Chapter 2/12
Clarke's thoughts drifted for a long moment, and she felt them try to settle, she felt them try to make sense, try to sift and sort through the turmoil. But she knew her mind couldn't quite linger on something long enough that she could grasp it, that she could reach out and hold it steady, hold it close enough to mould whatever worries had taken hold within her brain into something more, something tangible.
Her eyes continued to follow the pattern of the wallpaper then, and as she followed a crease along the wall she let the sun blind her eyes, she let it take over her vision and she let it consume whatever it was that she tried to gaze upon.
And she thought, or maybe she knew, that she was lost, not quite sure what to do now, how to proceed. But perhaps she knew she had fallen apart when it had happened. Or maybe she hadn't stopped living on autopilot, hadn't stopped going through her life with little more than the emptiness that seemed to linger in the corners of her mind.
But maybe talking would help to focus her ramblings. If only for a little while.
"I dropped Bruce off at Anya's," Clarke said into the shallow quiet around her. "I think he thought you were going to be there," and she shrugged, she lifted her shoulder and she let it fall slowly. "I think he smelt you on me," and Clarke pulled her eyes from the sun. "I almost snapped at one of the nurses today," and Clarke found herself grimacing at the memory. "I got angry and," and she looked away in thought, turned her gaze from where it had settled on a picture frame and started following the blades of a fan that spun around, and around, and around. And around. "And I apologised," she felt her fingers tremble just a little. "I don't think I even started yelling at her. But I said sorry for whatever I was about to do," and Clarke squeezed Lexa's hand for a moment in search. "She didn't mind," and Clarke didn't think the nurse took offence. "But I tried to be polite," and Clarke found herself biting her lip, and she found herself surprised at the tremble she felt, at the quiver and the pain and the blood that she tasted on her lips. But maybe she wasn't surprised. Not after all this time. "I don't know who I am anymore, Lex," and Clarke shook her head, "I don't know what to feel. I don't know what to think. I don't know what to do," and Clarke let her gaze fall to Lexa's face. And it hurt. It hurt to look at the tube that disappeared passed Lexa's lips, it hurt to see the gauntness of her cheeks and the way her eyes didn't quite flutter behind closed eyelids. And it hurt. "I don't know how to feel, I don't know how to think," and she paused for a moment, for long enough that she could try to think of something more articulate, less numbed, less dumb and flaccid on her tongue. But all that seemed to bubble to the surface was that it hurt to not know. It hurt to not know if Lexa heard. It hurt to not know if she thought. If she still fought. And so Clarke shrugged with little more than a hollow ache to keep her company, "I don't know."
Lexa felt the flutter in her stomach, she felt the way her fingers shook and she felt the breaths she took come in shaky, come uneasy and excited. She felt excitement course through her body and she felt the adrenaline that began to pump through her veins.
"Remember," and she looked up at her father to see him eyeing her carefully. "Keep your head up, don't focus on the puck the whole time," and she saw him eye the way the pads fit just a little too broadly across her shoulders.
And so Lexa nodded, she smiled and she couldn't help but to feel an excitement build as she stood, her father's hand ruffling her head over her helmet as she began to file out of the change rooms behind the others.
Lexa groaned lightly as her feet padded down the hallway. It had surprised her just how much she had needed to push herself, just how much she had needed to keep pace, to outpace the others. But she thinks she did well, and she knows she did, if only because the aches in her bones meant she had worked for every inch, every breath she had fought for.
And so she huffed just a little tiredly as she fell into a chair, the sounds of sizzling and the slight groan of the wind outside all she could focus on for the moment.
"You played well," and she looked up at the words to see her father eyeing her for a long moment from across the table, his body moving easily through the kitchen as he finished cooking dinner.
"I did," and Lexa tried to stifle a yawn, tried to muffle it and keep it quiet.
"I'm sensing a but," he said though, and Lexa looked up to see him leaning over the kitchen bench, knife in hand as he paused mid slice.
"I missed the shot," and she bit her lip in annoyance as she looked away, and perhaps for the first time she wasn't so sure she knew how he'd react, how he'd respond.
"Lex," and she heard him sigh as he moved closer to her.
But he paused, and she looked at him, she looked and she saw him think for a moment. She saw him ponder his words, try to think of what to say, of how to say it. And she thought she saw the moment when he made a decision, she thought she sensed the moment when his mind solidified.
"I know what you're going to say," she preempted, and she knew she saw him smile just a little, just enough that she knew that he knew.
And so she smiled just a little as he raised an eyebrow.
