The city was quiet. The slow drizzle of rain had deterred most of the Tuesday evening night-crawlers. The orange streetlamp hummed overhead, its deep buzz accompanying the steady drumming of the rain, and Clarke closed her eyes and leaned back against the front wall of the bar as she let the music of the night fill her senses. Rushed footsteps splashed on the sidewalk as a pair of college students hurried inside, a taxi cab whizzed by and sprayed water across the street, and every few minutes, faint beeping could be heard from the crosswalk on the corner. It was like medicine, loosening up her tense shoulders, rousing her tired mind from its exhaustion. Today had been long. It had been stressful. But the rain, and the empty streets, were a comfort to her now.
The bus arrived a few minutes later than scheduled, which was to be expected. On any other night, Clarke would have been glad for the walk home, but in her haste to make it to work that morning, she'd left her umbrella sitting by the front door. She didn't particularly care, though. As little as she liked the city busses and their typical night-time customers, she was grateful that she could at least sit down for a few minutes. She'd had a dull, constant headache for the past few hours and was eagerly awaiting the moment she could collapse onto her bed and enjoy a much needed rest.
As the bus slowly made its way through North Polis, Clarke rested her head against the window and watched as beads of rain traveled down the glass. When she was a kid, she used to bet on which raindrop would win the race. She'd found it so easy to make a game out of anything, whether it was raining or snowing or blistering outside. She'd had such a free, creative mind, an unbelievable zest for life. Sometimes, now, she wondered where that part of her had gone and when it had begun to dwindle as it had. She found it difficult to enjoy the mundane now. As she watched those droplets reach the base of the window, she let out a sigh of disappointment. She wanted to care which one would fall first. She wanted to feel that simple joy again. It just didn't feel possible anymore. Everything was just so much more complicated than it had been during childhood. Life was too short and days were too long.
As she stepped off the bus, she didn't even bother pulling the hood of her jacket up over her head. She would shower once she got into her apartment anyway. She shut her eyes and turned her face up to the sky as she walked, letting the rain fall onto her face, washing over her skin and catching in her eyelashes. She opened her mouth, inhaled deeply, letting the cool night air fill her lungs. Sometimes, in the rain, she would hope for some sort of baptism; she wondered if the water could cleanse her soul, mend her heart. There was a part of her, deep inside, that was broken. There was something that was missing. It was hard to understand, it was hard to put into words, but she knew what it was. She knew that it was a loss, and a lack of closure, and a deep, pointless longing.
Maybe her chest wouldn't feel so hollow if she would allow herself to move on. Maybe that relentless ache in her stomach would lessen if she would throw out the rest of Lexa's belongings, or if she would move out of that apartment. Maybe she wouldn't feel so alone. Lexa had been gone for over two years now -two years, three months, and seventeen days, to be precise. Even when her fear had turned to anger, and her anger had turned to sadness, and her sadness had turned to hopelessness, and her hopelessness had turned to sorrowful acceptance, Clarke had kept an exact count of how long she'd been gone. Lexa would not be coming back. Clarke was almost certain of it. And even if Lexa was alive, even if she was out there somewhere, why would she even want to come back? If Clarke hadn't been enough to keep her there in the first place, then why would Lexa ever feel any pull to come home?
But Clarke's pain could not be cleansed. The rain could not wash the pain or the loneliness from her soul. No matter how much air she sucked into her lungs, she still felt like there was a void in her chest. She opened her eyes, stuck her hands into pockets, and continued forward, staring down the empty sidewalk with a thoughtful sadness. The wind began to pick up, causing the trees lining the street to rustle. The leaves whispered to her, soft and low. As her hair blew forward, the deafening whoosh of the breeze filled her ears. The rain felt sharper now, stinging slightly as it pelted the back of her neck. There was a low rumble of thunder, distant enough that it wasn't startling, but close enough that Clarke could feel it reverberate in her chest.
She would like this, Clarke thought silently to herself, looking up as she stepped under the cover of a large tree.
She wondered where Lexa was now, trying not to dwell on the question of whether Lexa was even alive. The brunette had loved the outdoors. She'd had a deep, genuine love for clear, starry skies, for endless forests, for still lakes and rough ocean waters, for gentle rain and torrential downpours. If it came from nature, if it was something untouched by man, Lexa had loved it. She'd loved storms more than anyone else Clarke had ever met.
Clarke shook her head, letting out a sharp scoff as she chastised herself. She couldn't live off of ghosts. Couldn't spend her days wondering what could have been, dwelling on a past that she would never get back. Lexa was gone. Dead or alive, she was gone.
She arrived at her apartment just as the thunder began to grow louder. As she ascended the few steps that led to the front door, she frowned, noticing that the door was just slightly open. She rolled her eyes. While Raven didn't technically live with her anymore, the engineer still had a key to the apartment and would show up unannounced almost every night. Clarke had lost track of how many times she'd arrived home from work to find Raven lounging on the couch watching the television. Clarke didn't mind the company, but Raven's forgetfulness to lock the front door had become a pattern.
"Raven?" Clarke called out softly, pushing the door just slightly.
As she stepped inside, confusion set in almost immediately. The apartment was dark. The television was even off. Surely, if Raven had shown up and then left, the she would have closed the door properly. She was careless, but she wasn't reckless. Clarke just frowned as she reached backwards to shut the door. The metal surface of the doorknob was wet and sticky, which couldn't be explained even by the rain. Clarke reached out and flipped the nearby light switch upwards, looking to the door for an answer. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but it certainly hadn't been blood.
The dark red liquid stained the doorknob. Clarke stared with wide eyes, fear rising in her chest as she looked down the illuminated hallway. A trail of dark handprints stained the left wall, along with a small trail of red spots on the hardwood floor. Clarke felt a surge of panic and she instinctively grabbed the umbrella that she'd left at the front door that morning. She gripped it in her hands, holding it over her shoulder like it was a baseball bat, tightening her grip as she took a few hesitant steps down the hallway.
