The satisfaction coming from making Lexa blush so hard vanishes in a split second and Clarke inhales sharply.
Her mind inevitably goes back to last night, and she bows her head low before she says, "You can wrap it."
"Are you sure?"
"Fuck, Lexa, can you stop asking and just get it over with?"
Lexa doesn't reply, but she unwraps the bandage and starts her next task quietly. She looks as serious as ever, a little tenser, the softest frown imprinted between her brows. Clarke watches her subtly through the mirror, the way her eyes move attentively, the soft rise and fall of her shoulders.
There's a ridiculous little thought passing her mind for a second that she'd like to turn around and brush over that frown, to ease it, to let Lexa know that it's a warm, sunny spring morning and there's nothing to worry about.
Of course, despite it being a warm, sunny spring morning, there is plenty to worry about, and so the thought of easing Lexa's tension fades quickly, leaving nothing but a pink flush on her cheeks.
Clarke isn't sure what makes her ask it in the end, what allows her tongue to be so loose, why the prospect of asking Lexa feels safer than the prospect of asking Luna. "Last night," she starts and Lexa's eyes snap up to meet hers in the mirror.
Clarke can see the exact moment Lexa stops breathing, the exact moment her shoulders stop rising. It's hard to notice, Lexa is so good at hiding these little tells and the mirror is dirty, but Clarke sees and hesitates before she asks, "What happened?"
Lexa's eyes go back to working on the bandage, and her shoulders sink and rise once more. "What do you want to know?"
"Was Luna there?"
"Yes. I asked her for help."
So Clarke's memory is not playing tricks on her.
"Did she kill them?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me," Clarke says tensely.
"No, then. You killed them."
"Why haven't they executed me yet? You said murdering men wasn't legal. I killed three."
"Who knows if you really did? Who knows it wasn't me, or Luna, or the women who watched? Nobody does. And even the enforcements are overwhelmed by a dozen or two women all desperately claiming they killed three men. They concluded it must've been a killer associated with the devil who possessed us."
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"What? Why? Who had that crazy idea?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does."
"No, it does not."
Clarke frowns and lets the subject drop. She lets the subject drop, but that is not to say she's letting last night drop. There are too many questions, too few memories, too many potential scenarios she wasn't in control of.
Once again, she didn't have the courage to ask last night, too swayed by the idea of just laying on a soft couch next to Lexa forevermore, the only thing to worry about how many cookies she could eat before being full, too scared of what could have happened.
"What did they do to me?"
"They drugged you and took advantage of you in a way they shouldn't have."
"I know that, but what did they do? Did they rape me? Could I be pregnant, or-"
"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.
The blue inside of them makes Lexa drop the braid immediately, fingers prickling as she's suddenly convinced Clarke's hair must be sacred to her, or a temple for her Gods, or a holy place, or maybe all three. "Sorry," she breathes.
"Shh."
Clarke gives their joined hands the slightest tug and for a moment, Lexa is sure Clarke is letting go, Lexa ruined it, she overstepped.
Instead, Clarke holds on and simply pulls Lexa closer, until Lexa bumps into her and her front connects with Clarke's back.
The touch is almost unbearable.
By then, Clarke has asked for joined hands and she has asked for closeness, she has asked for too much, she hasn't asked for enough.
She cannot ask for more, she's not sure she would survive more, but Gods and Spirits, she wants more.
Lexa, despite being frozen on the spot in fear and panic all together, somehow thinks she understands.
Of course she understands, how could she not? Maybe she's a degraded creature of the darkness unused to touch and warmth, but this, even Lexa can understand.
How could she not, when her entire body is pressed against Clarke? How could she not, when her body is warmed by Clarke's bare skin? How could she not, when her hand is held so tightly? How could she not, when she feels Clarke as the wood feels fire, when she feels Clarke's breaths and her heartbeat, Clarke's entire rhythm irrevocably twisted with her own?
How could she not, when their bodies are pushed together like a knife pushed into flesh?
Even the dumbest soldier understands death with the blade in his heart.
Even Lexa understands intimacy with Clarke's hand in hers.
