Author's Note: While discussing writing, what inspires us & how she believes I'm a writer I said I'm an imposter of a writer. Its true but thank you Lydia for liking the phrase. I go days without it & strangely have to wearing a watch if I write. Hopefully someone reads this & enjoys it. The last 2 lines of Costia's note in chapter 4 I wrote. Selfishly & importantly I enjoyed creating this.

Day 5

In the bunker Clarke paced with militant dedication. At some point Arthur stopped following her with his eyes and groaned. Gravedigger. A role she never thought Lexa would take up. Not that it was beneath her but she had others to do that work. She had others and now Lexa felt compelled to give them a burial? A sort of solace? She was too annoyed to eat and her thoughts were hoarding all her energy but she reasoned it had to be around three and there were many hours left in the day. With a groan of her own she went back up the ladder, patted her thigh to have Arthur follow and made the journey back to Lexa's. She didn't take the exact same path, not wanting to creating a trail from one bunker to the next. More so she wanted time to think. And she really wanted a nap but had a feeling she would dream of bodies being pulled on a makeshift cart, of Lexa bringing them to their shallow graves. They didn't seem deep. She knew-she was in one-fallen on her knees and could see her deceased neighbors. Mounds of dirt. A dream not unlike her previous nightmares.

Arthur took that moment to push his head into her thigh to remind her he was there. As she looked down she heard a twig break but it wasn't from the canine. Sharply she lifted her head and saw Lexa was in front of her. With a tilt to her head she thought there was a raw beauty to her. And upon further, longer looking she seemed the saddest girl in the...(my)world. I'd prefer to admire the stars and their fleeting beauty while she obsesses over the moon. She could taste like bittersweet tea and half-lost hopes, of held back tears and contained bliss as though she didn't and couldn't trust the momentary happiness.

Kissing Lexa would be different now, she imagined. She had tasted of earthy tea and on their walks Lexa would always search for what she called Luna and had said so factually, "she has a name Clarke of the sky people, maybe you were too focused on the stars..."

And she wanted to hate Lexa because that would be easier, but there was a part of her that knew Lexa had a well hidden, good heart. Because who would take up being a gravedigger? Slowly she walked to the lilthe woman with narrowed eyes and asked, "do you want to talk?" Of course there was that shake of her head and the painful tug that Clarke was right. And because last night when Clarke pressed her ear to Lexa's back she thought it was the saddest sound...like it couldn't decide if it wanted to stay and keep its pace that sounded like a crescendo or its low symphony until it would be forced to give in...

"Fine." She said flatly. "We're going to your bunker." She started walking but Lexa didn't move as though asking why.

With a pause Clarke turned and looked back at the woman, eyes unwavering, looking, more so gazing because someone riddled with an anemic presence still managed to project an air of arrogance, which Clarke knew was a mask. There was never a day, a minute, a moment that Lexa would be in black and white. Superimposed with past lives in her, short comings and glory but never simplicity. She refrained from voicing to Lexa because you're enigmatic and I want to understand why you do these things. She felt Lexa would shrug off the comment and dismiss it. Instead she said with conviction, "you cannot be so cold hearted that you want to be alone right now," in a tone that she dared the girl to challenge her. It was barely there but Lexa gave a small nod then began walking.

The way back was silent. The only sounds were foot steps, Lexa rolling her shoulders and Arthur bounding through leaves. At the bunker Lexa lifted the door and tilted her head as though saying after you. Arthur bolted down and quickly laid in the corner. Before she went in herself she looked around. Slowly she went in after Clarke, careful not to touch her, and locked the door with bolts. Clarke raised her eyebrows in a gesture that didn't need to be spoken of you finally fixed that.

"I kind of hate your actions because I doubt you were ever going to tell me you were burying them...but...I also want to thank you. And I'm going to stress I hate that you put me in that position in the first place," she said with bitterness, "though it seems moot now that most of the world has ended..." she huffed and looked at the ground, as though the anger was pointless but also valid and still taking up so much space between them. Without any hesitation Lexa moved forward. Clarke moved closer and closer until she pushed Lexa against the wall full of marks. Slashes of days, time, surviving. They were still only surviving and Clarke pushed away the thought as she kissed Lexa, fitting together like stars in a constellation, without force, but with damaged, imperfect structures. She embraced feeling like she was suppose to be there. How holding Lexa was like holding an ocean-her breaths like tides, her ribs like tree branches swaying in a windy field. Her bones were not steel, as much as she gave the illusion she felt that as she pressed Lexa against the wall. If anything of all nature had to offer she thought Lexa was like a birch tree. With a certain approach and handling she could be pulled apart-stripped down to the core, her heart, which Clarke knew language could never adequately describe. And even though it would be painful, the most unbearable, nearly intolerable nightmare Lexa held herself with stubbornness, like roots planted and holding and clinging. It was selfish how she wanted to kiss her harder and lay, memorizing her and Lexa kissed like an anarchist, with a pocket full of matches.