"Raven?" She called out with urgency. "Are you here?"
No answer.
Every neuron in her mind was telling her to leave, to turn right around and walk right back out that door. But something in her gut was pulling her down that hallway. Something in her knew that she needed to follow those bloody handprints.
She slowly made her way down the corridor, her knees bent and her knuckles white as she held on tightly to the umbrella, ready to strike. The trail of blood ended at the bathroom door. Clarke held her breath as she prepared herself. The door was just slightly ajar, but the light in the room was turned off. Clarke had never felt scared of the dark before. As a kid, she'd loved the privacy that the dark could offer. Now, though, she could understand that fear of the unknown, the apprehension at not knowing whether someone would be standing on the other side.
She pushed the door lightly with her foot, waiting for any reaction, arms ready to swing. Instead, there was no response. She took a step forward, peering through the gap. A chill went down her spine as she saw the dark shape of someone's foot in the darkness, a small puddle of blood, a discarded hand towel soaked in red. She forgot her own safety, immediately stepping into the room and flipping on the light switch, fearful that something had happened to Raven.
"Raven, what ha-"
The wooden handle of the umbrella clattered against the tile floor.
Clarke's breath caught in her throat.
She froze, her heart thudding furiously in her chest, her mind spinning, the blood draining from her face as she stared at the woman leaning against the side of the bathtub. The brunette's hair was a mess. Blood had dried under her nose and around her mouth. Her left cheekbone was bright red and a little bit swollen. Her white t-shirt was stained red with blood. In her hands, she held a bath towel against her abdomen.
The brunette's eyes fluttered open weakly. She stared at Clarke for a moment, eyes glazed over, as if she hadn't fully registered Clarke's presence. The brunette swallowed hard, groaned slightly as she weakly lifted her head up. Somehow, despite her obvious pain and disorientation, she managed to smile softly at the blonde.
"Hi Clarke," she rasped out.
"Lexa," Clarke breathed, flustered and overcome with disbelief. Her gaze flicked back and forth between both of Lexa's eyes, like she was trying to make sense of what was right in front of her. It didn't make sense. None of this made sense. She had to be dreaming.
Lexa let out a throaty cough and her head lulled backwards. The brunette grimaced, letting out a hiss of pain. Clarke snapped back into reality, shaking her head and blinking a few times, attempting to collect herself. She fell onto her knees in front of Lexa, her heart racing as she took in the brunette's physical state.
"Oh my god," Clarke muttered, panic truly beginning to fill her body. She was finding it impossible to process anything, to comprehend anything that she was seeing."What are you doing here? What happened?"
Lexa just sucked in a shallow breath and opened her eyes again. She looked up at Clarke. Her body was weak, her eyelids drooped, and she hardly had the energy to hold her own head up, but as she stared up at Clarke and the halo of light that seemed to settle around Clarke's golden hair, backlit by the bathroom light, she didn't even register her pain. All she saw was Clarke. All she felt was Clarke's presence.
Clarke, on the other hand, was overcome with concern, pushing her emotions aside as she busied herself with Lexa's injuries. Lexa's hands, covered with blood, were just barely holding the towel against her abdomen. Clarke reached down for the towel and Lexa let her arms fall to her side, allowing the blonde to take over. Clarke heard her soft sigh of relief, followed by a quiet grunt of pain as Clarke lifted the towel from the wound.
The brunette's stomach was stained with wet blood, and through all of the red, Clarke could make out a single gash. It didn't look deep, but it was almost impossible to identify how deep or how serious the injury was.
"Long story," Lexa mumbled, her voice coarse and low and dripping with fatigue. She shook her head. "Not important."
"Fuck," Clarke cursed under her breath, staring down at the deep red wound. She put the towel back over it and held it down firmly with one hand. She glanced up at Lexa, but the brunette's eyes were shut once more. Clarke placed her hand on the side of Lexa's face, hoping to get her attention. "Tell me what happened. I need to know what I'm looking at."
Lexa's eyes blinked open. She stared into Clarke's eyes for a moment. She'd missed Clarke's blue irises, and the curve of her nose, and the way her brow would furrow when she was serious. With her disorientation, her vision was blurry, and the image of Clarke kneeling above her was soft and hazy, almost like a dream. A dream that Lexa had wished for for so long. She smiled faintly and lifted a shaky hand upwards, using all of her strength to place her hand on Clarke's cheek, to feel the warmth of her skin again. Clarke, breath hitched in her throat, placed her own hand over Lexa's, confusion swimming in her blue eyes.
"Missed this," Lexa muttered, shutting her eyes once more and exhaling softly. She brushed her thumb along Clarke's cheek slowly, as if savoring the feeling.
A tight knot was building in Clarke's throat. She clenched her jaw, let go of Lexa's hand, and continued to hold the towel down against Lexa's abdomen. With her free hand, she reached for the sink, opening one of the lower cupboards. She felt around for the first aid kit and pulled it out out urgently, her eyes flicking back and forth between Lexa's injury and her face.
"Lexa, what happened?" Clarke urged. She reached for the counter of the sink and grabbed a small plastic cup that sat on the surface, nearly knocking it over. She clumsily turned the faucet on, eyes still focused on Lexa. "Was it an accident? Did someone do this to you?"
Clarke lifted the towel once more and, using the cup, poured a small amount of water onto the wound, hoping that it would clear up some of the blood to give her a better idea of the severity of the injury.
"Mm," Lexa grumbled, shaking her head. Her face contorted with pain as Clarke pushed down harder on the injury, attempting to keep enough pressure on it. She sucked in another sharp breath, squeezing her eyes shut. "Tried to stab me," she muttered between clenched teeth.
