Chapter 6/12

"How's work?" Anya asked.

"Good," Clarke answered after a moment's pause. "Fine," and she shrugged. "They've been pretty good with giving me time off when I need it," she finished as she worried her lip.

"That's good," Anya nodded.

"What about you?" and Clarke smiled as Anya sighed a little.

"Annoying," she shrugged. "This idiot may have cost us a lot of money by talking to a competitor before the contracts were signed," and Anya kicked at a branch that lay in their path.

"Sounds not good," and Clarke tugged a little on the leash as Bruce tried running after the bouncing branch.

"No," Anya agreed. "Not good," and she pulled her coat a bit more tightly around herself.

"You don't have to be here," Clarke said after a moment though, her eyes taking in the way Anya's gaze seemed to grow distant for a moment. "I understand if work needs you."

"Yes I do. You need me," Anya said simply. "Indra will keep things going for the moment," and Anya frowned a little in thought.

And as Clarke took in the other woman, as she let her gaze fall across the way she frowned, perhaps Clarke thought Anya needed the closure, the company and the knowledge that another was suffering just as much as her in these last few days.

"I spoke to Gustus," Clarke said, "Lincoln, too."

"Yeah," Anya nodded. "I saw Lincoln yesterday," and she sighed as she stuffed her hands into deep pockets. "Everyone's probably going to be coming down I guess," and Anya jerked her head towards a bench, eyebrow raising in question.

"Yeah," and Clarke nodded as she changed direction, feet careful as she left the footpath, the snow underfoot less cared for now. "It's nice," and she grimaced a little.

"I get you," Anya nodded. "It's nice, despite why people are coming down."

Clarke bit her lip then, and she knew she felt her lip quiver a little, enough that she was sure Anya noticed, enough that she knew if she let her thoughts embrace it, if she let her mind begin to wander, that she'd break, that she'd become a mess of tears and pain, and so Clarke shook her head, bit her lip just a little more sharply and pulled her gaze elsewhere.

"How's Gustus?" Anya asked after a moment, feet scuffing at an icy patch underneath the bench as she glared past the sun that dappled into her eyes.

"Ok," Clarke said as she began scratching under Bruce's chin. "He's going to see her soon," and Clarke blinked roughly, quickly.

"I haven't spoken to him in a week," Anya said.

"He understands," and Clarke unhooked Bruce's leash. "He saw the picture Lincoln brought, too," and Clarke heard Anya snort a little.

"I always hated that picture," Anya said. "They could have waited until my nose stopped bleeding."

"Lexa liked it," Clarke countered. "She always said it made you look like you just fought a war," and she smiled as Bruce ran off, as he began chasing after a familiar dog that was always friendly with him.

"It made me look like I just got my ass beaten," Anya retorted.

Clarke paused though, and she let her mind turn back the years, turn back the days and the months and the winters when it had snowed and frozen the lands.

"I miss it," Clarke said simply, and she knew Anya sensed her longing, her wish for things to be a little different. "I miss simpler times. I miss being a child. I miss not being afraid that each morning I'll be woken up by the hospital calling, or be woken by nurses rushing into her room if she just dies," and Clarke grit her teeth as she tried to bite back the bile that began to creep up her throat.

Anya nodded quietly, and Clarke knew Anya wouldn't say much, wouldn't share her feelings, couldn't quite let herself voice her fears and weaknesses.

"There's still time," Anya said, and it came out simple, it came out confident, with little fear in the waver that Clarke thought she heard.

"Yeah," and perhaps Clarke enjoyed Anya's confidence, perhaps she needed Anya's conviction. "There's still time."

Lexa's eyes followed the swath of blue that the plane's wing cut through the sky. The plane shuddered then, and as Lexa pulled her gaze from the window she saw a light overhead flicker for a moment.

There was an odd sense of dread in her stomach though, and it wasn't for the plane's shuddering, it wasn't for the slight apprehension she always seemed to feel with every plane trip. But she felt the dread that settled into her stomach as her thoughts turned to Clarke. And she worried, she thought and she tried to think of what she could say, of what she could do to make the hurt a little less sharp, a little less gaping. But perhaps Lexa knew that there was little she could do.

If only because she knew not what to do in situations like this.

And so she sighed, she squeezed her hand tightly and she tried to settle her eyes onto something a little less morose, a little less daunting.

"Trouble back home?" and Lexa turned to the woman besides her, the person's gaze careful, her eyes taking in the way Lexa was sure her knuckles whitened on the armrest, on the way her knee seemed to tap a little more forcefully with each passing second.

