Lexa is concerned.
She is rather deeply concerned, for she has been told that the morning will bring the Skaikru Election, and Lexa has been anticipating the inevitable discussion that must be shared with Clarke for days, now – but Lexa has thus far had no need for the words which she has prepared.
Clarke has shown little discernible care for the matter at all; the Skai Prisa had only mentioned the settled upon date once, and merely in passing, as though, to Clarke's mind, it bore no significance of any kind. Lexa finds it to be discomforting, for Lexa knows the loyalty of Clarke's people, but Clarke doubts even that she is worthy of such faith. And, given her mother's recent words on the subject, Lexa knows – understands – that Clarke's sense of self-worth is suffering.
It makes little sense, to Lexa, that this election would not be cause for distress in Clarke.
She has watched carefully the muscles which pull frowns against the lines of Clarke's mouth with infuriating, devastating frequency, and the absent curling of fingertips into palms, crushing dull nails into tender flesh. Lexa has measured the rigid tension of Clarke's shoulders, rippling beneath the weight of all that she carries, but never wavering; only tightening, strengthening, so that she may bear more when it is asked of her.
It is not that Clarke is well, for Lexa knows that she is not; Lexa has seen the sadness of Clarke, and the constantly buzzing hum of worry that flickers to life in the shadows that hover in the corners of her eyes. She has spied the crippling fear, and the ashamed, staggering waver of confidence.
There is great worry in Clarke's heart; Lexa knows this – her own heart breaks for it – but Lexa can find no more worry in Clarke than there had been before her mother's bold and foolish declaration.
She is in pain, yes – for Clarke's heart is tired and suffering, and her body is still weak.
Clarke may now move between the Trigedakru and Skaikru camps, but she cannot make this trek without agony; she is not reckless with herself – Lexa believes that Clarke is too much of a healer at heart to allow for recklessness with physical injury – but Clarke has edged into far braver depths with her health than Lexa may claim comfort in supporting.
Lexa's concern for Clarke is shattering in its relentless persistence, for it begs war between her heart and mind, pulsing adrenaline through Lexa's veins for which she has no outlet. Lexa knows that Clarke must lead her people; she wishes only that Clarke could do so without the weight that must come with it, and from the healing roots of a bed.
Still, despite the discomfort of the journey, Clarke comes to Lexa when Lexa does not find her first – for Lexa could only justify visits to the Med Bay when Clarke was still confined to her cot within the Med Bay, and she now may only find Clarke in her Skaikru tent when the Commander has tired herself of searching for reasons why she should not.
Lexa finds herself in Clarke's camp more nights than her own, for her reasons to see Clarke far outweigh whatever flimsy excuse she can craft not to. It is baffling, for it should not be so difficult to produce such reason.
But it is Clarke, and the memory of her soft, yellow hair tickling the length of Lexa's neck, her body curled against Lexa's chest or hugged warmly around Lexa's back in sleep is enough to keep at bay the haunting echo of weakness that thrums in the back of the Commander's mind.
And so when Lexa has settled herself upon Clarke's bed, arm curled loosely around the blonde's neck with Clarke's shoulder blades pressing softly against Lexa's chest, she calls for Clarke's attention with a soothing trace of her index finger through the gentle curve of Clarke's elbow.
Clarke hums softly to acknowledge her captured attention, but otherwise offers nothing.
"Clarke," Lexa murmurs softly, for Clarke is unashamedly sleepy, and in this moment she is precious, and warm, and Lexa feels that such perfect charm is perfectly unjust, but Lexa must voice the question that has burned in her veins for so many nights before this one, for she can feel its flames threatening to sear through to her skin, and she may bear it no longer.
"Are you okay?" Clarke asks blearily, eyes tiredly blinking apart to meet Lexa's own, peering affectionately down at her as the blonde rolls minutely to the side, her hip shuffling between Lexa's outstretched legs until she lays as a kitten might, cheek smoothing soft nuzzles against Lexa's chest as her legs tuck closer for warmth.
"You have told me that there is to be an election," Lexa paces her words carefully, "yet you have spared it no concern. Why?"
Lexa's curiosity is an impossible thing, for it is tenacious, but it, too, is proud. Lexa has never cared for prying inquiries, and has made habit of employing tactical observation and thorough scrutiny to avoid them when such things are possible.
But Clarke–
She is not a puzzle which Lexa may solve without voice, for Clarke cannot be understood only in action; Clarke hides nothing – can hide nothing – but, still, there is much in her heart, and Clarke cannot offer it all at once. Even if she could, even if Lexa might be so honored as to read each flutter of emotion and feeling as it creeps beneath Clarke's flesh and overcomes her, Lexa believes she might still have need to ask – for Clarke's feelings are deep, and often such deep and varying emotion may only bear reason in the thought behind them.