"And what am I going to say?"
"There's still time," and she saw him smile just a little more firmly.
"And what does that mean?" he pushed quietly, his voice reaching out to her quietly, loudly, clearly through the small distance between them.
"It will happen if it's supposed to happen," she shrugged.
"When," he added, and she knew she felt her eyebrows quirk together.
"When?" she asked.
"When it's supposed to happen, not if," and she nodded for a moment as he stepped from around the counter and placed a small plate in front of her. "Now eat," he said. "Clarke's going to be here soon."
"I saw your game," Clarke said, and Lexa couldn't help but smile, and she thought she did more of that these days, she thought her cheeks twitched a little more than usual in the presence of the blonde.
"It was ok," Lexa said, and despite the smile, despite the comfort of the moment, she couldn't help but feel a tinge of disappointment, of annoyance at her performance. If only because Clarke had been there.
"You won," Clarke challenged though, and Lexa thought she knew from the falter in Clarke's gait that the blonde must be looking at her now, that she must be frowning, not quite concentrating on where she was skating. And so Lexa didn't quite mind reaching out, didn't quite mind taking hold of Clarke's arm just to steady, just to guide the other girl.
"But I missed," Lexa said as she bumped both of them around a child who fell.
"There's always next time," Clarke challenged, and Lexa didn't miss the way Clarke's frown quirked her nose a little, the way it creased her forehead.
Lexa nodded then, just a little, and she knew to most that the gesture must have been hard to see behind the jacket she wore and the scarf that did little to hold back the cold she embraced. But she thought Clarke saw it from the way the girl smiled a little before she pulled her attention back to the way they moved across the ice.
"You got new ones," Lexa said, her eyes falling the the white skates that hugged Clarke's feet, that seemed a little too big for her, that seemed a little stiff, too tight and too loose.
"Yeah," and Clarke smiled as she looked down, her foot raising slightly as she waved it in the air for a moment.
And Lexa couldn't quite figure out in this moment exactly how to say her thoughts, or maybe it was what to say, or to express. And so she frowned a little, she looked away in thought and she felt Clarke squeeze her hand just a touch tighter before she pulled her gaze back.
"They're nice," Lexa finished. And she thought the words safe. She thought the words friendly. Just right.
Snow was never a problem for Lexa. Walking through it never bothered her, playing in it never made her regret her actions when her body dripped and shivered. If only because she embraced it, if only because she thought it something that let her know she lived and breathed and existed. And so she smiled, she laughed a little more freely than usual, and she dived to the ground as she felt the snowball fly over her head.
Lexa scrambled to her feet then, and she hugged the ground, she kept low and she let her eyes dart from head to head that popped up, from fleeting glance to fleeting glance. And she thought she saw her target, she thought she saw her enemy, and so she scooped up a handful of snow, her mitts doing much to shield her fingers from the cold and she rushed behind a tree and she smiled as Anya turned to face her, face reddened, hair freezing at the tips, snowballs in both hands.
"They're winning," Anya hissed, and Lexa couldn't help but to laugh just a little at the way the older girl glared and snarled and sneered each time the piercing whistle and low thump of a snowball slamming into a tree trunk, or hitting an unfortunate child, rang through the air.
"We still have Lincoln," Lexa answered as she peeked around the tree trunk to see the boy rising to his knees, snowball already halfwa— "Not anymore," Lexa finished with a wince as she saw Lincoln recoil as a hand clutched at his face, the explosion of white sending him reeling.
Lexa's eyes snapped to where she thought the snowball had been thrown and she saw a flash of blonde and she knew she heard the shriek of laughter and she knew she heard Anya spit a curse before sending a flurry of snowballs over the small berm that hid the enemy.
"Here," and Lexa turned to see Anya passing her a small branch, its bark worn and battered from the elements.
"What's this for?" Lexa asked as she took the object.
"You cover me," Anya answered simply. "I'll go first, and you'll go second. We just need to get to their side and then we can beat them," Anya said as she peeked around the tree trunk once more.
"Ok," and Lexa steadied her breaths, she let the stick rest comfortably in her hand, she let her mind focus on what she needed to do. And she knew she could do it, she knew it was no different than when she played, when she skated and passed the puck and so she met Anya's eyes just once more.