Clarke holds Lexa tightly, but whether it's to be closer or to prevent herself from letting go isn't entirely sure. Either way, her body aches for Lexa's touch in the strangest way, because all she wants for the rest of the day is to be held, to find out that warm and comfortable touch exists, and that it may be scary, but not in the same way last night's touch was scary.
The mere idea of being held, the frail wording of it, its heavy implications, they all bring a shameful blush to Clarke's cheeks.
She's not supposed to be held.
It's such weakness.
But there, in the tiny little bathroom with its wooden walls and mirrored sink, with its smells of pine and of cheap soap, Clarke feels the world cave in on her. Its weight is held up by the room alone, perhaps by their shoulders, and for a moment, nothing else exists.
For a moment, Clarke is the epitome of weakness, as though her well hidden core of inability had suddenly replaced her carefully forged armor. Instead of the mythical, murderous creature roaming Arkadia's forests, sometimes immortal or a killing shadow or Wanheda, the Commander of death itself, the Clarke standing in the bathroom is nothing but a fragile girl.
The charm and strength have gone, replaced by a worthless and lonely craving hunger for touch.
But the language of monsters rendered weak is one they both speak.
It's unfortunate, because Clarke took such great care to become invulnerable. She didn't even notice her own Achilles heel until Lexa tore it open and poured saltwater into the wound, like, five minutes ago.
It's a blaring pain, but scaringly, it feels so very sweet, too.
So Clarke shouts for touch, and Lexa understands.
And she reaches out. Her arm snakes around Clarke's body, holds her close, and Clarke wants to bow her head and hide her face far, far away from Lexa. She wants to hide her watery eyes, and the tears that are all too likely to soon spill from them.
Instead, leaning back against Lexa’s shoulder and their joined hands is inevitable. Lexa hesitantly follows, leaning forward until her forehead meets Clarke's free shoulder.
Lexa's second hand rests on Clarke's hip and Clarke takes that hand, too, gently pulling it up into a more comfortable angle on Clarke's stomach.
Lexa fights against the touch only weakly. She hates the feeling of Clarke's stomach rising and falling, she hates the soft grumbling, anything that indicates that Clarke’s belly could be more alive than it should be. Not when they just talked about a potential pregnancy. Not when Clarke could have become pregnant if last night had gone slightly differently.
But she loves the warmth too much, the firm muscles, the feeling of Clarke's body so snugly in her arm.
She loves the feeling too much that Clarke is alive right beneath her palms, especially after she could have died last night.
And so she stays. She lets Clarke hold her the same way she holds Clarke, and she lets Clarke ask, over and over again, for them to be close. She lets her ask, and she answers.
She answers, and she pays.
There's only so much she can do. Both hands in Clarke's, body tight against Clarke's, breath synced with Clarke's- it's too much. She’s still a monster, after all. If the Pauna crawled into a too small cage, it may be voluntarily, but that is not to say the cage isn’t going to burst, or he isn’t going to suffocate.
Lexa may have touched Clarke voluntarily, but that is not to say she is in any way able to handle it.
Titus’ words are engraved in her mind and deep down, she knows how right he is, about her and her ability to love, to do good, to be good.
Her black blood did not make a woman capable of love, nourishment and intimacy. That’s why she has no man. That’s why she can hardly take care of Madi. That’s why she would be no good at any other job than her current one.
Her black blood made a monster, and it’s not even quite as terrifying as it sounds, because, despite popular belief, it does not sleep in her veins. It does not awaken and control her. It does not take over her body and mind like a strange, external force.
The monster of her blood isn’t a mythical creature stuck in her body. It’s simply Lexa. There’s no other. There’s no devilish voice.
Just Lexa, and all her inabilities.
And Lexa is not made for whatever this is, it quite literally doesn’t run in her veins. She’s afraid she might burst, or fall apart, or that her midnight heart will simply stop working, but she keeps her body together.
That’s all she can do. She can’t control the tears.
They spill from her eyes, run down Clarke’s back and pass her tattoo, along the devilish eyes of the hirvslik.
The morning sun comes around the window corner, illuminating Lexa's sparkling tears, and the sea monster cries itself a golden ocean.
“You know what's embarrassing?” Clarke asks softly after a few minutes of silence, or perhaps, by that point, a few hours, a few eternities. The horror that comes with crying, the terror of doing it in front of someone else, it sits deep in Lexa's bones and at Clarke's words, Lexa freezes.