Clarke sighs softly, fingers cinching around the fabric of Lexa's top, just beneath her breast. Lexa's heart pounds against her chest as though it is an instrument designed for such torture, but it is not; her ribs feel too tight, and her blood too hot, for it is nothing that she has felt in past – this need to fulfill Clarke's desire to be close with her.
Lexa's palm falls from the bend of Clarke's arm and covers the soft flesh of her abdomen, instead; Lexa does not slip beneath Clarke's clothing, for this inquiry is important and an answer must be found, but Lexa is tempted; tempted to know if Clarke may allow such an intimate caress upon her naked flesh by Lexa's hand.
"Because," Clarke replies quietly, "it really isn't worth worrying over."
It is true, for Clarke's people will cast their votes in whichever manner they so choose, no matter Clarke's opinion of the matter, but it does not sound like Clarke. These are Lexa's words falling from her lips – for Lexa has not voiced them, but these are unquestionably her words – and Lexa believes that it is wrong.
"My mind knows this truth," Lexa admits, breathing the words into Clarke's blonde curls, "but it, too, knows your inability to reconcile such notions with your heart."
Clarke says nothing for some measure of time that is somehow too short and too long, all at once; entire galaxies live and burn and begin anew within the span of this silence, before Clarke shakes her head gently, and deigns to reply.
"My people won't vote," she says quietly.
Lexa frowns, for she has been made to believe that democracy is the way of Clarke's people; Clarke has said that the Skaikru would raise hell and topple mountains to maintain even the illusion of its standards, so how may they now justify not casting a vote? And for what purpose?
"You seem sure," Lexa notes, eyebrow inching upward, though Clarke's eyes, slanted in the later stages of drowsiness, are hardly focused enough to find meaning in it.
Clarke rolls her shoulder, but does not answer.
"Clarke," Lexa pleads softly, desperately, for it is difficult enough to understand Clarke without the Sky Princess' reluctance, but the presence of it hurts Lexa's spirit in ways her heart may only understand in fragments.
For what purpose can she serve Clarke if Clarke will not allow her aid at all?
But Clarke proves herself once more, for she does not continue to offer stilted answers which bear nothing of import to Lexa's mind. She offers Lexa truth, and honesty, and gut-wrenching insecurity, which scores in Lexa's heart and devours her with rage.
"Ark rules," Clarke whispers, face digging further over Lexa's heart like she may somehow burrow there and hide this life away. "The laws on the Ark were very clear; candidates for election have to be twenty-five years of age or older to be put on the ballot."
Every blazing path of fury within Lexa freezes.
"I'm only eighteen, Lexa," Clarke explains, though it is unnecessary.
Lexa had not known Clarke's age; the roundness of her cheeks and the fullness of her body had merely named her a woman, to Lexa's eyes, but the moment Clarke had announced such a stipulation of age, it had become clear that Clarke did not meet it.
"You should have told me this before," Lexa frowns, hands pulling from Clarke's touch with a coldness that she has felt rarely in Clarke's presence. "If your name will not be considered for vote, it changes everything with the alliance between our peoples, Clarke," she condescends, though she does not intend it; Lexa may only tremble in the fear of what this might mean, for she has only just found Clarke, and has only just begun to feel the warmth of her presence and the heat of her touch, and Lexa is not willing to release her so soon.
Lexa is not willing to release Clarke at all.
Clarke shifts forward, sensing the atmospheric change and likely the harsh snap of Lexa's voice so very close to her own ear. Her eyes dim with blatant rejection, which instantly swallows the chill from Lexa's heart only to replace it with another frigid burst of rawness, for she has made Clarke feel this pain.
"They won't vote," Clarke tells her again, though she shrinks further away from Lexa's body, and her fingers toy mindlessly with the edges of her deerskin pelt, eyes vaulting across the room for purchase that she will not find, for it is not that Clarke wishes to find anything; she wishes only to escape Lexa's gaze.
For it had been brief – and misunderstood, Lexa insists to herself – but she had cast judgment upon Clarke when she has only ever promised not to.
