heda | clexa

thirteen

"No," Lexa cuts her off a little too harshly, a little too quickly, a little too rudely. Not by Clarke's standards, but most definitely by Lexa's standards, who seems to be manners in person. 

Clarke watches Lexa in the mirror, her eyes, which are still focused on wrapping Clarke's torso. Could she be lying? Why would she?

"Is that the truth?"

"I'm not lying."

"Are you sure? Because if any of them raped me and I'm carrying a child-"

"Stop using that word!" Lexa snaps, voice still surprisingly soft and kind for obviously being upset. 

Clarke can feel Lexa's cold fingers on her back, and are they trembling? Is Lexa? Did she turn paler, or is that just a trick the light is playing on Clarke?

English, the language of the sailors and warriors, is only Clarke's second language, and she understands that many cultures have different opinions on different gestures, words and expressions. She hasn't been in this place nearly enough to make assumptions on what words may be offensive. 

"I'm sorry," she says softly, and wonders why her pride let her apologize so easily when it's usually putting up a tiring debate. "I didn't mean to offend you. I just want to know. If I could be pregnant..." she trails off and is afraid Lexa might see her glassy eyes in the mirror. She looks back down into the sink. 

"I understand. I wouldn't lie about that to you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there earlier. I'm sorry, Clarke."

"What do you mean? You helped me. You saved me."

Lexa shakes her head. "Not right away," she gets out. "I saw you, and I hesitated."

Luna didn't. 

Emori didn't, or any of the other women for that matter. 

They were ready to lay their lives down for a stranger in no time. 

None of them argued men's rights. None of them ran to ask someone else for help. None of them were too weak to help right away.

The shame of standing out once again brings a blush to the tip of her ears. "I'm sorry," she repeats. "I could've been there earlier, I could've helped by myself instead of asking Luna, I could've-"

Clarke puts a hand on her own shoulder, right in Lexa's line of sight, fingertips on top of a claw-shaped scar, silently interrupting Lexa. The hirvslik theory suddenly seems much more realistic. 

It's a strange move, and Lexa is confused for a moment, but once she realizes what it's meant for, there's no way to escape it. She might want to, actually, but she simply can't. 

Her eyes flicker between Clarke's hand, and her own, resting on top of Clarke's fastened bandage, not so far. She moves it up a little, leaving time for Clarke to remove her hand.

She doesn't.

Instead, her fingers stretch a little further. 

Lexa's fingers straighten, move further up, just slightly, until their fingertips touch. 

A nervous jolt goes through her body and at the same moment that Clarke's shoulders relax, Lexa's shoulders tense. At the same moment that Clarke's breathing easens, Lexa's breathing hitches.

Clarke's hand lifts and Lexa's slides beneath hers as their fingers intertwine. "I'm sorry that I held back," Lexa murmurs very softly.

Clarke shakes her head and her hair moves along with it, one braid falling back over her shoulders. Thoughtlessly, stupidly, Lexa gently moves it back, brushing Clarke's free shoulder in the process, and Clarke's eyes shoot up to meet Lexa's in the mirror.