As Lexa took in the woman, as she let her gaze meet the hazel eyes, the kind gaze, and the way the woman's hair seemed to curl, seemed to live freely, with little more than a lone hair tie holding it out of her eyes, Lexa thought that perhaps the woman inquisitive, she thought the woman kind, careful. But not inquisitive insofar as she wished to intrude, as she wished for gossip and for knowing things not for her. But perhaps merely inquisitive of the pain that must have been evident upon Lexa's face.

"Yes," Lexa said simply, unsure now of whether she should reveal more, should discuss more.

"You don't have to tell me anything," the woman smiled kindly.

And Lexa knew she didn't, she knew she could brush off the woman's words, could merely smile politely and turn her gaze outwards once more.

But perhaps she thought talking would help, perhaps she thought speaking of what settled over her chest would be less lonesome.

"My partner's father died," Lexa began simply, eyes taking in the way the woman acknowledged her words, the way the woman's eyes widened only a fraction, enough that Lexa was sure her words had taken her by surprise.

"I'm sorry," the woman said quietly, her lips turning into a thin smile, into a wan smile.

"It wasn't your fault," Lexa shrugged simply, and she was sure she could have said something more in that moment.

"Still," and the woman shrugged herself. "I'm sorry."

"I left," Lexa began once more, teeth chewing on a lip too sharply. "I went on holidays, I even joked that without me something bad would happen," and Lexa looked away as the last of her words left her.

"You think she thinks you abandoned her?" the woman questioned. But Lexa registered the words, she registered the way the woman met her gaze easily. "I can tell," the woman shrugged, her eyes turning apologetic for a moment. "Your nails," and the woman lifted her own hand.

"Oh," and perhaps Lexa knew she could have said something more articulate.

"It's none of my business," the woman said once more. "You can tell me to get stuffed, to shut up and to mind my own business if you want," and the woman trailed off for a moment, eyebrows quirking together as she waited for a reply, for a response. "I don't think she'd blame you for it," she said after a pause.

"But I blame myself," Lexa said, eyes glancing to the way the woman's hair seemed to bounce just a little in the breeze that filtered through the airplane's cabin.

"Why?"

"Why?" Lexa repeated, eyes narrowing for a breath.

"Why do you blame yourself?"

And why did she? Was it because she felt responsible for it, was it because she felt like she had taken the first opportunity to have a holiday, to have some time to herself, to be alone, only for it to end abruptly in pain and anguish and death?

"I feel like I abandoned her," it was simple. It was the truth.

"But you couldn't have known something was going to happen," the woman said.

"But it did," and Lexa clenched her jaw a little more tightly.

"It did," the woman shrugged. "But you weren't responsible. How could you have been?"

"I should have been there," Lexa challenged. "I should be there right now."

"She'd understand," and Lexa watched as the woman leant back a little and took her in.

"And what makes you think that?"

"Well," and the woman's head tilted a little in thought. "You're here, by yourself for starters," and Lexa's eyebrows quirked together. "That shows me that she trusts you, that she doesn't feel like she needs you with her all the time, right? That you're both independent?" and Lexa saw the woman nod to herself a little. "And the fact that you're here," and the woman gestured around them. "That shows that you care, that you're cutting your holiday short. And I'm sure she knows you care, too."

"Caring wasn't enough," Lexa said.

"Maybe it's not," the woman answered. "But I think you care, and I think she knows you care, too," and the woman worried her lip. "And maybe caring is all that we can do sometimes."

Lexa frowned a little more forcefully as the woman's words settled within her thoughts, but as she tried to make sense of what had been said, as she tried to sift through what she had said, she thought herself not sure, not certain still.

"I might not have made any sense," the woman said more quietly now. "I guess I'm just trying to say that I think she knows you care, and I think you care, and she'll understand, and despite what's happened, everything will be ok," and the woman smiled apologetically, her lip quirking up at the corner a little.

"Yeah," and Lexa met her gaze, her own lips turning up just a little, her cheeks twitching up into the faintest of smiles. "Thanks," and Lexa lifted a finger off the armrest before letting it drop.

The taxi from the airport took longer than she remembered. It seemed an age as she passed by traffic light, road sign and faceless building after faceless building. Even the blanket of white that had already begun to settle over the ground seemed less comforting to her, seemed less open and welcoming. But she was sure her thoughts coloured the experience, she was sure her anger and annoyance and frustrations and hurt were the cause for her ill mood.

And so, as she eyed the door, as she listened to the taxi as it faded into the distance, and as she felt the snow and the cold of the night already begin to seep into her clothes, she thought of what to say, of how to say what she was sure Clarke would need to hear in this moment.

Lexa's feet crunched against the snow, the sound familiar, and as she brushed a hand against her forehead she was sure she heard the silence that emanated from the house, the usual and familiar sounds of laughter not so present, not to lively anymore.

Her finger reached out then, and she listened to the doorbell as it chimed out quietly, and she waited. She heard the approach of feet and she was sure she heard the sniffle and the way shoulders shook as tears were ushered away.

