Chapter 9/12
Clarke took a moment to compose herself, long enough that the hand she had resting against the wall didn't shake so much. But perhaps this day was different. Perhaps this day was something that she thought she should try to remember fully, try to not forget.
And so she took in a deep breath, she held it for too long. For long enough that her lungs screamed a little, for long enough that her heart ached from the discomfort. And then she exhaled, and perhaps she wished the exhale had been steady, had been sure. But she knew it came out broken and ragged.
And perhaps she didn't know if she cared anymore.
She reached out then, and she felt herself disconnected from what she saw herself do. But she thought that the only way she could even start. And so Clarke blinked enough to clear her tears as she took in the clothes that hung in front of her. She took in the colours, the reds, the shades that seemed to shift just a little, that seemed to exist together and blend and bleed and mix into something that should have been happy, that should have been a memory of happier times.
But Clarke thought it did little more than remind her of a future she knew she wouldn't have.
Clarke began to rifle through the clothes slowly, her mind trying to decide which shade of red she thought was the best, which one she thought would look the best. And she hated it. She hated the way her heart seemed to break even more than she thought possible.
And Clarke eyed the dress she saw, the one she had seen Lexa try on only to complain that it was a little too short, she eyed the darker red jumper that Bruce had chewed on a little too vigorously as a puppy. And she eyed the deep red of the coat that hung set apart from the other clothes. And perhaps Clarke had gone into this trial telling herself that she didn't know what clothes to choose.
But perhaps Clarke had lied to herself, had merely told herself she hadn't already decided months ago. If only because she knew. She knew which coat she would choose, which one to clean, which one to check over carefully, which one would look perfect.
Clarke reached out then, her fingers brushed off what little dust seemed to settle over the coat's shoulder. But it didn't surprise her when she found it clean, when she found it spotless. And it didn't surprise her because she had made sure it would be perfect, she had made sure it would be ready when it came to it.
Clarke bit her lip too harshly, she bit her lip until she tasted blood, until she felt the pain. But perhaps it was more preferable to what was beginning to take hold in her mind.
And so Clarke felt herself fall to her knees slowly as she cradled Lexa's coat to her tightly, and perhaps she tried to remember Lexa's laugh, and maybe she tried to recall Lexa's smirk, the way her chin would raise in defiance, the way her lip would twitch a little as she tried to hide a smile.
But most of all, Clarke tried to remember Lexa.
"First off," and Lexa glanced briefly to Clarke who sat besides her. "I can not believe you decided to call him that."
"Hey," Lexa said as she turned back to the road. "You chose the breed. I chose the name. That was the deal."
"Bruce, Lexa. Bruce," and Lexa tried to silence the laugh she felt bubble on her lips.
"Maybe you should have decided to choose the name, then," Lexa challenged, and she knew she sensed Clarke roll her eyes.
"There is no way I was letting choose what kind of dog we got," Clarke said. "I saw the entire folder of pictures you had," Clarke continued, hands gesturing in front of her. "Half those dogs were huge."
"They were real dogs," Lexa said simply, her mind turning back to the images of the beasts she had collected, to the ones that had made her dream of great wars, of fierce companions that would cause any to pause, to reconsider whatever it was that they were to consider.
"They were meat eating horses," Clarke said.
Lexa scoffed then, but she felt her lips pull up at the corners more fully as Clarke sighed and crossed her arms.
"Yeah," Lexa said. "Real dogs."
"Bruce is going to be cute," Clarke said instead of continuing to argue, and Lexa couldn't help but laugh at the way Clarke's voice took on a dreamy quality.
"He will be," Lexa said simply.
Lexa had never quite contemplated what it must be like to have children, if only because she had realised at a young age she probably wasn't so attracted to the other half of what was required for a child to be produced. But perhaps she now realised the difficulties. If only because she watched as Clarke ran after Bruce, the puppy happy to explore a little too fearlessly, his tail wagging haphazardly as he ran out of the room.
She laughed as she heard Clarke call out Bruce's name, and she heard the thump as the puppy ran into something a little more solid than himself. And so Lexa sighed a little as she rose from the couch and followed the noises of Clarke and Bruce.
