archenemy | clexa

twenty-one

Lexa does in fact not mention it again. The small scar on her arm is well-hidden under armor as usual, the fleeting moment of trust is gone, the clean skin, the soft, big green eyes and the breath of a smile are replaced by rough warpaint and a stoic mask again.

For one moment, right after Clarke wakes up, the Lexa Clarke isn't sure exists after all shows in a quick glance. A moment that's over before Clarke realizes Lexa checked whether Clarke still has glassy eyes, tired rings beneath them, an expression of pain or something else that would prevent her from being an asshole.

Clarke wonders whether Lexa hates her from the depth of her heart like she claims or if she picked Clarke as a punching bag for her anger but has traces of decency nonetheless.

She decides it must be the former when Lexa scowls at her as soon as she checked for any signs of pain. "You woke up late," she snarls.

"I can't fight today, I can hardly walk. You could've let me sleep."

"I didn't wake you in the first place. Go back to sleep. Your guards can wake you for medicine and breakfast."

So Clarke sinks back into her pillow and stares at the wall. She's not actually tired anymore. She's in pain from her leg injury, she's strangely dizzy and she can't stop questioning her sanity because there's no way Lexa was kind the previous night.

The more she thinks about it though, the clearer the image of the past night gets.

Calloused fingertips and a warm palm on Clarke's arm, holding her. A gentle, absentminded rocking, as though Clarke had been a baby to be calmed. An r-shaped scar. A soft voice so unlike the one Lexa has when she yells and snaps at Clarke. A face that looked so unlike the one Clarke had seen that first day, blurry of warpaint, dirt and fiery rage. Instead, everything was so soft.

Somehow, Clarke craves that softness now. The passion she's had all these months on Earth, the mischief, the energy, it burned out somewhere in that single week of war. Clarke has never seen so much death in one place. Somehow, she's grateful someone got executed on her leg because it gives her a reason to stay in the camp for the next week.

All Clarke wants now is proof that life doesn't look like that. Like death and war cries and brutality and blood and pure hatred everywhere. She supposes she's asking the wrong person to prove that when she asks Lexa, but maybe, Clarke can hold on to that one moment that one night and it'll be enough. Although Lexa embodies all the things Clarke would like disproven, maybe that one 'it's okay' will be enough as soon as Clarke will inevitably be back on the battle field.

In that week, Raven, Octavia and Abby visit a few times and it gives Clarke more of that softness. She gets several long, warm hugs and she never realized how nourishing laughter sounds, how calm, how soft, compared to seven days straight of cries and screams and metal clashing and gunshots.

"I mean, being a doctor is a quite alright job and the beds are perfectly comfortable, but the hygiene," Abby emphasizes, clasping her hands over her face. "I didn't realize how much my daily make-up routine meant to me until I couldn't have it anymore. And always having to go down to the river to get a bowl of water for washing my face and brushing my teeth, and bathing there- ugh, I don't like it at all. All I have left is an age-old toothbrush without toothpaste."

"Octavia and I have a maintainance kit we share, we can include you," Octavia proposes. "You have to stick to the rules though. We have one lipstick and one eyebrow pencil, you choose one per day, the razor is only for legs and armpits-"

"Unless you have a date," Raven adds with a wink.

"And nailpolish only once a month. Don't leave the soap in the water. We don't have anything for periods though."