"Jesus, Lexa, why didn't you go to a hospital?" Clarke questioned with exasperation. The panic was still there in her chest, growing more and more intense. She reached into her back pocket and fumbled for her cellphone. "I'm calling you an ambulance, okay? Just hang on."
"No."
Lexa grabbed Clarke's wrist. Her grip was weak, but strong enough that it caught the blonde's attention. Lexa opened her eyes again, but this time her gaze was serious. Dark.
"What?" Clarke asked incredulously.
"No, Clarke," Lexa bit, her voice sharp and determined despite her exhaustion. "No hospitals. Not safe."
"Lexa, you're hurt, I-"
"It's not safe,"Lexa insisted, using all of her strength to get the words out. The brunette's features softened slightly, and Clarke caught a glimpse of fear in her expression. "Please, Clarke... just need help."
Clarke's stomach turned. She knew that Lexa's chances were best if she were to go to the hospital. Clarke couldn't provide the kind of help that a hospital could. But she also knew that Lexa wasn't someone who showed fear easily. If Lexa didn't think that a hospital was safe, for whatever reason that may be, then Clarke had to believe her.
Then again, did she really know Lexa anymore?
She shook the thought off, perturbed by the idea that the brunette in front of her might not be the same person she had been just over two years ago. Now wasn't the time to go over any of that. Now wasn't the time to get emotional, or to get angry, or to take anything personally.
"Lex, I can only do so much," Clarke sighed, putting more pressure on the wound without even realizing it. "If the person who did his to you nicked an organ or an artery or something, I can't fix that, I can't-"
"He didn't," Lexa grunted, shaking her head. She let go of Clarke's wrist. "Just got cut. Not that deep."
Lexa's words were slow and messy. Clarke could feel her anxiety rising even more, which she hadn't thought was even possible. How much blood had Lexa lost? What if she'd hit her head? What if the slurred speech and the difficulty keeping her eyes open was from more than just physical pain or exhaustion?
"Lexa-"
"If it was bad, wouldn't have made it here."
Clarke let out a heavy sigh, shutting her eyes and taking a breath. Her stomach turned again, her fear threatening to spill out of her. She was in shock. She could feel it. The detachment, the confusion, the adrenaline rushing through her veins causing her head to pound and her heart to race. She needed to suppress it. She needed to keep it contained for now, because she needed to listen to Lexa. She needed to help Lexa. Even if none of this made sense. Even if she wanted to run away and never come back.
"Come on, Clarke," Lexa breathed, just barely forcing out a small grin. "You're a doctor now, right? You got it."
"I'm not that kind of doctor." Clarke's voice was sharper than she'd intended. She noticed Lexa's frown, noticed the sad look of confusion on Lexa's face. "Not anymore," she muttered more softly, opening the first aid kit with her free hand.
Clarke worked silently as she tended to the stab wound. Lexa didn't attempt to strike any conversation either. The only sounds that filled the apartment were their breathing, the occasional sharp intake of air when the pain was too much for Lexa to handle, and the thunderstorm that had grown more violent outside. Clarke had covered the surface of the dining room table with a few clean garbage bags, more so for sterilization rather than aesthetic purposes, and she'd managed to get Lexa to lie up on the table. It had made the whole process much easier; under the light above the table, Clarke could get a better look at the injury, and with Lexa lying flat on her back on the higher surface, Clarke could better manage the bleeding. It even seemed to help Lexa's state. The slight opportunity to rest her head seemed to ease some of her dizziness. Her head spun less. She almost felt like she was waking up, like she was become more alert, much more capable of speaking and hearing and thinking.
Clarke took Lexa's top off and used both water and a bottle of saline solution to clean off the wound. Once the area was as sterile as possible, which wasn't much, Clarke was relieved to see that the wound wasn't nearly as deep as she'd feared. Lexa had been right. It didn't look as though any organs or arteries had been affected. It looked as though she'd been slashed rather than stabbed, and while that meant the wound was large, it also meant that it was much less threatening. The amount of blood that Lexa had lost, though, was still a concern. Clarke took extra care to fully clean the wound, then proceeded to suture the gash. There was no guarantee that it would heal properly; the risk of infection was extremely high, Clarke hardly had any professional equipment at hand, and it was possible that there had been at least some damage to muscle. The fact that she'd managed to stop the bleeding, though, was enough to offer a small amount of reassurance.
Lexa was clearly in a lot of pain. She'd managed to endure the whole process without saying anything, but her discomfort was written across her face. Clarke felt bad for her, she really did, but she refused to think too much about it while she was focused stitching her up. She couldn't get distracted, couldn't let herself take any attention away from Lexa's injury.
Now, though, with Lexa's wound finally closed up and danger no longer imminent, it was all beginning to hit Clarke.
Lexa was lying on the table, eyes shut and her jaw clenched. Even her face was a little bloodied. There was some swelling on her cheekbone, accompanied by a small cut. Her nose had clearly been bleeding earlier, but it had dried up by now. There was a small scrape on her chin and a decent gash on her forehead. Her hair, although messy, looked just as Clarke had remembered it. Long, brown strands that fell past her shoulders. Her jawline, sharp but soft at the same time. Her green eyes, high cheekbones, soft lips. It was Lexa.
Clarke reached out, letting her thumb graze over Lexa's good cheek. Her skin still felt the same, soft and smooth, like home. She brushed a strand of hair out of Lexa's face. She didn't even realize what she was doing until Lexa's eyes opened again. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Lexa just stared up at Clarke, her pained expression softening, her eyes searching. And Clarke just stared back, shocked by how much it hurt to see Lexa, by all of the emotions that were beginning to resurface. It hurt to see Lexa because for the past two years, every thought of her had been accompanied by a sharp sting of loss. It hurt to see Lexa because it was so obvious that she was in pain, and the last thing Clarke ever wanted was for Lexa to hurt. And it hurt to see Lexa because, despite the fact that Clarke had begged the universe every night for her return, all Clarke wanted to do was scream at her, to curse at her for ever having left, to sob into the arms of the woman who had caused her more pain than anything else life had ever thrown at her.