Lexa couldn't help but feel a little clenching of her heart as she walked into their bedroom to find Clarke lying on the bed, Bruce cradled in her arms as she tickled his belly. Clarke looked up then, and Lexa felt her smile return more fiercely as Bruce began to nibble at Clarke's fingers, the puppy's tail slapping against Clarke's wrist.
"I love him," Clarke whispered as she looked back down to Bruce.
And perhaps she could understand why Clarke had chosen a retriever. If only because Bruce did have floppy ears that seemed to bounce with the slightest of movements. And perhaps she thought him cute, and at least he'd play fetch.
"Twenty-Nine, Lexa," Anya said, an eyebrow raising. "You're getting old."
"I am," Lexa said with a laugh.
"You and Clarke doing anything?" Anya asked.
"Not too sure," Lexa said as she glanced up in thought. "Clarke's probably got something planned," Lexa finished as she eyed the way Bruce stole a piece of food from Anya's plate.
Anya noticed though, and Lexa smiled a little as she saw the woman glare at Bruce who merely tilted his head, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he snuffed at her a little before licking her knee.
"You're lucky you're too cute for me to be mad at," Anya crooned as she scooped Bruce up, her fingers already tickling his belly.
"I wouldn't do that," Lexa warned, her eyes narrowing at the way Bruce barked happily, the way his belly seemed to tighten a little.
"Why?" Anya glared as she pulled Bruce more tightly to her as she began to rock him. "He's too cute to attack me."
"Yeah," and Lexa shrugged as she leant back a little.
"Isn't that right? Brucey," Anya whispered to the puppy. "You're just too cu—"
And Bruce threw up.
Lexa laughed as she scooted back further. But she grimaced, too, as the congealed remainders of Anya's sandwich gurgled out of his mouth and slimed their way onto Anya's lap.
"What the fuck," Anya said as she pulled Bruce from her, as she held him at arm's length and stared at the mess in her lap.
"I told you," Lexa laughed. "Clarke made the same mistake yesterday," she finished as she took Bruce from Anya.
But she didn't think Bruce cared too much by the way his tail continued to wag, from the way his tongue continued to loll out of his mouth and the way his ears flapped happily.
"Good boy," Lexa whispered as she ruffled his head.
It was nearing dark by the time Lexa made her way to the front door. Her eyes found the light that glowed out from the windows of her shared apartment and she felt the smile spread a little at Bruce's small head that appeared out from behind the curtains, his eyes snapping to her almost immediately. Lexa waved then, and she saw Bruce jump as high as he could before darting out from the curtains, and she knew she'd find him waiting for her, and she was sure his motions would alert Clarke to her presence, too.
And Lexa laughed just a little as she heard his paws thump against the floor as her key began to scrape against the lock. But the door opened, and Lexa squinted briefly as her eyes adjusted to the light from inside.
"Hey," Clarke whispered, and Lexa smiled as she saw Clarke cradling Bruce to her, the puppy happy to lick her neck a little before trying to reach for Lexa.
"Hey," Lexa said as she stood in the doorway, the chill of the snow around her doing little to distract from the way Clarke glowed brightly in the warm light.
"Come in," Clarke said as she stepped aside, a sly smile spreading across her lips.
"What?" Lexa asked as she eyed the way Clarke's clothes seemed to hug her a little more tightly than usual.
"You look nice," Clarke said simply.
"I look the same as this morning," Lexa said.
"Well," and Clarke smiled. "You looked nice this morning, too."
And so Lexa rolled her eyes as she stepped inside, as she closed the door behind her and turned to face Clarke once more.
But she couldn't help but gasp as Clarke let Bruce down from where she cradled him to her chest. And Lexa gasped at the way Clarke's top dipped lowly, the way it seemed to bend and curve enough for her eyes to wander, for her mind to swirl.
"Happy birthday, Lexa," Clarke said, her eyes shining as Lexa met her gaze.
"Thanks," and Lexa was sure her voice came out just a little more dry than usual, just a little less sure, less certain.
"The bath is waiting," Clarke said simply as she turned and began walking.
"Bath?" Lexa asked, eyes tracing the way Clarke's hips swayed in the shadows and dimmed lights.
"It's waiting," Clarke called over her shoulder.
And so Lexa swallowed as she kicked off her shoes and glanced down at Bruce who looked up at her, his eyes wide, his tail wagging.
"I don't think you're old enough for whatever's about to happen, Bruce," Lexa whispered to him.
