"Uh-uh," Clarke grunts, transfixed by CNN World News. Raven grabs her phone away from her hands, where she's been texting Lexa every fifteen minutes.
"I put a google alert on Trigeda, okay? It's time for a shower and some food. You smell like sex and regret."
/
It takes three days for the alert to blow up her phone, three days of Clarke chewing her fingernails down to nothing and pacing the kitchen at four am, holding Octavia and Raven captive at the dining table to listen to her ramble and curse and worry. By the time her phone starts vibrating and doesn't stop, she hardly needs the nudge-every radio station, every television channel, every newspaper, are broadcasting the news. A twenty-two year old girl walked into the capital of a small, mostly self-sustaining nation in the grasp of a brutal dictator, flanked by six supporters, and killed four guards and the dictator herself. The image loops, Lexa in black armor and black paint across her eyes, her face flecked with blood as she sits in the throne and looks directly into the camera, her sword dripping by her side.
"Christ on a cracker," Octavia breathes, staring at their television, frozen on the couch. Lexa declares herself ruler in trigedasleng and then in English, harshly accented, and the television breaking news banner underneath labels her a warlord as the pundits dissolve into predictable chatter.
"I guess she wasn't lying," Clarke mutters.
"Yeah." Raven holds the curtains aside with one hand, peering out into their front yard. "We have other problems."
Clarke climbs over the back of the couch, Octavia following, and they hunch together at the window, squinting through the gap between the frame and the blinds. Two news vans are parked at the curb, people in coats pulling equipment out. Another van pulls up while they're watching, and men with cameras are already snapping shots of their yard, their house. "Fuck. That didn't take very long."
"I have class in half an hour," Octavia complains. Raven and Clarke look at her, disbelieving, and she shrugs. "Yeah so our housemate is a badass military insurgent. Organic chemistry waits for no one."
/
They have to call the police to keep people off their lawn, and even then it's a gauntlet to get to their cars, keeping their heads down and driving excruciatingly slow until they get to the road. Campus security is out in full force, but the reporters don't seem in a rush to stalk them at school, although Clarke sees them hounding the political science building, trying to find Lexa's classmates.
"She was always cold," a girl is saying obnoxiously as Clarke goes to find Octavia. They've been carpooling since the news broke, unwilling to brave the shitshow of their front yard alone. "It doesn't surprise me that she's violent. I think she'll be an even worse leader than Azgeda-"
"You don't know shit," Clarke snaps, charging into frame. "The only thing Lexa cares about is her people! Just because she busted your curve doesn't mean-" Clarke falls abruptly silent, suddenly cognizant of the giant camera aimed straight at her face, the red light blinking.
"You're Clarke Griffin," the reporter says. "The roommate. Are you finally breaking your silence?"
"Um," Clarke says, trying to back away. "I uh, I should go."
"Do you stand by your remarks on Lexa? Did you help her plan the coup?"
"What? No, I-I have to go." Clarke flees into the building, ducking through the halls until she finds a bathroom. She splashes water on her face and grimaces at her reflection, pale and waxy, bags under her eyes.
/
The networks uncover Costia and Tris, digging up crime scene photos and old police reports. They speculate on it being an assassination attempt on Lexa and splash graphic images across the screen, next to the picture of Lexa's passport, young and grim faced, her named spelled Leksa. Clarke learns Costia had curly hair and dark flawless skin and a gap toothed smile and she was killed slowly and painfully and her head was left bloody in Lexa's bed, and she throws up into the same toilet Lexa had sat on and told Clarke in a broken voice that she'd lost someone and that it'd been her fault. The news stations loop the story, using the bloody bedsheet photo as a hook, and Clarke turns it off for the first time in days, unable to stomach the sight of it.
/
"You can imagine," Abby's voice echoes dry and tinny down the line, "my hesitation at welcoming a warlord as a daughter in law."
"Mom, please. It's not funny."
"I am not laughing, Clarke." Clarke mutters her way through the rest of the conversation, recalcitrant and grumbly and monosyllabic before her mother tells her to email her the particulars on the graduation ceremony and releases her.
/
"Clarke." Octavia shakes her in the middle of the night. "Clarke, I think there's someone in the yard."