The door opened then, and Lexa swallowed and squinted painfully as light met her, as it blinded her and caused her to blink a little too harshly before her gaze settled on who stood before her.

"I—" and Lexa's voice broke a little as she saw Clarke's eyes widen, as she saw the way her hair hung, dishevelled, unkempt, messy. Lexa was sure her heart began to break as she saw the red under Clarke's eyes, she was sure she felt the pain as she registered the tears that stained Clarke's cheeks. "I came as soon as I could," and it was simple. It was the truth.

And so Lexa braced herself as Clarke rushed forward, as she crashed against her and as her arms embraced her.

"It's ok," Lexa whispered into Clarke's ear, and Lexa was sure her own eyes began to water as Clarke's sobs broke through the silence, as Clarke's tears began to fall anew, and as her arms shook and her heart broke even further. "It's ok," Lexa repeated, her arms squeezing, her lips brushing against Clarke's neck as she took the blonde's weight a little. "I'm here," and she heard Clarke's sobs and her voice as it chattered and shuddered under her quaking breath.

"Thank you," Lexa heard, and it was muffled, it came wet, it came broken and disjointed.

"I'm here, Clarke," Lexa whispered.

"Thank you," Clarke's voice came out ragged and broken.

"I'm here," Lexa repeated more softly as she began ushering the both of them inside.

"Thank—" and Clarke gagged on a sob. "—you."

"It's ok," Lexa whispered. "I'm here."

"I love you," Clarke managed to say, managed to force out through the pain.

"I'm here," Lexa whispered as she pressed her lips to Clarke's head softly. "I'm always here," and she brushed a strand of Clarke's hair aside. "I'll always be here, I'll always be with you," and she smiled past the tears she could feel falling from her own eyes. "I love you, too."

Lexa let her eyes trace the patterns she thought she could glimpse in the patchwork of the plaster above her head. Her eyes followed the slight edge that seemed raised just a little over a corner of the roof that spoke of a house long lived and changed. Her eyes fell down to the wall, to where the curtain seemed to hang from its railing, where it seemed to flutter and breathe on whatever wind managed to sneak through the window.

A sigh fell from her lips though, and as she pulled her gaze from the window and as she let her eyes settle on the lamp that flickered in the corner of the room she knew she felt the ache in her chest, she knew she felt the itch in her eyes.

She wasn't sure how long she had spent on the bed though, she wasn't so sure how long she had listened to Clarke's breaths that came out deeply now, that came out slowly, that juxtaposed with the rapid and broken breaths that had seemed to expose a little more hurt with each ragged exhale that had passed Clarke's lips before she had fallen asleep.

But Lexa didn't mind, she didn't think she ever would. Or perhaps not minding was poor wording, was not quite what she had meant. But she knew the pain Clarke felt, for she felt it too. She felt the ache in her heart at the loss of Jake, but perhaps she hurt the most because Clarke hurt. Because Clarke's world had been shattered, had been broken and frayed and twisted far too soon for either of them.

Clarke murmured slightly in her sleep then, and as Lexa glanced down at the blonde she saw the tears that had seemed to burrow across her cheeks, that left behind reddened rivers, that seemed to leave the girl's eyes bruised and pained.

And Lexa felt unsure. She felt a little lost, she felt a little less sure and certain in her actions now. And perhaps she didn't know what to do, what to say, what she could say to ease Clarke's pain, to ease her hurt, to make the pain of Jake's death hurt any less.

Clarke shifted a little again, and Lexa saw the frown that began to bury, that began to split across her forehead.

"It's ok," Lexa whispered, and she wasn't so sure Clarke heard her. "It's ok," Lexa brought her lips to Clarke's forehead, soft enough to not disturb, deep enough that the frown lessened, that it seemed to fade and recede back ever so slightly. "It's ok," and Lexa felt the tear that seemed to slip down her cheek with a mind and a want of its own. "I'm here, Clarke," and she felt Clarke squeeze a little more tightly in her sleep. "I'll always be with you."

"—eah," and Clarke worried her lip for a moment as she glanced at the clock. "I've done that already," and she winced as she shuffled a little.

"You don't need me to come down again?" Anya pressed.

"No," Clarke shook her head, her eyes following the breath she saw rise in front of her face.

Anya sighed then, and Clarke could picture the way the other woman leaned back in the chair, Clarke was sure she could even picture the pink stress ball Anya would be squeezing in her free hand.

"If you need me I can get there in 30," Anya said simply.

"I know," Clarke nodded once more. "Don't worry about me," Clarke said. "I'll be ok."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Anya," and Clarke smiled just a little more freely as she heard Anya sigh forcefully.