But it was Lexa, and no matter how conflicted and confusing Clarke's emotions were, she couldn't hate her. She couldn't scream at her. Not like that, not now.
Lexa reached up. She held Clarke's hand against her cheek, letting the blonde rest her palm against her skin, and the two just held eye-contact. They breathed in sync, and a part of Clarke just wanted to collapse; she wanted to fall into Lexa's arms, to break down, to bury her head in Lexa's chest. But still, she was too conflicted, and Lexa was injured, and as much as Clarke could recognize the woman she loved, it had been so long. She wasn't sure if she knew this version of Lexa. So much could happen in two years.
"I missed you," Lexa breathed, holding onto Clarke's hand a little tighter. Her eyes were filled with longing, with desperation, with love.
No. Clarke couldn't do this.
"We should get you cleaned up," Clarke responded, forcing a tight smile and pulling her hand back. "I'm sure you're tired."
She stepped into the kitchen, grabbed a washcloth from a drawer and a stainless steal bowl from under the sink. She could feel her stomach dropping, could feel that heavy sadness within her growing sharper. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. But instead, she just took a deep breath and swallowed hard. She filled the bowl with hot water and soaked the cloth.
When she turned back to the dining room, Lexa was pushing herself up into a sitting position on the table, her eyes fixed on the ground. Clarke could recognize the look of resignation in Lexa's eyes. She could see how the rejection had hit her. Lexa carried disappointment and guilt like a cross, and in that way, Clarke knew that she was looking at the same woman she'd known before. Lexa could take thing so personally. She could feel so deeply. Clarke knew that she was being cold and abrupt, and she knew that it wasn't really fair given Lexa's state... but she also knew that all of her discomfort and confusion and hesitation was beyond valid.
"Are you hurting anywhere else?" Clarke asked, her voice a little too friendly, as if Lexa were a patient.
Lexa just shook her head, eyes still lowered. Clarke took another breath, willing herself to stay strong and unaffected. She shouldn't have expected an honest answer from the brunette. She just returned to the table, set the bowl down on the surface, and cupped Lexa's face gently in the other hand. For a brief moment, Lexa stared, and Clarke caught a glimpse of something heavy and terrifying sinking in those orbs. But just as quickly as Clarke had seen that darkness, Lexa shut her eyes, and Clarke felt her own sense of resignation.
She was gentle as she scrubbed the dried blood off of Lexa's face. She started with her chin, then her unmarked cheek, rubbing soft circles and trying not to apply too much pressure. Then she moved to the cheek that was still growing even more red, careful not to agitate the small cut and not to push down too hard. She frowned as her washcloth reached Lexa's forehead. The gash wasn't deep, but it was coated with dried blood, and Clarke couldn't help but grow nervous again. If Lexa had hit her head, which Clarke figured she had, there was the chance of a concussion or, at the worst, some sort of brain damage. She wanted to insist again that Lexa go to a hospital, but she knew better, and she knew that she had to trust Lexa's word that she didn't need a doctor.
Once Lexa's face was clean, her features no longer indicative of the state she'd been in just two hours prior, Clarke set the washcloth back in the warm water. She ran a thumb over the injured cheekbone, her skin making contact with the small cut. She felt Lexa melt into the touch as the brunette let her head tilt into Clarke's palm. Every part of Clarke wanted to place a soft kiss over the scrape, to wish it away. Two years ago, she would have done so instinctually without even having to think about it. But she had to hold herself back.
"This wasn't how it was supposed to go," Lexa exhaled, her voice barely audible. She opened her eyes, and the sadness that they held was almost child-like. It cut straight to Clarke's heart, and the blonde swallowed down her own surge of emotion. "This wasn't how I wanted to come back..."
A sharp pang of frustration shot through Clarke. She shouldn't have felt so hurt by those words, she shouldn't have felt anger at hearing Lexa expressing her own disappointment. But Clarke felt that anger ignite, and it burned there for a moment, held back only by Clarke's own guilt for even feeling that way.
"I wasn't sure you would," Clarke muttered, pulling her hand away once again. She stepped aside, reaching for the metal bowl and ringing out the towel, her hands searching for anything to do that would give her the opportunity not to look at Lexa.
"What do you mean?" Lexa's voice was thick with confusion. When she got no response, she tried again, her voice pleading. "Clarke?"
"Let's not do this right now," Clarke sighed, shaking her head. "We'll talk about it later."
Lexa's own anxiety was beginning to resurface, even more than it had when she'd been slashed. Even more than when she'd stumbled in the door of her apartment, than when Clarke had threatened to call an ambulance. This had nothing to do with her injuries or her safety and everything to do with Clarke and their relationship.
"Clarke, please-" Lexa tried, reaching out. The swift movement sent a fiery pain through her body and she stopped before she could even grasp the blonde's hand, instead grabbing at her side and inhaling sharply.
It took Clarke everything in her not to rush to Lexa's side. She wanted to comfort her, wanted to ease the pain, wanted to help her as much as possible. At the same time, she couldn't. It wouldn't be right to offer Lexa some sense of absolute security when Clarke herself didn't know where she stood with her. She wasn't willing to pull that rug out from Lexa's feet.
"We'll talk about it later," Clarke's voice was softer this time as she shot a quick glance to Lexa, who was holding her jaw shut tightly. "I don't want you to get all worked up right now. Your body might not be able to handle that stress."