Clarke rolls away from her. "O, there's like fifty people in the yard."
"No, the backyard."
Clarke sits up. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. Come with me to get the police?"
"No." Clarke stomps out of her room, fuming, and slams into the other bedroom, making Raven sit up in her own bed, alarmed. "Go back to sleep," Clarke grunts, hefting the baseball bat from underneath a pile of clothing and towels. She spins it once, heading for the back sliding door.
Octavia follows her. "Uh, Clarke? Can we pause this breakdown for a second?"
"I am so fucking tired," Clarke fumes, shoving the door aside and stomping into the yard, "of these fucking assholes-" she pitches her voice loud, raising the bat into the air. "-Come out now and maybe I won't bash your fucking head in! This is private property, jackass!"
Complete silence greets her remark, and Clarke slits her eyes at the yard, straining in the dark. "Got it," Raven says, coming out after her. She clicks on a huge flashlight, casting the beam about. "There," she mutters, highlighting the branches of the biggest tree against the fence, which are shaking faintly.
Clarke goes straight for the trunk, hitting it so hard her arms rebound painfully. She pokes up into the branches, flailing. "Get down right now!"
"Okay," a deep voice says, "take it easy." A man uncurls from a branch, dropping lightly to the ground. Clarke raises the bat to her shoulder and he holds up his hands, appeasing. "It's okay, I'm here to help."
"Help what? And who?" Raven aims the light at his face and he squints, trying to shield his eyes. Clarke blinks at him. "You're that guy-Lincoln?"
"Lexa sent me," he says. "Can I come in?"
/
Octavia makes them cocoa while Lincoln checks the locks on their doors and windows, drawing the curtains firmly. "Did she, uh, did she leave you anything for me? A message, or…" Clarke trails off, hopeful, and Lincoln fidgets.
"Just to watch, and help, where I can."
"So you climbed our tree," Raven says slowly, suspicious. "How do we know you're not with whatsherface, that bitch?"
Lincoln sneers, pulling his lip back from his teeth. He snarls something in trigedasleng. "Yeah," Octavia chimes in, pushing a cup of hot chocolate into his hands. "We can't trust you yet. Should keep you where we can keep an eye on you. I'll take first watch; you can sleep in Raven's bed."
Raven squawks, then grumbles when Octavia throws her a narrowed eyed look. "Yeah, fine. Sleepover?" She asks Clarke.
"I'm watching you," Clarke tells Lincoln suspiciously. She tugs Octavia into the hall by her sleeve. "Are you sure?"
Octavia shrugs. "I mean, I'm going to sleep with pepper spray up my sleeve, but I believe him. And danger makes the flirting more exciting." She wiggles her eyebrows, and her smile is strained still but lighter than it has since half the reporters in the city moved onto their porch, and Clarke nods, throwing Lincoln a last glare before curling up in her bed with Raven.
"You sure you're okay, Griffin?" Raven whispers once the lights are turned off. "This whole thing… you and Lexa. Gotta suck."
"It's weird," Clarke agrees. "But, uh, I'm dealing with it. I've got other stuff to focus on. Graduation, and all that."
"You sure?"
Clarke has thirty seven tabs open in the browser of her phone, and sixteen separate google alerts. She's watched the blurry dark video of Lexa poking rocks into their tiny snowman's face on her phone one hundred and sixty seven times. If Raven stuck her hand under the pillow her head is resting on, in Clarke's bed, she'd feel the worn edges of the note Lexa had left her so long ago, I do like you, Clarke. "Yeah, I'm sure."
/
Lincoln, for a guy they'd found skulking in a tree in their backyard, is surprisingly sweet. He helps them get through the crowd to their cars, puts away the dishes after their meals, starts the coffee early in the morning. He makes cookies in the pink apron Bellamy gave them as housewarming gag gift, Octavia leaning her hand on her hand and drooling over the sight of him in pink ruffles and a delicate lace collar, and he teaches her to ride the motorcycle, returning with her hair windswept and her face flushed. He cleans Raven's tools and keeps her in sour gummy worms, and he avoids Clarke almost entirely.
She corners him after two weeks of this nonsense. "Explain," she demands, and he averts his eyes down and to the side, deferent.