Clarke can only tell because of the difference in breathing- it’s kind of beautiful, to be able to feel Lexa’s state when she can’t ever really see it in expressions.
Lexa knows, of course, what's embarrassing. She's surprised Clarke hasn't pushed her away yet.
Yes, Lexa wants to say. I'm hugging you, not even properly, and it's making me cry. No need to rub it in my face.
But when she lifts her head off Clarke's shoulder, she sees a beautiful pale face struck by saltwater tears, coming from Clarke's vast ocean of eyes.
“What?” she asks. We're both pathetic?
“You're taller than me.”
Lexa can't help but burst into a laugh, just because it's so unexpected and ridiculous, and Clarke grins, with soft pink cheeks from the sound and the fact that she can feel it against her skin. And, truthfully, from the fact that Lexa is taller than her and she hasn't noticed until Lexa hugged her from the back.
“Why is that bad?”
“Because I could easily flip you over but everyone looking at us is going to think the opposite.”
It actually makes it feel very nice to be hugged by you.
Honestly, the entire morning has been a fever dream. A heap of unrealistic things have happened, but what happens next is more of fantasy than their hug or even the hirvslik and the sea woman.
Lexa grins, looking at Clarke in the mirror with mischievously sparkling eyes, and she says, “Does that hurt your ego? For people to think you couldn't get on top of me?”
Clarke's jaw drops and for a moment, she's sure she must have misunderstood, but Lexa's teasing eyes and smirk are making her question her whole life. “Did you just- holy shit, Lexa, did you just make a dirty joke?”
“Language,” Lexa chides, cheeks pale red, but Clarke is laughing and turning to look at Lexa, letting go of Lexa's hands for a moment only until both of them seek each other out again, not as tightly this time, their fingers twined as lightly as air.
“Oh my Gods, this is a miracle. I underestimated you! You do have humor!”
“That would imply I was joking.”
Clarke's jaw just keeps dropping and she keeps laughing worse. “You better stop being bold or I'll have to remind you who you're messing with.”
“And who would that be? You already tried to kill me once today, and I gave you those weapons, so…”
“As if you could take them back from- wait, like- illegally?”
“I disapprove of that term.”
Clarke raises her brows and Lexa sighs.
“I believe Octavia retrieved your weapons God knows how and Luna brought them this morning, hidden in a loaf of bread.”
“And you… haven’t reported it?”
“Not to be obvious, but it’s one unskilled no one against eight armed demon soldiers. And the authorities would not necessarily believe my story anyway. They may twist it to make me out to be the murderer of these guards, or to be possessed by you, or to be a demon too…” she trails off and shrugs. “I’ve told you, Clarke. I have no real power in this place. I rely on the guards keeping it safe, and they obviously failed in this case.”
Clarke hums. “Okay, well, I’m not complaining. But if you do tell someone, it’s not going to end pretty.”
“You don’t need to waste time making big threats, I'm already aware.” Lexa seems to change her mind though, because she shrugs and gives a little, considering hum. “Although, of course, I am taller.”
Clarke gently slaps her arm. “Don’t you start getting an ego now, Lexa, there’s not enough space for two in this house. I’m always happy to demonstrate that I am still very much able to get on top of you.”
In her charming Clarke way, she casually flexes her muscles, arms thick in the most elegant way, shoulders strong, stomach suddenly much more outlined than it seems when relaxed.
Lexa’s eyes trail down Clarke’s half-naked body longer than they should and Clarke grins. When Lexa’s eyes snap back up to meet Clarke’s, Clarke winks. “I don’t even need to use these. Showing them off seems to destroy your defenses already.”
It really is surprising how fast Lexa’s eyes can switch, how fast her entire demeanor can change.
From big eyes and a slightly open stance, one hand still woven in with Clarke’s, she goes to sharp and scolding slits of green, straight back and a step of distance really quick. “Well, shockingly, there are eight armed demon soldiers with about two or three times my muscle mass, so yes, showing them off is good enough of a threat.”
“Oh come on, I know you like them, aren’t they pretty?” Clarke shows off alternatively flexing her biceps, but Lexa just shakes her head. “You’re allowed to fawn over them, it’s okay, a lot of people do, really. You’re not alone in your fight to resist.”