Lexa just nodded, eyes fixed on the floor. Clarke didn't miss how Lexa's other hand gripped the surface of the table tightly enough that her knuckles lost their color. She knew that Lexa was nervous. She knew that the brunette was getting deep inside her own head. But Clarke couldn't fix that right now, not with conversation. She couldn't have that talk with her right now. Maybe, at the very least, she could just bring the battered brunette some fragment of comfort.
"You, uh, you can't shower with the stitches yet," Clarke explained hesitantly. "So I'm just gonna clean off what I can, alright?"
Lexa just nodded, her eyes shut. Her exhaustion was growing heavier, and as awkward as this whole interaction was, she still felt comfortable. She was nervous about what Clarke had said, unsure of its implications, but she felt safe. As guilty as she felt for showing up unannounced, and as guilty as she felt for even dragging Clarke into it, she felt comfortable.
The blood was everywhere. It covered most of Lexa's lower torso, but there was even some on her neck, on her shoulders. Clarke had barely even noticed it up until now -her focus had been solely on taking care of Lexa's wound- but if Lexa hadn't told her that she wasn't injured elsewhere, she would have been alarmed.
"Here, I'm gonna pull your hair up for a minute."
She pulled a hair tie off of her wrist and reached up, softly collecting Lexa's hair in her hands and pulling it up into a messy ponytail. The familiar feel of Lexa's hair in her hands sent a chill through Clarke, and she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. It almost felt normal, but it wasn't. None of this was normal.
Once Lexa's hair was up, Clarke dipped the washcloth back into the bowl. She rubbed the warm cloth against Lexa's neck, working as gently as possible. The thin layer of dried blood was washed away easily, but Clarke still took her time, recognizing how relaxed Lexa had become. The brunette's shoulders had dropped, the tension in her neck had eased. As Clarke brought the cloth around to the back of Lexa's neck, the brunette let her head fall back just slightly, a soft breath of air escaping her. Clarke wanted it to last. She wanted that tired semblance of peace to last forever, and she wanted to let herself feel it too. She wanted it to swallow them.
She scrubbed the blood off of Lexa's waist, being careful not to irritate the bandaged wound as she did so. Then she moved up to Lexa's chest, gently brushing the washcloth against Lexa's shoulders. She didn't ask to remove the sports bra that Lexa wore -she wasn't sure that either herself or Lexa would be comfortable with that, and Lexa could handle it herself if necessary- but she worked around the fabric, cleaning what she could see. She frowned deeply when her eyes landed on a scar just below Lexa's collar bone. She hadn't noticed it previously, but now that the dried blood had been washed away, Clarke's eyes were drawn to it. It was large, stretching from below Lexa's shoulder all the way to her sternum. Clarke gently ran her thumb over the thin skin, a heaviness setting in her mind as she took it in.
"This is new," she spoke softly, looking at it intently.
She jumped when Lexa immediately reached up and grabbed her wrist.
"Don't." Her voice was firm, but not unkind. She just shook her head and gently lowered Clarke's hand back to the table. She didn't attempt to make eye-contact with Clarke, she just stared straight ahead.
"Hey, it's okay, I just-" Clarke attempted to reassure her, confused by Lexa's strong reaction.
"Please, Clarke," Lexa begged as her voice cracked slightly. Her head turned down the floor and Clarke watched with wide eyes as she watched the brunette search for whatever words she needed to say. "I just- I don't want to talk about them right now, okay? Can you please just not make me talk about them?"
Them? Clarke wondered. She'd only seen one scar.
Her heart broke at Lexa's reaction. There was a darkness in her voice and in her expression, a deep sort of shame or discomfort. She just looked troubled. Disturbed, but not by Clarke. Disturbed by herself, maybe. Or by the scar. Clarke couldn't quite piece it together. All she knew was that Lexa's demeanor had shifted drastically from comfortable and relaxed to serious and guarded. Clarke wasn't sure that she'd ever seen Lexa react like that. She was puzzled by the desperation in Lexa's tone, but she was even more concerned by the shame that laced Lexa's words.
She just nodded, then continued. She scrubbed the dried blood off of Lexa's collar bone, and she tried not to react when she saw other marks on Lexa's torso. Two small red circles just above Lexa's bra-line, a small, nearly-faded scar on Clarke's side. Her eyes drifted back to Lexa's throat. There were a few splotches of red around her neck. Initially, Clarke had assumed that the light red pigmentation was from the blood, but now, after having brought the washcloth over the skin multiple times, Clarke could see that she had been wrong. As she looked more closely, she realized that they were faint, barely noticeable scars.
She couldn't help but wonder what could have caused the scars. None of them looked quite as serious as the one on Lexa's collar bone. She looked up to Lexa's face and saw that the brunette still had her eyes shut tightly. Lexa's bottom lip was fixed between her teeth, and Clarke could practically feel the anxiousness radiating off of her. Clarke was still puzzled. Lexa had never regarded any of her scars with shame, and truth be told, the brunette had many. Two scars from gunshot wounds, one from a stab wound, one from a childhood injury, and many many more. So why, now, did Lexa seem so fearful for Clarke to acknowledge those few small marks on Lexa's torso?
Then, as she stepped around the table with the washcloth in hand, she saw Lexa's back.
Scores of raised skin, some overlapping each other, littered her back. The long, messy scars sent a chill down Clarke's spine, and she had to remind herself to breathe. They were worse on the left side of Lexa's back, but they were everywhere, and as Clarke touched the washcloth to Lexa's skin, she couldn't help but stare. She said nothing, but she took her time as she wiped the small amount of dried blood that was there. She wanted to ask Lexa what had happened, what she had been through, but she couldn't. She wouldn't go against what Lexa had asked of her, and Clarke wasn't sure she wanted to know. She wasn't sure of anything right now.
Her eyes traced the tattoo on Lexa's back, the one thing that served as any real reminder that the woman in front of her was, in fact, Lexa. It spanned the length of her back, from her neck all the way down to her waist. She hadn't expected that she'd ever see that tattoo again. It was odd seeing it now, right in front of her, accompanied by a plethora of violent scars. She couldn't help but stare.