Lexa began to follow Clarke's retreating steps, and as she turned a corner she found Clarke waiting for her as she leant against the bathroom doorframe, her head cocked to the side.
"Go," Clarke said, her voice hardening a little, her eyes glancing into the bathroom.
And this was different. It wasn't that Lexa had ever felt herself easy to boss around, easily swayed. But the way Clarke's voice turned cold, the way her eyes remained sharp, shining, brought a prickle to Lexa's skin. And Lexa was sure she sensed an energy in the other woman, she was sure she sensed the more of her words.
And perhaps Lexa simply found herself eager.
And so she swallowed once more, she met Clarke's gaze that remained transfixed on her and she began to enter the bathroom.
"Take your clothes off," Clarke whispered to her as she stepped into the bathroom. "Close the door and I want you in the bath," and Lexa couldn't help but whimper a little.
And so Lexa closed the door behind her, and as she turned to face the bath she couldn't help but gasp out quietly, couldn't help but take in a breath.
Lexa took in the candles that flickered, she took in the way they illuminated the tile, the shining metal and the glass that echoed out around her. But Lexa's gaze fell to the bath, to the heat of the water that misted and steamed her vision, that seemed aglow from the candles. Bubbles appeared to swell over its surface, and as Lexa breathed in she knew she recognised the scent. She knew she recognised Clarke.
And perhaps Lexa could be forgiven for shuddering, for breathing out shakily.
But perhaps most of all, she could be forgiven for feeling that prickle against her skin, that slight quickening of her pulse as she registered that Clarke remained by the door. And Lexa was sure she heard the other woman undressing, and as she glanced behind her, as she glanced at the bottom of the door and the crack of light that shone through, she was sure she saw movement, she was sure she saw the faintest shadow of something fall away from Clarke's body.
And so Lexa turned back to the bath, her fingers just a little shaky as she began to undress. The warmth of the mist and steam around her made her shiver, made her skin prickle though. And she knew it wasn't because of the warmth. If only because she knew she heard the telltale sound of Clarke's lighter underwear falling to the ground with little more than a sigh.
And Lexa found herself standing bare, she found herself moving towards the bath, and she paused. She paused for long enough to settle her mind as much as she could and to steady her breathing as much as she could.
And then she stepped over the bath's lip, her toes careful as she entered the water, and she couldn't help but gasp at the heat, she couldn't help but whimper to the burn of the water as it began to soothe her body. And she inhaled deeply, she let the scents infuse themselves with her mind, she let the bubbles and salts prickle and feather her flesh, and as she started to lower herself into the water's scolding embrace she felt her pulse begin to quicken, she felt her body begin to flush and the blood through her veins begin to rush.
"Close your eyes," Clarke's voice echoed out around her, and as Lexa leant back, as she let the warmth of the bath's edge steady her shoulders, as she let her head rest against the bath's end, she tried not to imagine, she tried not to picture the way Clarke must look as the candles flickered their heat, as they warmed her body, as they glowed against the curves of her flesh and brought shadows along the length of her body.
"No looking," Clarke whispered, and Lexa couldn't help to start at the closeness of Clarke's voice now, she couldn't help but to start at the way Clarke's breath ghosted against her cheek. And she was sure Clarke knelt besides her, she was sure Clarke looked at her now, and she was sure Clarke's hair must have glowed and flamed in the light.
"Clarke," Lexa whispered, her voice broken and quiet.
"No looking," Clarke whispered once more.
And Lexa whimpered, she let the sounds slip past her lips, and she knew she couldn't help but to feel the thrill course through her body as she felt Clarke enter the bath, as she felt Clarke's leg brush against her own.
"No looking," Clarke whispered, and Lexa was sure Clarke stood over her. And she was sure when she felt Clarke begin to lower herself into the bath, too.
"Clarke," Lexa whispered once more, her eyes held shut, her pulse beating furiously.
"Shhh," and it was all it took, and the subtle brush of Clarke's finger against her lip was all Lexa needed. All she wanted.
And Lexa felt Clarke settle herself over her, she felt the weight of Clarke against her, she felt the water breathe between them, and she felt the prickle of the heat of Clarke's skin against her own.
"Clarke," and perhaps Lexa couldn't be blamed for voicing her want in this moment.