And so Anya roared out, and Lexa felt her own voice join with Anya's and then they both leapt from behind the tree. Lexa saw a head pop up, she saw Anya react, and she saw Anya throw a snowball. And Lexa watched. She watched as the clump of snow arced through the air, she watched as it whistled and spun, and she watched as it collided with the scarf wrapped face. And then Lexa dived to the ground, a snowball hissing past her head. And she saw Anya duck, and then Lexa found her feet again, her legs taking her closer and closer, Anya by her side as the angry girl threw snowball after snowball. Lexa felt the stick in her hand sing, though, she felt it begin to breathe in its movements as she started slashing at each snowball that raced towards them both. But Lexa didn't flinch, she didn't falter, she barely gave it a thought as she slashed each object out of the sky, the eyes of the other children widening in shock at their advance.
And then Lexa vaulted over the berm, Anya right by her side. Lexa looked up to see Raven wide eyed, hands clutching at a snowball that was half made, half ready to throw.
But Lexa knew she needed to act, she knew she needed to do something, anything to succeed in her mission. And so she snarled out as she raced forward, her stick already raising, already readying to strike the clump of snow out of the other girl's hand. And Lexa heard Anya yell out a warning, she heard the sounds of others, and she heard Anya turn to face them. But Lexa kept moving, her gaze meeting Raven's, and she saw the girl's eyes begin to close, she saw the girl begin to recoil, begin to dive out of the way. And Lexa was close, so was almost there, almost at the en—
Lexa felt the air knocked out of her and she felt her back slam into the ground as a weight settled over her. And Lexa had only a moment's realisation of what was about to happen before she felt the snow slam into her face, before she felt it blanket her body and freeze through her clothes.
"We win," and Lexa couldn't help but snarl at her defeat, couldn't help but smile at the recognition of the voice.
And so she pushed Clarke off her chest and she cast her gaze around to see Anya picking herself off the ground, her jacket smothered in snow. She looked back to Clarke then, and she saw the girl smiling, hand still clutching another snowball as her gaze fell to the stick she still held on to.
"Are you ok?" Clarke asked carefully, and Lexa thought the girl eyed her face, eyed the slight reddening of her cheek from where she had been hit by the snowball.
"I'm ok," Lexa answered, and she thought the words simple, true and safe.
"Good," and Clarke smiled as she stood and held a hand out for Lexa to take. "Come on."
Clarke's feet clipped against the tile as she moved through the halls. She thought it odd that she found it almost comforting doing this though, she thought it odd that she took refuge in wandering, in not thinking of much more than putting one foot in front of the other. And maybe she thought it was because she could pull her mind from whatever truths and worries littered her head. At least while she had time.
She passed a patient who was prodding down in the opposite direction to her, and she nodded and smiled mutely, numbly, with little more than the effort it took to just acknowledge. But Clarke didn't think the other person quite cared. And so she turned left down another hallway, and she thought she felt just the faintest smile, just the faintest recollection of times already lived begin to take a hold. Perhaps that was better though, better than the present. At least for those few moments she thought awaited her.
It didn't take her long until she entered the cafeteria, and as she looked around she knew she saw others who must have been feeling the same as her, she knew she saw others who waited for news, bad or good, for something more than just simply not knowing. But she envied them. She envied them if only because news would come, news would arrive to tell them, to let them know whether the tears they wept were for joy or for anguish. And she envied them for hers were for not knowing.
A waving hand caught her eye though, and she smiled just a little less forcefully as her gaze met Anya's from across the distance.
"Hey," Anya said quietly, hand pulling out a chair for Clarke as she approached.
"Hey," and Clarke didn't do much more than shrug and sit down, her eyes only once meeting Anaya's.
"How are you?" and she felt Anya lean closer, she felt her rub a hand up and down her forearm.
"Good," and Clarke knew Anya recognised the lie. She knew Anya knew. And she knew Anya wouldn't say anything. Not just yet, anyway. If only because she still had time.
"How is she?" Anya asked as she pushed over a tray of food, but Clarke thought she knew the taste already, she could even picture the number of bites, the number of times she would chew before clearing the plate.
"Fine," and maybe this time Clarke looked up. "She's the same," and Clarke did look up. She met Anya's gaze, and she saw the shadows under the other woman's eyes, she saw the pain and the tired and the hurt and worry. And Clarke knew that Anya felt just as much as she did. "She's still the same," Clarke shrugged, her fingers winding through Anya's.
"She's strong," Anya said. And Lexa was strong.
Was.
"Yeah," and Clarke squeezed a little harder than she intended, a little harder than she meant to do. But Anya didn't mind. Perhaps, and Clarke thought she may have been projecting, perhaps she may have been hoping, but perhaps she thought Anya needed the pain, too, needed to know someone else felt as strongly as she did.
"Bruce behaved," Anya said as she brought a cup to her lips.