If Lexa wasn’t so annoyed, Clarke’s teasing arrogance might have actually drawn a laugh from her. “We should make breakfast, and you finally need to put a shirt on. These are no circumstances, what if another teacher comes in to check on my work progress and this is all he finds? It’s going to land us both in a lot of trouble.”
“Oh come on, as if the teachers check on each other.”
“They check on me, because I’m the only one obviously messing this up!”
“Lexa, hey, it’s okay. What could a girl possibly do? It’s not your fault that me being shirtless is just a really good thing. I mean, do you love it? Absolutely. But can you do anything about it? No, of course not! How could you? I’m gorgeous. Besides, there are many cultural lessons to be learned in my tattoos. Ha, that’s a good one, isn’t it? I was just teaching you about that.”
Lexa shakes her head and silently looks forward to finally getting to her lesson. It’s time that Clarke has a really, really long period of just listening and, most importantly, being quiet. “Let’s make breakfast.”
“Ohh, pancakes?”
“If you want to.”
“What a funny question, of course-” Clarke stops, and her easy smile is wiped from her face, replaced by the scary opposite of a demon’s alert, ready-to-fight expression.
“What?”
“Shh.”
A clatter downstairs disrupts the tense silence and Clarke immediately grabs her weapon. "Stay up here," she instructs.
"You're not even wearing a shirt yet, I'm going to check."
Clarke shoots her a much-saying glare. "I told you to stay, so stay."
Before Lexa can argue, Clarke is already on her way downstairs, two daggers and an ax at the ready. Lexa just prays it's no guard, that no one found out Clarke killed those men, or that Lexa helped, or that Clarke has her weapons. She prays no one found out the way she held Clarke.
Clarke, on her way down, is just cursing herself that she knew that something was wrong downstairs and didn't think far enough.
Isn't that what Lexa said? Isn't that why she came into the bathroom at all?
I thought I heard you downstairs?
Lexa already heard someone downstairs earlier and Clarke was too distracted to do anything about it.
Fuck.
When she rushes into the kitchen, she's prepared for a fight, and to be honest, she's kind of hoping for one. The adrenaline that is cursing through her body now reminds her of the anger that she's been missing for the last day. The prospect of a fight makes her feel safe, finally, after the disaster of last night and this morning, after the disaster that is Lexa altogether.
The idea that she might get back to properly fighting someone lights her, fills her up with energy, angry at herself for needing help yesterday, angry at the whole world for the stupid situation altogether.
When she gets into the kitchen, and all she sees is an animal sitting on the corner, holding a leftover cookie in its tiny paws, the first thing she feels is disappointment. It's fairly quickly followed up by how cute the animal is, though, and so she puts her weapons down disgruntledly, promising herself to find a fight elsewhere soon enough.
Lexa does not listen to Clarke. After a short while of silence, she worriedly hurries downstairs, entirely unequipped for what she might be finding, but also unable to just stay upstairs.
She hesitated yesterday. She won't today.
She's prepared for everything but Clarke holding a raccoon, which in return is holding a cookie, looking utterly confused as to why Clarke would be holding it like a baby.
"Clarke?"
"Look at this little fucker-"
"Language!"
"Isn't she cute?"
"It's a she?"
"I don't know? Disprove it."
Lexa can't.
Clarke's smile turns bigger as she looks into the animal's dark puppy eyes, and her small, poor heart melts into a puddle. "Look at her, Lexa, I love her so much. She's so small and dirty, she just wanted a chocolate chip cookie too. Can we keep her?"
"It's a raccoon, no, we can't 'keep' her!"
"I don't know what that is, but it's like a little fairy creature. Look at how adorable."
"She's dirty."
"Let's clean her!"
"Absolutely not-"
"Come on, sweet girl, we're getting you rid of all the grime and then you'll get a chocolate chip cookie from mommy Clarkie for having been such a good girl."
The raccoon looks incredibly confused, but it's not fighting Clarke. Yet.
Lexa sighs. Fine. If Clarke wants to get scratched up by a sick raccoon, that's her responsibility. Lexa might as well make pancakes in the meanwhile.
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i hope you enjoyed the chapter <3