And as Clarke's body straddled Lexa's, and as Lexa felt them brush together, as she felt Clarke's hand brush down her neck, as she felt Clarke's lips ghost against hers, she couldn't help but to chase after them with her own lips, couldn't help but to want to look, want to see, want to take in the way Clarke must have looked.
And as Clarke's hands began to wander, as her her lips began to brush against her flesh and as her own breathing began to fill the quiet, Lexa was sure she heard Clarke whisper out to her.
"Happy birthday."
Clarke woke with a start. It took her longer than usual before her eyes began to clear the memories, before her mind began to register the walls that surrounded her. And perhaps this time it took her longer than usual to accept the realities of her situation, perhaps this time it took her longer to want to accept what her world had become.
And so she sat up a little more fully in her chair, her neck protesting the movements as she stretched a little, as she rolled her shoulders and tried to shift her legs. Clarke sighed then, she sighed and she tried not to let her eyes meet the clock on the wall, she tried not to be distracted by the sounds of the machines and she tried not to be brought to tears.
And she tried. She tried not to feel the pain, she tried not to feel the hurt. She tried not to feel helpless, broken, desperate. But perhaps most of all she tried not to feel alone. She tried not to feel alone in the room, and perhaps this one time she tried not to cry, she tried not to embrace the pain.
And she knew this time it was different. She knew this time was the last. And so she closed her eyes tightly, she held them shut so tightly that she saw stars shift and dance through her vision. And she felt the pain, she felt the pain as her nails dug into her palms, she felt the pain as her jaw clenched too tightly, and she felt the pressure building. She felt the pain building behind her eyes.
Clarke began to shake her head back the forth then, she began to shake it, and she knew her hair must have been a mess, she knew knots must have formed.
She knew.
And it hurt. Clarke heard the sounds of her own breathing begin to meet the sounds of the machines. She knew she heard her own breathing begin to overcome the whirring of that machine. She knew it took it over, she knew it overpowered it.
But who could blame her? Who could blame her for feeling the hurt and the loss?
Clarke felt the tears begin to fall then, she felt them begin to stream down her face and she felt her shoulders shake. She felt her heart break more than it ever had.
But perhaps she embraced it. And she did. She did embrace the hurt, she did embrace the truth. And she did, if only because it told her that it was real. It told her that the experiences weren't fake. And it told her that the love she had felt was worth it. It told her that the memories she had fought for, that she had held onto, that had helped her wake up each day were worth it.
But she hated it. She hated the realisation, the recognition of what this last moment of wakefulness meant.
And it took Clarke far too long to gather her thoughts, it took her far too long to settle her breathing enough that she could look up at the clock that hung on the wall.
And it took her a long moment of blinking through the tears before she could see the time, before she could follow the ticking of the clock. And she followed as it ticked to each second that passed. She followed it as the minutes began to advance. And she watched as time seemed to slow, seemed to speed on its own. She watched as time ticked by, as the minute hand moved past midnight, as it heralded a new day. And she watched as the second hand simply continued on with little thought to the pain that filled her mind.
Clarke took a breath then. She blinked and she moved from her seat. And she forced her eyes to fall to Lexa's body, to the way it seemed more shell, more husk of what she used to be.
Clarke knelt down then, she let her knees bleed into the cold of the floor and she embraced it. She embraced the chill that ran through her body. If only because it let her feel just a little closer to Lexa.
Clarke reached out then, and she was sure her hand shook, she was sure her tears began falling once more. But she let her fingers find Lexa's, she let her hand squeeze and she let her body shake.
And the truth of her thoughts seemed unfair, unkind.
But the truth of them was simple.
It always had been.
And she knew that there had still been time.
Until one day there wouldn't be any left.
But perhaps Clarke Griffin-Woods had wished that time would have given her a little more.
If only because she loved Lexa Griffin-Woods.
"There's no more time, Lexa," Clarke whispered. "I'm sorry," and she didn't really know what to do now, she didn't know what to think. "If you're going to do something it has to be now," and Clarke bit her lip so harshly that she knew she split it, that she reopened the scar that had formed. "I love you," Clarke choked. But perhaps loving was simply not enough. "You're thirty-two today, Lexa," and Clarke reached out, her finger brushing away a strand of hair from Lexa's forehead.
"Happy birthday."
