Chapter Text
“This is an intervention.” Raven thumps two bottles of whiskey on the counter, hard enough Clarke looks at them, worried about cracks. “They’re fine, they’re sturdy.”
Clarke rings her up, glaring daggers, and presses her lips together, stubborn. She jabs a finger at the display, showing the total.
“Really?” Raven digs a credit card out of her front pocket, wiping it against her pantleg before swiping. “You’re going to try the silent treatment? On me?”
Clarke taps the sticker taped to the lotto display inlaid into the counter, We Card.
Raven glares. “You know I’m old enough.”
Clarke shrugs, and cancels the transaction.
“Bitch,” Raven mutters, and storms out. Clarke reshelves the liquor and goes back to behind the cashier. She picks at the plastic covering the greasy keys with the tip of one fingernail.
“Ha!” Octavia says triumphantly, slapping her driver’s license on the counter. “What now, bitch?”
“Don’t you have classes to go to?” Clarke mutters.
“She speaks.” Octavia unwraps a slim jim and gnaws on the end. “Are you ready to get the fuck outta here?”
Instead of answering, Clarke rings her up, seventy-five cents.
“Put it on my tab.” Clarke glares and Octavia digs in a pocket for a dollar, grumbling. “I liked you better when you were getting laid.”
“Yeah,” Clarke says, shoving the bill in the tray and digging out her change, “me too.”
//
“Here.” Clarke thumps the whiskey down in front of Raven on the coffee table. “Sorry I’m a raging bitch all the time.”
Raven blinks, sleepy from napping in her armchair, and her smile is softer than it might be if she was fully awake. “It’s okay.” She wiggles to the side and Clarke wedges herself into the space, settling Raven half in her lap.
“No it’s not. You’re missing someone too, and you’re still--” Clarke waves a hand, vague, “--functioning.”
Raven’s quiet for a bit, nuzzling into Clarke’s sweater. “It wasn’t the same, me and Anya. Not like you and Lexa.”
“Still.”
Raven sighs, big. “Yeah. Anya wasn’t so bad, right? She was cool, sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Clarke lies, because she’s a good friend. They cuddle for a few moments, and Clarke is just starting to get sleepy when Raven pokes her.
“Can you quit that fucking job please? The house is starting to smell like gasoline and regret.”
//
“This is good, Clarke.” Clarke pins her phone between her neck and her ear, contorting awkwardly as she tries to free up both her hands to unwrap the chips. “I’m glad you’re finally starting to move forward.”
“Thanks mom, that was only a little passive aggressive.”
Abby sighs over the line. “I only want what’s best for you. Now that Lexa’s out of the picture--”
“Do you have to say it with such relief?”
“--it’s time for you to get your life back on track.”
Clarke shoves three chips in her mouth at once. “Great chat mom, let’s do it again never.”
“You know I hate it when you talk with your mouth full,” her mother scolds, and Clarke chews, exaggeratedly loud, to make her mother sigh.
“It’s been months, Clarke. Are you finished with this immature excursion from the real world?”
Clarke hangs up, her mood ruined, and stomps around the kitchen, hurling food into a frying pan and turning the heat up too high. By the time Lincoln comes in, the room smells faintly burnt, the fan sucking up smoke almost as fast as the pan produces it.
“You know I don’t mind cooking,” he says, taking the pan out of her hand and moving it off the burner.
Clarke scowls at the counter. “I’m the deadbeat, I should be cooking to make up for it. I know you guys are cutting me a break on the rent. I have savings, you know.”
“You shouldn’t deplete your savings.” Lincoln dumps everything in the trash, sets the pan soaking in the sink, and takes out a package of hamburger from the fridge. “I hear medschool is very expensive.”
“Maybe I won’t go to medschool,” Clarke says, giving up on the pretense of cooking and hopping up to sit on the counter. “Maybe I’ll become a starving artist.”
“Then you’ll definitely need your savings.” Lincoln washes his hands and starts sinks his fingers into the raw meat, massaging. “Whatever you choose, I’m sure you’ll be exceptional.”
Clarke frowns, the words triggering a memory. “Lexa said that, too.”
“Heda is wise,” Lincoln agrees. “She asks about you often. Hand me an egg?”
Clarke has the fridge open before she processes his statement. She slams it shut. “She what?”
“She speaks of you, often.” Lincoln smiles. “Only good things. Egg?”