"Ok," and Clarke heard Anya shuffle something across her desk. "Call me if you need anything."

"I will."

"Ok," and Clarke thought she heard Anya nod a few times. "Call me," Anya repeated before hanging up.

And so Clarke sighed as she leant against the wall, her eyes trying to settle on something a little less concrete than the world she had been living for the last long while.

She breathed in deeply, her lungs filling with the too cold air, with the too cold bite that pervaded her nostrils. She'd never become used to it either, she'd never embraced the cold like Lexa had, she had never felt alive in moments when the cold seemed to grip her too tightly. But perhaps now it let her feel closer to Lexa, let her feel a little less set apart.

And so Clarke pushed off from the wall, and she checked for cars before making her way back to the main entrance, her coat pulled a little more tightly around herself for the short walk.

It only took her a moment before she entered the hospital, the warmth of the inside enough to let her breaths come more freely and so she loosened her coat as she began finding her way towards Lexa.

Clarke's feet followed the memorised path, her eyes not quite focusing on much more than avoiding others who walked past her, on avoiding obstacles that seemed to make her journey a little slower with each passing day. Or maybe she was searching for anything to prolong the time, to make it last a little longer than she knew she had. But she found herself in front of Lexa's door. She found herself already reaching for it and so she paused. She paused for long enough that she could steady her breathing, so that she could be sure her eyes didn't water, didn't waver.

Clarke opened the door quietly, eyes peering inside for a moment before she slipped through the opening.

And it always hurt. Clarke thought it would never stop hurting to see Lexa and what she had become. But perhaps Clarke forced herself to stare, to take in the way Lexa lay on the bed, the way the tube seemed to disappear past her lips. And Clarke hated the way her cheeks seemed more gaunt with each passing day. Clarke hated the way Lexa's hands didn't do much more than remain lifelessly still by her side, and Clarke hated the way the machine whirred with each breath that filled Lexa's lungs, that kept her alive, that kept her breathing while she still had time.

"Hey," Clarke whispered as she found herself in the seat, her hand already reaching for Lexa's. "I spoke to Anya," and Clarke worried her lip. "She still worries about me," and she shrugged. "Gustus visited yesterday. He'll be here tonight," and Clarke felt blood on her tongue as she bit a little more forcefully than she intended. "Bruce behaved though," and Clarke felt the chuckle seep out a little. "He didn't jump up on Gustus until he was sure I wasn't looking, so maybe it wasn't really behaving. But at least he waited until he knew he could get away with it," Clarke paused once more as her lip began to tremble.

And moments like this hurt. Moments like this seemed cruel, but she knew it was important to talk, she knew that it helped, that it was cathartic for her to share moments with Lexa, even if she wasn't so sure she was heard.

"I think Bruce understands now," Clarke continued. "I think he's figured out you aren't coming home," and Clarke looked away as tears began to fall. "I thought it'd be easier, I thought it'd get easier after all this time," and she had. She had hoped so very much that it would become easier. "But it still hurts, Lex," and she squeezed her hand. "Every time I call, every time I make arrangements I feel like I'm letting you down, I feel like I'm cheating on us. On everything we've been through," and Clarke wiped a hand across her face. "You aren't gone yet, but they tell me to prepare, to make sure that it doesn't catch me by surprise," and Clarke knew her lip trembled. "Everyone seems to know, too," and Clarke sniffled a little inelegantly. "I think Anya warned them so that it didn't come as a surprised," and Clarke glared through the hurt. "I thought I'd be angry, I thought I'd be furious at her for telling them before I had chance to do it myself," but Clarke smiled then, just a little, just enough. "But I think Anya knew I wouldn't have been able to, I think she knew I couldn't. And I think she knew I would have made a scene, wouldn't have been able to say it right," and Clarke sighed as she stood quickly, as she left the chair and began to pace around the room.

And it took her a long moment to continue, it took her a long moment to find her voice again, to find the words she wanted to voice.

"I was selfish," she said. "I was selfish. I am selfish. And I forget that I'm not the only one hurting," and she looked back to Lexa. "I think Anya needed to do it though, and I'm happy she did. I would have ruined it," and Clarke moved back to Lexa's side. "I think it was her own way of saying goodbye," and Clarke whimpered a little as she knelt down besides Lexa, as she leant the side of her face against Lexa's pillow and traced the way Lexa's cheek seemed to curve away from her. "But I'm not giving up," Clarke whispered as she reached out, her hand slowly tracing Lexa's jaw. "Not yet," and Clarke felt the tears begin to fall anew. "I won't give up, not until the end," and she didn't dare move, didn't dare try to hide her pain from Lexa. Not when they were this close. "I won't give you up," Clarke pressed her lips to Lexa's cheek, she let them linger and she let them warm Lexa's too cold skin. "There's still time."