"That's good," Clarke said as she eyed the cooling food in front of her.
"Tried to chase a squirrel," Anya added after a moment. "But the snow sort of stopped him from going as fast," and Clarke met Anya's gaze, at least enough so that she knew that Anya knew she was listened to.
"He didn't cause a scene?"
"No," Anya shook her head. "He's lovely," and she smiled, but Clarke thought it came a little halfhearted. "Like a big child," Anya finished.
"Yeah," and Clarke couldn't help but look away then, couldn't help but to want to snatch her hand from Anya's grasp, to flee in that moment.
"Sorry," Anya said as she felt her words sink in.
"It's ok," but Clarke knew the lie must have been obvious.
"Lincoln's coming down soon," Anya said simply, her thumb beginning to rub slowly over Clarke's hand. "He wouldn't miss it, said he'd bring something from back home."
"Tell him I said thank you," and Clarke didn't quite taste the food she spooned into her mouth.
"You can tell him yourself," Anya said.
But after all that happened, Clarke didn't quite want to leave things to chance anymore, didn't want to risk not telling people what she felt, what she wished she had said and thought and longed for.
"I love you," and it came out simple, it came out truthfully, it came out sudden and bizarre on her tongue. And she knew it surprised Anya, she knew it caused the other woman to think and to pause.
"Clarke," Anya said, and Clarke felt her lean a little away, she felt her squeeze her hand a little tighter.
"No," and Clarke pulled her hand away, she lifted a finger to stop Anya's words. "Just let me continue," and Clarke saw Anya nod. "I've had time to think," and she thought she must have sounded morose, pathetic. "I never said it enough," and Clarke knew Anya to not quite be someone who spoke of feelings, who opened up, who shared. If only because the woman showed her devotion through action and presence and comforting caring. "And with Lexa," and Clarke thought her lip quivered just a little. "Sometimes I'd go to work and I'd not say it in the morning, sometimes I'd go a week and realise I hadn't said it," and she saw Anya clench her jaw.
"She knew you loved her," Anya said.
"Maybe," and Clarke shook her head. "But I didn't say it enough," and Clarke reached out, squeezed Anya's hand and smiled a watery, sad, lame thing. "So I love you. Thank you for being here, thank you for doing everything that you have," and Clarke steadied her breaths as Anya's gaze softened, as she tried to think of what she could say in that moment. "You don't have to say anything," Clarke smiled quietly. But perhaps she thought it came out sad and tepid. Just a little.
"You've done enough crying for both of us," Anya said. And it was simple. It was Anya. And so Clarke felt the small laugh pass her lips, she felt the small chuckle and the faintest hint of joy warm her core. But only for a moment.
Clarke swiped a hand across her face then, and she grimaced at the tears that clung to her palm, to the way she was sure her nose must have been running, and to the sniffle she knew she heard.
"I'm just going to go to the bathroom," she said, and she saw Anya nod.
And so Clarke stood, feet already taking her towards the bathroom. It only took a moment longer, but Clarke found herself in the bathroom, the sound of the door closing behind her the only thing to fill the room. Her hand reached out then, and she knew she gripped a little tighter than she needed as she turned the tap on, and it didn't surprise her when she felt the pain, when she felt the burn as she let her hand rest under the water.
But she knew what Lexa would say, she knew what Lexa would think, and she knew what Lexa would do. And so she kept her hand under only long enough that she could just barely picture Lexa's shout of warning, her curse, and the way her feet would scamper over the tile as she tried to reach her, to pull her hand from the searing heat.
And Clarke thought she could imagine Lexa's fingers as they would curl around her wrist, she thought she could imagine the way Lexa would tug on her arm, and she knew the way Lexa's gaze would look from her blistered flesh and back to her eyes before cursing her stupidity, cursing her lack of awareness, her distraction.
And maybe Clarke thought.
But maybe Clarke knew.
And Clarke did know. And so she jerked her hand back with a curse and a whimper. She let her free hand reach out, turn the heat to cold, and she placed her hand back under the stream, the coolness enough to take her mind from the pain and the hope.
And so she let her eyes raise, she let her gaze meet the reflection before her and she tried to make sense of what she saw. She knew herself to be tired, she knew those shadows under the reflection's eyes to be her own.
"Don't give up," and Clarke's voice echoed out quietly. But she wasn't so sure who she spoke to, who she reached for. "Don't give up," and she saw the reflection shake its head. "Not yet," and Clarke knew she saw the reflection as it began to cry, as it began to shake just a little. "There's still time."