"You are-" he says something in trigedasleng, and sighs when she stares at him, uncomprehending.
"I'm not Lexa's property," Clarke snaps. "We're not even-there is nothing between us."
"If you say so," Lincoln says, his tone somehow completely emotionless and also entirely disbelieving. In the closet, the washing machine trills, and he trots off.
"He is just the best househusband," Octavia says, dreamy.
/
Trigeda has an official ceremony, and invites the world press. Lexa (Leksa) isn't crowned, but they strap a metal pauldron across her shoulder, a bright red cape draped across her chest and falling down her back to trail on the ground as she kneels in front of her people and the world and swears her oaths. She speaks directly to the cameras for the first time the day after, in a suit. She announces elections are to be held to elect ambassadors for the twelve regions, and the unveiling of a constitution.
"I worry," some expert muses on the news circuit, "if her promises to grant amnesty to the Azgeda Clan are a ruse. Can we expect more slaughter from this young usurper?" The Wall Street journal runs an article that calls Lexa a savage.
Clarke throws the remote into the wall, shattering the battery compartment. She burns the newspaper in the sink and Lincoln sweeps the ashes up into a napkin, throwing them away, before duct taping the remote shut and offering her a homemade chocolate chip cookie.
/
Clarke graduates. She takes the pictures with Octavia and Raven, all three in caps and gowns and honor cords, and the leis her mother and Bellamy give them, carnations and fun-sized candy bars. Raven blares an airhorn when they call her name.
She goes to Raven's and Octavia's ceremonies, screaming until her throat hurts and feeling pride hot and sharp and high in her chest: Raven making her way across the stage, beaming, Bellamy's whoop of joy when Octavia raises her diploma.
/
The lease is up in three days and Clarke frowns at the letters on her desk, the deadline fast approaching. The news blares on in the background, Trigeda's constitution being picked apart for not being democratic enough, and then accused of ripping off America.
"You're going home tonight?" Octavia asks, leaning against her doorframe. "You need help with the last of your boxes?"
"No, I'm alright. I'll see you right before you head back?"
"Yeah." Octavia and Raven are both returning in the fall, to their respective Master's Programs. "You know we haven't filled your room. You're welcome to come bum out and, I don't know, work some shitty service job until the minimum wage motivates you to go to med school."
Clarke shrugs. She shuffles the offers between her fingers. "I don't want to be a bother."
"When you're a hotshot doctor you can buy us all a townhouse to pay it back." Octavia steps forward, hesitant. "Clarke…"
Clarke spins in her chair, forcing a smile. "How's Lincoln?"
Octavia's eyes go slightly glazed. "So hot. So, just so. So. So hot. And sweet, and nice-" Clarke laughs, cutting her off, and Octavia grins, sheepish but not apologetic. "Hey, you got your hot Trikru lover, let me have mine."
Clarke's laughter peters out. "Octavia, don't."
"It's been three months. You need to-"
"What?" Clarke stands, advancing. "Get closure? How? Lexa's half a world away. And I never even-" She cut herself off, sitting on the edge of her bare mattress. "Just don't."
"Okay," Octavia mutters, sitting next to her. "But if the opportunity ever arises."
Clarke snorts, rolling her eyes. "Sure, O. When the opportunity to talk to my onetime fuckbuddy, the Commander of the 12 Clans, Leader of the Free Trikru, Bringer of Democracy-if that ever happens, I'll jump straight on it."
"She's all that," Octavia muses, "and the youngest woman and whatnot, but she's also… you know. The girl that gave me a motorcycle and made us dinner once a week. She used to buy the expensive dishsoap because the cheap stuff made my skin peel. She watched Saturday morning cartoons with Raven."
"Yeah," Clarke says. She swallows. "Yeah."
/
Clarke goes home. Her mother is there when she arrives, and they have dinner together on the couch, watching television. A commercial shows a promo for a Law and Order episode that is clearly ripped out of the headlines surrounding Lexa and Costia, and Clarke changes the channel to a documentary immediately, refusing to meet her mother's eyes or explain herself. She showers quick and efficient, not bothering to dry her hair when she clambers out, and when she slides between the sheets she realizes her pillow still smells like Lexa's shampoo, her deodorant, the faintest hint of the leather of her jacket and her boots.