But its softer than she expected when she practically demanded Lexa to get in bed and helps her by pushing her down. Its the only harsh thing she does and the harshest thing she'll say is "I kind of hate you" again. Somehow Lexa knows she's not being genuine when she narrows her eyes at her like she knows Clarke wants to scratch trenches and rivets into her back to deposit leftover resentment and residual bitterness from her past that had been formed by betrayal and choices. One choice Clarke knew Lexa would still choose to save her people-forcing her to kill others. And they pause until Clarke presses and lets herself descend onto Lexa...again like falling to earth...and Lexa sighed, glad Clarke chose not to lie to her. That sometimes you had to hurt something to heal. And knowing Clarke wouldn't fully destroy her because she wasn't cruel, but only human.

Then Clarke felt the shift. That Lexa gives into her like a sort of surrender and welcomes any harshness when she's pulled closer. And though she offers-Clarke is gentle in ways that make Lexa's chest tighten because she knows she doesn't deserve it. As she kisses Clarke's fingers she hopes she stores her promised offer that she doesn't need to hold back.

The only thing Lexa did that Clarke believed was not a conscious act was after they were done, most of their clothes still on except pants was when Lexa would throw her leg over the lower half of her body. A slightly possessive action that Clarke would have pushed away anyone else but there was certainty Lexa wouldn't physically, intentionally hurt her. Emotionally was an entirely different story. But in the moment she took Lexa's hands as they laid down and examined how they were without as many callouses as she expected. Gravedigger. Sometimes Lexa was annoyingly layered. It would be foolish to think otherwise. But the leg thing as Clarke deemed it in her head made her feel a strange sort of tenderness that melted the right ventricle of her heart. And the sensation couldn't stop her other thoughts before she fell to sleep...maybe each chamber held something-love, pain, loss, forgiveness. Four chambers each holding an array of emotions. No wonder why they swelled, grew, felt like they were collapsing and even stopping. Moments and memories could sometimes be too much. And sometimes not enough.

Day 6

It was too quiet. No symphony sounds of breathing, no movement and no heat. When Clarke slid her hand to the side of the bed it was empty. She was hoping for an easy day. Simplicity. But Lexa wasn't back by nightfall and Clarke's worry had built to the point of anger. If she went to Mount Weather so be it, but she didn't want to join. Maybe one day but it still felt too raw. Occasionally she had gone out, walked with Arthur and looked for nuts. Surprisingly she remembered to wear her knee brace and felt better, but when darkness came and she felt it had to have been nearing midnight she started to feel nervous. Not that she didn't believe Lexa couldn't overcome issues but that Clarke couldn't control everything. Finally when she did come back it was with an old buck that she had dragged. There was a cut across her cheek bone that made Clarke halt because the deer couldn't have done that. Maybe something with thorns but...

Arthur jumped up distracting her. Insistent on smelling what Lexa brought back who was already building a small fire away from the entrance. She kept slicing and putting bits on the ends of sticks in between skewering larger pieces for them. Arthur got the smaller pieces and seemed thrilled to not eat uncooked squirrel he had just caught. Though Clarke was famished she didn't immediately start in on the food. She appraised Lexa who walked fine, body still lose and graceful, no tight, restrained movements that would indicate she was holding in any pain. Still she reached out to the cheek that didn't have the slight line of blood. Gently Lexa grabbed Clarke's hand in a squeeze, knowing she needed concrete proof she was there.

Nothing is real until you can touch it. She thought, bringing to mind a book Lexa let her borrow. With all the books Clarke felt like it was sociology class on the ark only exponentially better and far suited her auto didactic learning. More importantly the poetry Lexa had stored under her bed from authors long passed would have been considered frivolous, like her drawings. But Lexa seemed to love passing them off to her.

Lexa took a small step forward, pulled her scarf an inch away in a gesture that Clarke thought resembled an offering and felt her hand being raised to her pulse point. It was steady and strong. And it was too easy to accept that Clarke cared but didn't need to say it when she felt the presence of a steady pulse kept its rhythm of blood sliding through veins.

When they were laying in bed last night Lexa felt comforted and she kept seeking out Clarke's hands and shared breaths and trembling limbs that felt unattached from herself until Clarke was tracing her tan, scarred forearms. And because Clarke could be an open book she saw her formulate and try to tuck it all away to memory.

Clarke had been too content to voice-I don't want to dismantle you. And although you will never be the type of person anyone can or should take at face value, even if you wish you were, you have never been simple and this was never easy. But I don't want to tear you apart. As much as I could and as much as you set yourself up to let me, but for honesty's sake told herself she would tell Lexa one day. Maybe at three a.m. Midnight to two seemed to belong to Costia now.

"Kissed like an anarchist with a pocket full of matches" and the actual quote is "a strange sort of tenderness that melted the right ventricle of my heart" are from the anatomical shape of the heart. "Nothing is real until you can touch it" is from Radiance by Catherynne Valente. Happy New Year. Again this was meant to be longer but I liked the ending for this chapter. More explained in the next one.