"It's not as bad as it looks," Lexa's strained voice filled the silence. Clarke could hear the slight tremble in her words. "They don't hurt."
Clarke shook her head, taking another breath and reminding herself to keep her composure. It almost sounded like an apology, as if Lexa was trying to reassure her, which was deeply unsettling. This wasn't something Lexa needed to apologize for. If anything, Clarke wanted to apologize for having been so cold earlier. While she believed that Lexa could handle a fight, that even a gash to the stomach wasn't something Lexa would take very personally, this was different. These weren't battle scars inflicted by the nature of her job. They were violent, they were cruel, and Clarke had a sinking feeling in her gut that said they were a result of torture.
"No, it doesn't look bad," Clarke attempted to reassure Lexa, her own voice weak.
She walked around to stand in front of Lexa again. The brunette's eyes were squeezed shut now, but Clarke could see a tear running down her cheek. She reached out and brushed the tear away, this time giving into the urge to stay there, to let Lexa rest the weight of her head against her palm, to let the moment last. Lexa's head turned and another tear escaped as she leaned into Clarke's hand. They stayed like that for a moment, Clarke's thumb catching the few tears that fell while Lexa steadied her breathing. But Clarke knew that they couldn't stay like that forever. Lexa's exhaustion was palpable and Clarke didn't want to prolong her pain.
"Can I help you with your arms, or do you want to try?" Clarke asked softly, feeling guilty for breaking the moment. She wanted to offer Lexa some sense of agency, wanted to give some of the control to her. As comfortable as Clarke was with helping her, she knew that Lexa was an inherently independent person.
Lexa forced a small, sad smile, then shook her head. She lifted her head up and away from Clarke's hand.
"Maybe not," she whispered, a sadness in her words. She felt weak. She was weak. Her arms were exhausted. Every part of her body was exhausted. She understood what Clarke was doing, and she understood why Clarke was giving her the option to scrub her arms herself, but she wasn't sure that she'd even be able to hold up her own arms for long, let alone wash them off with the towel.
Clarke nodded. She dipped the cloth into the water, pulled it back out, and continued what she had already been doing. She took Lexa's left arm first. While she could tell that Lexa was trying to hold it up for her, the limb was almost limp in her right hand. She tried to be gentle as she scrubbed Lexa's forearm. She was relieved not to see any more scars until she got to the woman's wrist. As she wiped away the thick layer of blood that had caked onto Lexa's hand and lower arm, she noticed a thin ring of scar tissue that seemed to wrap almost the whole way around Lexa's wrist, just below her hand. She turned Lexa's arm over gently, gazing at the scarring. She finished washing up that arm and then, with a frown, began scrubbing Lexa's right arm. Just as Clarke had expected, a similar scar marked Lexa's write wrist as well. This was accompanied by some faint scarring on Lexa's knuckles as well.
Clarke set the towel back down in the bowl. Lexa's eyes were closed, her breathing fairly even. She looked a lot less upset than she had when Clarke had been wiping her back, but she was still shaky. She was still tense.
"Thank you," Lexa whispered, her breath shaky and her eyes still closed. Her voice was almost too quiet to hear, and Clarke's heart throbbed painfully.
"We should probably do your legs, too," Clarke breathed quietly. She reached forward, brushing a stray strand of brown hair behind the other woman's ear. "Then you can get some rest."
Lexa just nodded, her frown deepening. She took in a breath, then straightened herself up and opened her eyes. Those green orbs were filled with fatigue, eyelids drooping heavily. Lexa still didn't look to Clarke. Instead, she just stared blankly ahead. Clarke noticed her body shiver just slightly, and a wave of realization hit her. Lexa probably felt way too exposed, either to the cool air in the apartment, or to Clarke.
"Wait, I can go grab something so you can cover up," she offered quickly, taking a step backwards. "I'll be right back."
"No," her voice was louder than either of them had expected. Lexa's chest was ringing with alarm. She already felt vulnerable. The last thing she wanted was to be left alone, even if only for a moment. "Clarke, it's fine. You're fine. Let's just get this over with... please?"
Clarke looked sadly at Lexa, unsure of herself. Something about this felt wrong and unfair. It wasn't that she felt uncomfortable with Lexa in front of her wearing just the bra and pants. It wasn't that Clarke felt awkward or weird about it. She just knew Lexa. She knew that Lexa was feeling vulnerable and exposed right now, and she knew that Lexa hated feeling vulnerable and exposed. Clarke wanted to cover Lexa up not because she didn't want to see the scars or because they made her uncomfortable, but because she knew that Lexa didn't want them to even be acknowledged.
"Of course, Lex," Clarke responded softly, forcing a small smile.
Clarke reached over and squeezed one of Lexa's hands. The brunette's shoulders almost instantly relaxed a little bit, and it felt like both of them could breathe again. It served as a silent reminder that it was okay, that Clarke wasn't judging her, that she didn't need to have her guard up as high as it was. Anxiety welled up in her chest, though, as Clarke grabbed the hem of her jeans. She knew that she could trust Clarke, and she knew that Clarke would never pass any unjust judgement onto her, but Lexa felt so powerless, like she'd been turned inside out, like her open skin was exposed to the world, horrifying and sensitive, drawing attention in the worst possible way. Clarke had already seen her state in the bathroom, and she'd already caught a glimpse of the scars on Lexa's chest and her back, but Lexa didn't want her to see anything more. She didn't want Clarke to think of her differently. She didn't want to explain it all, not right now.
But she needed the help. And she was too tired to protest.