"The forty-three people left of those who came down with me don't trust any of the adults in our camp not to imprison them, or demean them, and they've worked too hard and have sacrificed too much to let that happen," Clarke whispers, then clears her throat and blinks jarringly. "And the Arkers who followed won't elect my mother or Kane, because as much as they don't trust me in any position of political power, they trust that you would honor our alliance even less in my absence. They're afraid. They've seen what your army can do, and they don't want to fight against it. I didn't tell you," Clarke whispers, head bowing and eyes closing against the soft vulnerability sleuthing behind them, "because it isn't going to change anything. My mother is determined to keep things the same, but everyone else knows that the Ark rules can't apply here. Not anymore. We're learning, and we're surviving, and we did fine without the Trigedakru's help – but my people aren't stupid, Lexa. They know that if it comes down to it, we know nothing about your land by comparison. This alliance with your people can only benefit my own, and they know that. They won't vote," Clarke repeats, quiet conviction pulsing through her words, even as hurt and insecurity threads through them, too.
"I am… sorry, Clarke," Lexa lowers her head, shame pooling in her gut and stinging beneath the lids of her eyes. "I should have known better than to doubt your decision. I was- afraid," she confesses, voice cracking where her faux strength fails.
Lexa feels the heat of Clarke's stare before her periphery can view it, but the moment it is detected, Lexa's gaze meets the drawn, contemplative emotion baring itself to her in Clarke's.
"I was afraid," Lexa sighs softly, "that I might fail you. If you do not lead your people, Clarke," Lexa swallows, reaching tentative palms forward in hope that Clarke may accept her touch in spite of her falter, stroking relieved fingers across Clarke's cheek and jaw when her touch is mercifully allowed, "this alliance will not stand. Not so soon," she shakes her head gently, then pulls softly at Clarke's face until the Skai Prisa hesitantly lowers herself between Lexa's legs once more, stomach bearing flat upon Lexa's own in a manner which makes Lexa shiver, for Clarke has been this close to her before – so close that distance has lost purpose and meaning and physical existence – but so rarely has it occurred with Clarke's face so close to her own, her eyes only blinks apart from Lexa's eager, apologetic green.
"My people have little faith in yours; they have faith in you, Clarke. Without you, they consider their debt to the Skaikru paid. And I- I will not lose you to your mother's ego, Clarke," Lexa says, briefly eying the small stretch of smile that threatens at the edges of Clarke's mouth, for it catches the breath from Lexa's lungs before she has even registered the small, sharp gasp that had drawn it there.
Clarke offers one, steady palm to Lexa's chest, using it to aid her in balance as its opposite threads fingers through the loose hair at Lexa's temple. Lexa does not purr – she bears none of the kitten-like charm which Clarke makes so familiar and beloved – but if Lexa had ever felt a moment when she might, this would be that moment.
For Clarke's fingers are tender, and gentle, and caring, and they move across Lexa's scalp and through her hair as though her only purpose is simply to touch, and to provide comfort through it.
"You won't lose me at all, Lexa," Clarke promises ardently, head lowering until Lexa may feel her breaths fall against her face.
And then it is Clarke's lips which follow, delicately stroking along the tanned skin of Lexa's cheek, soothing affection across her flesh. Lexa feels the warmth which flushes through her own face and the wide, loving station of her eyes, but she cares little that she is so blatantly exposed.
For it is hardly a fold of lips against the smooth plane beneath her eye, but it is a promise. Lexa can feel it in the soft dig of Clarke's nails in her chest, and she may see it plainly in the sure, devoted look which drowns Lexa in the calm seas of Clarke's eyes.
Lexa had feared she might yet lose Clarke; that she might survive a war and the burdens it carries and the two bullet wounds which had resulted, only to lose the Skai Prisa to nonsensical Skaikru politics.
Lexa had feared she might lose Clarke, but that, Lexa decides, is something she vows will not occur. For she now feels closer to Clarke than ever before, and it is nothing to do with politics or families or people outside of this tent; it is only Lexa, and only Clarke, and all that they must do is simply share space, and undemanding companionship.
This is all that they must do, and yet Clarke chooses to lay in her arms; chooses to forgive her blunder. Clarke chooses to be in Lexa's company, and pride and affection swell wide in Lexa's heart in answer.
Lexa may only use her emotion to guide her hands, gently shuffling a shaking palm up Clarke's spine, fingers tripping lightly over the nape of the blonde's neck, sifting her fingers through her hair and pressing softly down in effort to bring Clarke closer.
As close as Clarke may allow.
Clarke is sleepy, and emotionally weary, and she allows more than Lexa thinks her righteousness and anger might otherwise permit, but Lexa will offer no complaint, for she may only soothe Clarke in this peaceful silence, and relish the closeness of her in the quiet of this tent.
Author's Note: So... My feelings necessitated fluff, and this is what happened. Let me know what you think? Also, I'll take a one-shot prompt from the 100th reviewer!