She strips the bed and stuffs the washing machine fuller than she should, adding the pillow, the comforter, the mattress cover, adding twice the amount of soap she usually does, and lies on the sofa while it rumbles away.
She sleeps too late and shuffles around in her pajamas, watching shit daytime television and eating cereal by the handful, straight from the box. Her mother drops hints and prods about her plans and she deflects until they have a screaming match over meatloaf, ending with her storming up the stairs and slamming her bedroom door. She lies in her bed and wishes, just for a second, that she could still smell Lexa's skin on her sheets.
/
It's ten fifty three on a Tuesday when Anya knocks on her door. Clarke's in one of Bellamy's old button up shirts with the collar popped like a douchebag, over a pair of cartoon boxers she got for Christmas as a joke, wearing one wool sock, and when she opens the door she just sort of blinks, blank.
"You look terrible," Anya says.
"So do you," Clarke snaps, because Anya's right side is bulky, swathed in bandages, the white gauze visible from her neckline down. There's a fresh scar cutting through her left eyebrow, scabbed over.
"I am well," Anya says, and her face actually softens. It's the closest to happy as Clarke's ever seen her, even with her lips still tugged down into her customary frown. "The Trikru rise."
"And-and Lexa?"
Anya rolls her eyes. "Entirely too concerned with bits of paper."
Clarke pulls the door a little more open. "Come in?" Anya nods, striding in, and Clarke pours her a cup of coffee. "Did she send you?"
"Yes." Anya sips, placid.
"And she did so because…"
Anya sighs, then produces a thick piece of cardstock, fancy lettering. "Leksa Kom Trikru invites you to Ascension Day." She lays down two more envelopes. "For Octavia and Raven."
Clarke sighs, toying with the paper. She considers putting up a fuss, but she's feeling more resigned than anything. And she had promised Octavia. She pushes the envelopes back across the counter. "You can track them down yourself."
Anya huffs. "I'll pick you up tomorrow," she snaps, snatching the invitations back up. "Be ready."
Anya hammers at the door at five in the morning, and stares flatly straight into her mother's eyes while Clarke curses her under her breath, throwing clothes into a duffel bag and ransacking her desk for her passport. "I am not comfortable with you getting into a car with this girl," her mother hisses as Clarke kisses her cheek goodbye.
"We actually think she's a robot, not a girl," Clarke explains, and waves goodbye from the car window. Raven and Octavia are asleep in the backseat, slumped on each other, and Lincoln passes Clarke a coffee from the passenger seat.
"Our flight is at eleven," Anya says, and Clarke's hand tighten on the cup. Their flight is at eleven, and Anya picked her up at five.
"I hate you," she says, quiet but with feeling, and Anya smiles in the rearview mirror.
/
The flight is long and draining and Clarke has to wait for Octavia and Raven to fall asleep before she can watch the video again, Lexa's laugh tinkling low through her earbuds as she protests against Clarke's insistence, holding up twigs for Clarke to approve as snowman arms.
She doesn't realize she's smiling until she's tucking her phone away and sees Anya turned around in the seat in front of her, watching. Everyone else is asleep and the lights are dimmed and Anya has already smiled once today, so Clarke presses her luck. "Does she talk about me, ever?"
Anya frowns, then sighs. "We do not speak of such things."
Clarke rolls her eyes. "Yeah, right. Love is weakness."
"Do not mock," Anya says, sharp. "Of all the people Lexa knew as a child, I am all who remains. She cannot afford to be weak."
"And you think I make her weak."
"I am sure of it."
Clarke leans forward, peering at Anya through the gap in the seats. "You might be right. Maybe I make her weak. But so do you."
Anya snarls. "Silence yourself."
"You said it yourself, Onya. You are all who remains. She loves you. And you love her back."
Anya rears back, her face flashing before she locks it back down into an expressionless mask. "The flight is another ten hours. I suggest you meditate and clear your mind of such delusions."
/
Clarke doesn't know what she expected. She's seen pictures and videos; she's listened to Lexa reminisce. She's never been big on nature, herself, but she appreciates the natural beauty of Lexa's country, coming closer and closer as the plane lands. There are soldiers waiting for them, even more as they leave the airport and make their way towards a car. Someone hands Anya a belt with a sheath, and she slides her hand back to the hilt of a sword with a sigh of relief, like coming home.