Clarke didn't think much as she helped Lexa discard the bloodied jeans. It felt a little bit awkward, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was just... weird. It was all weird, and confusing, and triggering. As much as she was fighting off the anger and frustration that had come over her for a moment, she was also trying so hard not to feel the depth of her own sadness, to mourn the two years she'd spent wondering if Lexa would ever return. Now wasn't the time to get caught up in her own hostility toward Lexa. Now was the time to make sure Lexa was safe, to at least give the brunette a comfortable night after something serious had obvious happened to her. Clarke was so focused on her own emotions that she didn't notice the way Lexa tensed up when her hands began to unbutton the jeans. She didn't notice how Lexa had to steady her breathing, or how Lexa had to shut her eyes to calm herself down, or how both of Lexa's hands were gripping the edge of the table so tightly that the wood might snap.
Clarke gently pulled the jeans down to Lexa's knees, expecting nothing. She started to scrub the woman's thighs softly with the washcloth, intent on removing the dried blood. When she managed to wipe away a small amount of blood, her heart stopped. She held her breath as she continued to rub them with the small cloth, knowing that she couldn't give a reaction, that she couldn't ask questions.
Cigarette burns? Clarke wondered to herself, her eyes flicking between each one. At least a dozen circular scars were scattered across her thighs. They were were small, but they were bright red, which made them stand out against Lexa's light skin. They looked like they had healed, like they had been from at least a few weeks or months ago, but the obvious scarring made it clear to Clarke that they hadn't been treated properly. She glanced up, her eyes falling on the two small, red spots that she'd noticed on Lexa's chest. The scars were nearly identical.
She took a breath, willing herself not to make a big deal out of it. Not right now, at least. Lexa was injured and very obviously exhausted. She'd made it clear that none of this was up for discussion right now. They would have that conversation another day. Clarke pulled the jeans down to Lexa's ankles, expecting nothing else, and felt a sharp pang in her chest when she noticed more scarring. There was a scar just below Lexa's right knee. The wound had clearly healed, but once again, Clarke doubted that it had been properly taken care of. Smaller scars dotted her ankles. On one of her ankles, she spotted a scar similar to those on Lexa's wrists, and her stomach turned. Clarke just bit her tongue as she pulled the jeans off completely. She wouldn't stare. She wouldn't ask questions. Not yet. She just used the soft cloth to wipe away the small amount of blood that was left.
"All done," Clarke spoke softly, standing up. She set the washcloth back into the metal bowl, her eyes hovering over the now-reddish liquid, wondering how that blood could possibly have been Lexa's.
Lexa just nodded, not trusting her own voice. She could feel a tight pain in her throat, could feel the overwhelming urge to collapse. She knew that if she were to speak, she wouldn't be able to get any words out. She would break down. She'd kept her eyes off of Clarke throughout the ordeal, not wanting to see the blonde's reactions, but the fact that she knew Clarke had seen any of it was reason enough for Lexa to feel sick.
"You want to get some rest?" Clarke asked hesitantly, trying to figure out what Lexa was feeling.
Lexa just nodded, not meeting Clarke's gaze. A moment later, she held the edge of the table in her hands as she attempted to push herself off of the surface.
"Here," Clarke offered her hand, but Lexa didn't take it.
The brunette lowered herself off of the table and into a standing position. She winced, one hand shooting straight to her sutured and bandaged wound while the other gripped onto the table's edge as she steadied herself. She took a deep breath, willing herself to move forward. She took one step forward and felt a small surge of confidence, realizing that it wasn't that bad. When she put her weight onto her other foot, though, she nearly collapsed, a jolt of pain coursing from her side through the rest of her body. She let out a sudden cry of pain, but as she began to fall to the ground, Clarke caught her.
"Let me help," Clarke tried again.
This time, Lexa looped an arm over Clarke's shoulder. There was no way she could walk without the help. Slowly but steadily, they made their way to Clarke's bedroom. By the time Clarke had helped Lexa lower herself onto the bed, the brunette was breathing heavily, her head spinning. It took her a moment to collect herself. By the time she could really focus on her surroundings, Clarke was already rummaging through the dresser across from the bed.
Lexa frowned as she took in her surroundings. The room looked different, but also familiar. The furniture was the same, but the bedsheets and the comforter were new. The surface of the right side of the dresser, where she'd once kept her things, had been cleared off, Clarke's belongings now scattered across its entirety. The curtains were different. There was a new painting hung up on the wall. The picture of herself and Clarke that once had a place on her bedside table was gone. It was strange to see the room, but even more unsettling to see that it really wasn't her room anymore. There was no sign of her existence. No sign that this had been her home.
"Here, these look comfortable."
Clarke stepped over with an oversized t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants in her hand. Lexa's confusion resurfaced as she stared at the clothes. She could remember them as her own. She could remember the last time she'd worn those sweatpants, and she could remember the comfort that she used to find in that t-shirt. Maybe there were still signs that she'd lived there. Maybe her memory hadn't been completely erased from the space.
Lexa slipped the t-shirt on over her head, biting her tongue at her discomfort. She then started to push herself off of the bed, thinking that maybe she had enough strength to stand up and slip on the sweatpants, but Clarke stopped her immediately, already having expected Lexa to do so.
"Let me help," Clarke spoke once again, her words firm. Lexa nodded, grateful.
As she helped Lexa pull the sweatpants up all the way, the brunette avoided eye-contact. Clarke could see the embarrassment written all over her face, and she wanted to reach out to her, to reassure her. But Clarke wasn't sure if she could do that. She wasn't sure what she could say, or what she could do. The thought of sitting there and having a conversation with Lexa unnerved her. For the past two years, Clarke had fantasized about some day reuniting with Lexa. In her dreams, they would hold on to each other and never let go. In her dreams, they were happy and relieved, crying tears of joy to see one another again. But now, with Lexa's reappearance being a reality, Clarke didn't know how she felt. There was an anger there, buried deep in her chest. And a sadness. And fear. A part of Clarke felt that, if she were to let herself really feel that relief, the world would come falling down not long after. She wasn't prepared for the pain that would come if something went wrong.