Clarke digs an egg out of the fridge and hands it over, chewing her lip. “You should, uh, add crumbs.”
“Crumbs?”
“Yeah.” Clarke goes to the cabinet and finds the cannister. “It helps hold the patties together.”
Lincoln holds the bowl out and Clarke shakes the crumbs into the mixture, watching them float on the film of egg. Lincoln mixes it and Clarke watches, frowning. She shifts on her feet. “You want to know what she says?”
Clarke exhales. “So much. Thank you.”
Lincoln smiles. “She says you are brilliant, kind. Your heart is strong. You elevate yourself.”
“I work at a gas station,” Clarke mutters, blushing despite herself.
Lincoln shrugs. “That doesn’t change who you are.” He forms patties in his palms, easy. Whenever Clarke tries it they fall apart but he slaps them on a plate, perfectly round and pressed. “Just because someone stumbles, loses their way, doesn’t mean they're lost forever.”
Clarke finds the big pan and sets it on the biggest burner. “That’s X-Men. You stole that from X-Men.”
Lincoln’s smile turns into a full fledged grin. “Maybe.”
“You’re really just a big nerd, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
Clarke gives in to her own grin, sighing. “You want help cooking?”
“Sure.”
Lincoln does most of the work, Clarke leaning against the counter and handing him things when he asks for them. He tells her about his job, a nurse at the closest emergency room, and she tells him about the time someone drove away from the gas station with the hose still attached, ripping the pump right out of the ground. She insists on wielding the pepper mill, to his amusement, and when he plates the hamburgers, the cheese melted just perfect, he lets Clarke tell everyone that she made them herself.
//
“Okay,” Clarke says, walking into the house. Raven and Octavia are sitting at the table, eating Chinese takeaway, and Lincoln must be at a shift. Raven and Octavia look up, smiling a greeting, and Clarke watches both their faces morph into disgusted horror. “You were both right.”
“Dear god,” Octavia chokes, slapping a hand over her nose and mouth.
“I need to quit my job.”
“You need to quit my nose,” Raven says, and stands, picking up the dining room chair and approaching Clarke like a lion tamer. “Out!”
“Hey,” Clarke protests. She’d taken her shoes off on the porch. “There was a… situation. In the bathroom. A sewage situation. I just need to--”
“Get out!” Raven pokes her with the legs of the chair, not as gentle as she might have. “Back, demon!”
“Asshole,” Clarke backs up over the threshold onto the porch. “Come on! I need a shower.”
“There’s a hose,” Raven says, and slams the door. Clarke can hear the locks flip.
“I still have my keys!”
“Fuck off,” Raven suggests from a safe distance, muffled by the door, but after a minute it opens again and Octavia comes out, Lincoln’s scrubs hanging loose off her frame. She’s holding a pair of Clarke’s sweatpants, a soft pajama shirt.
“Okay Griffin,” she says, grim, “let’s do this.”
//
“Well,” Octavia says, tossing Clarke’s ruined uniform shirt and sodden jeans into the trashcan by the curb, “if anything, the neighbors got a good show.”
Clarke shivers violently, glaring daggers, and wraps her arms around herself. “I hate you.”
“Can you hate me while you quit your job?”
“Yeah,” Clarke mutters, her sights set on the hottest shower of her life. “Whatever.” She squishes into the house, grimacing, and goes straight to the bathroom. It’s locked. “What the--”
“Occupado!”
“Raven!” Clarke bangs on the door. “I’m going to kill you!”
“Sorry,” Raven calls back. “I’m taking a bubble bath.”
“Just use the other bathroom,” Octavia says, coming in behind her and flopping onto the couch. “She’s facetiming Anya, you probably don’t want to hear that anyway.” She cranks the volume up on the television, some old movie blaring away, and Clarke shuffles down the hallway, feeling the carpet between her toes.
She hesitates, then pushes the door open. It’s Lincoln's room now, technically, which means the bunkbeds have been delofted and pushed together, and some of Octavia’s clothes are scattered on the floor, her phone charger plugged in near the bed. But the bookshelf is still half full of Lexa’s textbooks, and the chips in the paint from Anya’s knife above the ceiling are still there. Clarke goes to the shelf, touches the titles of the books, pulls one from the stacks. It’s a slim book of poetry, the cover worn, the spine cracked. It’s in French and Clarke doesn’t recognize the author’s name but she stands there for a moment, paging through carefully, and wonders which ones Lexa liked, what she felt when she read them. Then she puts it aside with a soft exhale and pads into the bathroom.