"The Commander is in meetings all day, preparing," Lincoln tells them, grinning as he swoops up Octavia in a hug before ushering them into a car. "We're taking you on a brief tour, and then to your quarters to rest."
"Reinforced metal," Raven whispers to Clarke as they sit in the black car and the door slams heavy after them. She raps on the glass. "Bulletproof."
/
Clarke wakes up and can't go back to sleep, every sound much too loud and jetlag in her bones. She yawns, sitting upright, and props herself against the headboard for a few quiet minutes, listening to Octavia and Raven breathe quietly on the other queen bed a few feet away. She slips out of bed, her toes wiggling on the fur rug, and pads towards the sliding door. It slides open silently and she steps out onto the balcony, shivering a little at the sudden chill. It's a beautiful night; clear and dark and the stars are bright pinpricks, the moon a glowing orb hanging low and big in the sky.
"You are up very late," Lexa says, and Clarke jumps. Lexa is standing against the railing, and Clarke realizes the balcony runs long against the building, connecting to another set of rooms.
"So are you."
Lexa hums faintly, agreeing. When she sighs her breath huffs out white, fogging in a cloud before dispersing. "I was not sure you would accept my invitation."
Clarke shrugs. "I wasn't either." She remembers how Lexa used to sleep in boxers and soft knit shirts two sizes too big, used to sit at the dinner table in sweatpants and tanktops and wool socks, went to class in skinny jeans and plaid button ups and converse sneakers. All the pictures she's seen on the news have shown Lexa in armor, black and menacing, or suits, buttoned up and the very picture of a modern politician. At the signing of the Constitution she'd been wearing a dress and heels, classy. Right in this moment she's caught between the two sides of herself, in loose pants that hang low on her hips and an expensive looking long sleeve shirt, the first three buttons undone. Her socks are two different colors, and the odd little idiosyncrasy, one foot blue and the other green, makes Clarke duck her head and smile.
"I'm glad." Lexa takes a hesitant step towards her. "I-this country is very beautiful. I hope you will see it the way I do."
"I'm sure I will." Clarke leans her hip against the railing, next to Lexa's hands.
Lexa takes a deep breath. "The way I left-"
"You know I didn't know?" Clarke talks over her, not ready to tackle that discussion just yet. "You told me, and we had those conversations… looking back, it was pretty obvious. But I really didn't know. Not until that morning." When she woke up alone. She forces a smile, because she'd meant to lighten the mood, but Lexa almost staggers. She looks stricken.
"I never would have-it was my understanding-" she sounds gutted, and Clarke rushes to take her hand.
"Hey. It's fine."
Lexa frowns. "I should have been more clear. I thought… you were the only one who knew, I thought."
Clarke experiences new and unexpected levels of guilt. This whole time, Lexa had felt lighter, less burdened, and Clark was busy being oblivious. She shrugs, forcibly airy. "Maybe I can be the first Trikru after school special. 'The Perils of Drink'."
"I must apologize. It was not fair to initiate relations when you had an incomplete understanding of the circumstances." Lexa steps away, her shoulders rigid.
"I hate it when you do that," Clarke murmurs, half to herself, and Lexa freezes in her retreat. "You don't have to spit out a dictionary. Just say you don't want to talk to me."
Lexa hovers, biting her lip, and Clarke looks at the stars for a while. "Very little of my life," Lexa says finally, "is about what I want."
Clarke touches a fingertip to Lexa's wrist, and when she doesn't pull away she takes Lexa's hand in hers. "I don't think I could ever truly hate the Ice Nation, not the way I should. And I know that's fucked up, but I really can't. Because it brought me to you." She squeezes Lexa's hand. "But I am sorry if you regret it. Maybe we should have just been friends."
Lexa reels her in, tugging gently until Clarke moves under her arm, tucked between Lexa's chest and the railing. "I regret many things," Lexa says, soft against the curve of Clarke's ear. One palm moves, warm and rough, to the skin just above Clarke's hips, slipping under Clarke's shirt, and she presses a chaste kiss to Clarke's temple. "But not everything. Not you."