She helped Lexa get under the covers, acutely aware of the brunette's pain and fatigue. Every movement was slow and seemed to take a great deal of effort. There was an emptiness in Lexa's expression, some sort of pain that surpassed physical discomfort. Clarke found herself wondering once again what had happened to Lexa. Where had she been? Where had the scars come from? Who had hurt her tonight and why?
The brunette shut her eyes as her head hit the pillow. Clarke just watched her for a moment, still feeling like she was watching a ghost. It almost looked normal as Lexa lied there, eyes shut, chest rising and falling slowly under the covers. The familiarity was conflicting. Part of Clarke wanted to embrace it, to lie down with her, to imagine that the past two years hadn't happened. But Lexa was hurt, and Clarke wasn't even sure if the brunette would be comfortable with that. Clarke wasn't sure if she would be comfortable with that. Things weren't normal. They weren't fine.
"Do you need anything else?" Clarke asked, stepping toward the bedroom door. "More ibuprofen, or water?"
Lexa's eyes flew open and Clarke was surprised to see the sudden panic and confusion in Lexa's expression.
"Where are you going?"
"Uh, I was just going to crash in the other room," Clarke answered awkwardly, forcing a smile. "I thought that might be more comfortable for you."
Lexa just shook her head, swallowing hard.
"Don't go," Lexa breathed pleadingly.
Clarke saw the tears as they began to fill Lexa's eyes. Clarke could count on both hands the number of times that she'd seen Lexa cry, and as she saw that genuine, deep sadness in the brunette's expression, her own worries began to surface. She didn't know what Lexa was thinking, or what she was feeling, but Clarke wanted to take it all away. She wanted to be there, to hold Lexa, and to never let her go. She wanted to take away Lexa's pain, and her own, and she wanted to go back to the life that they'd had just over two years ago.
Finally letting her own concern and longing push her forward, Clarke stepped toward the bed. She climbed under the covers and put her arms around Lexa, who practically crumbled into her embrace. Lexa rested her head on Clarke's chest, wrapping her arm over Clarke's waist and holding onto her tightly. Clarke felt her own eyes begin to water as she held her. A painful lump was forming in her throat and she rested her chin against the top of Lexa's head, confused and scared and heartbroken and so incredibly relieved to hold Lexa in her arms once again. She felt Lexa's tears as they began to soak through her t-shirt.
The brunette, typically strong and stoic, finally cracked. Her hold on Clarke tightened significantly and her shoulders shook as she cried silently. She clenched her jaw, fighting off the urge to sob, but a whimper escaped her as she felt Clarke's hand gently rub her back. Her tears grew thicker, her crying growing louder. She wanted to break down completely, to sob, to scream, to let out all of the pain that she was carrying, but she couldn't. As she buried her head into Clarke's chest, her whole body seemed to shake, overcome with the emotional anguish that she'd been shoving down for so long. She could feel it building within her: the fear she'd become so accustomed to, the grief for herself and for the life she'd had with Clarke, the desperation for all of that pain to come to an end, the physical pain of her injuries and her scars and the memories that came with them. She'd managed to keep it suppressed, to ignore most of it, but now it was coming full force, along with the realization that while most of that suffering was over, the fallout was only beginning. As comforting as Clarke's arms were and as much as Lexa desperately craved for Clarke to hold her, they were also the tether dragging her back into reality, turning her into someone who was vulnerable and sensitive. Those arms were a double-edged sword.
Clarke felt her own tears trickle down her cheek. She held Lexa, one hand on the brunette's back and the other at the back of her head. She didn't know why Lexa was crying. She didn't know what was going through her mind, or what she'd been through, or where the flood of emotion had come from. It hurt to hear. It hurt to feel Lexa's body as it convulsed with every shaky breath. It was like torture to see that Lexa was suffering, but Clarke knew that she wanted to be there for her. She knew that she wanted to hold her. She wanted to hold Lexa as tightly as possible, as if doing so would put all of their broken pieces back together.
"It's okay," Clarke whispered. She pressed her lips to the top of Lexa's head, kissing her softly. "You're okay."
She shut her eyes and her own shoulders fell with heartbreak as she felt Lexa shake her head, an adamant refusal to believe what Clarke had said. Lexa sucked in a sharp breath and Clarke felt a slight tug at her shirt as Lexa balled the fabric up in her fist, her hands trembling. As Lexa shook her head again, Clarke thought she heard Lexa say something, the brunette's voice uncharacteristically small and pinched, but she was unable to make it out.
"What?" Clarke asked, sitting up just slightly. She gently touched Lexa's chin, turning the brunette's face up to her. Lexa opened her eyes, and those green pools were swimming with a chaotic mess of fear and despair and an alarming amount of hopelessness.
"I'm not-" Lexa choked out, her voice cracking as she shook her head. Her eyes were red and puffy with tears, her features twisted with pain, and she couldn't even trust her own voice. She couldn't get the words out. She gasped between each word, nearly hyperventilating now. "I'm- not- okay."
"Oh, Lexa," Clarke sighed. She pulled the brunette against her chest, this time holding on tightly. She placed a kiss to the top of Lexa's head and cradled the distraught woman in her arms. "I've got you," she whispered.
Lexa was sobbing now, her cries heavy and deep, each one followed by a desperate inhalation of air as she struggled to breathe. She didn't care about the physical pain. She didn't even react to how much every strangled sob, every convulsion, every large breath sent pain shooting from her abdomen through the rest of her body. She didn't even care how much the crying was worsening her headache or her disorientation. All she knew, in that moment, was the mental and emotional agony. That, and safety. As hurt as she was, as terrified as she was, as hopeless as she was, she still felt safe. In Clarke's arms, she was safe.