She opens the cabinet under the sink on a whim and finds a bottle of the shampoo Lexa had used, and she takes it into the shower with her. When she gets out, dripping everywhere because she’d forgotten to snag a towel, she smells like Lexa, and she curls in the middle of her bed, soaking her sheets, and thinks about what Lexa’s voice sounded like, the softness of her hair.
//
Octavia poked at her face with a spoon. “Eat your cereal,” she coaxes, and Clarke groans, swatting at her. Cheerios spill to the floor, the spoon clattering duly on the carpet.
“Go to class, O. I’m jobless and I’m wallowing.”
Raven props her hands on her hips. “You’ve been wallowing for four days.”
Octavia shoots her a look and pats Clarke’s shoulder, comforting. “Okay, but… maybe you could wallow while you eat something.”
“My breakfast is liquid,” Clarke says like a badass, then chokes when the whiskey burns more than she expected. “God, this cinnamon shit is fucking gross.”
“Really?” Raven asks, inching forward, “let me taste.”
Clarke cradles the bottle to her. “Nice try.”
“Okay,” Raven says, after a half-hearted grab for the bottleneck. “Fine. You get one more day. One! When I get home…” she trails off, pointing threateningly, and Clarke takes another drink, sinking further into the couch cushions.
She waits until they leave to flip the television on, hesitating on the news before steeling herself and changing it to something meaningless. She lasts only two hours, because with every show she turns, wanting to tease Lexa or crack a joke or lean her head in Lexa’s lap, and it’s all very overdramatic and irritating, even to herself.
She’s napping when Octavia and Raven almost kick the door down, falling over themselves to get into the house. She cracks open an eye, yawning. “Forget something?” She squints at the clock. “You’re not supposed to be back for another three hours.”
“And you’re--” Raven snatches up the television remote, clutching it to her chest. “Sleeping. Good! Do that… some more.”
Clarke stretches. The empty bottle rolls out from under her body and falls, and Octavia and Raven don’t even look disappointed, odd strained smiles fixed to their faces. “What’s wrong with the two of you?”
“Nothing.” Octavia edges towards the kitchen, her fingers white where they’re clenched around Raven’s sleeve. “Nothing! Lincoln said there’s… a stoppage. In the kitchen sink. So we came to uh,” she falters.
“Fix it,” Raven chimes in. “So--you’re gonna nap, and we--we are going to go… fix the toilet.”
“Sink,” Octavia mumbles.
“Sink,” Raven agrees. Clarke watches them go, sideways like crabs holding claws, her brow furrowed.
She’s sinking back into the couch, shrugging, when there’s a loud crash from the kitchen, followed by the hissing of lowered frantic voices. She sighs and drags herself up, ignoring the headrush. “Okay, what’s up.”
Raven and Octavia fly apart, guilty. “Nothing,” they chime together. Raven lunges, grabbing the remote off the counter and hiding it behind her back.
Clarke narrows her eyes. “What’s on tv that you don’t want me to see?”
“Nothing,” Raven squeaks. She shoves the remote into her bra.
“That’s not going to stop me.” Clarke takes a threatening step forward. Raven throws the remote on the floor, shattering it; plastic flies everywhere, skittering on the floor; the batteries roll away under the fridge.
They stand in silence, avoiding Clarke’s eyes, and she turns on her heel. She get as far as the sofa before Octavia hits her in a tackle. “No,” she yelps as they tumble down, Clarke’s elbow banging painfully on the table. Clarke is flat on her back, Octavia on top of her, limbs akimbo.
“What the fuck?” Clarke shoves Octavia off her, cursing, and takes a step toward the television.
“Oh my god,” Raven cries out, lying prone just in front of the hallway, clutching her brace. “My leg!”
Clarke turns, alarmed. “What happened?”
“It uh… hurts?” Raven twists her face up into a grimace. “Ow?”
Octavia lunges for the television, yanking the power cord. “Oh no! I… tripped.”
Clarke swings her gaze between the two of them. “What the fuck is happening. Someone explain. Right now.”
“Okay,” Octavia says, climbing to her feet and letting the cord fall from her fingers. “There was… an incident. But everything’s fine, and Lincoln is going to check on everything, so there’s no need for panic.”
“You two are the only ones panicking,” Clarke snaps. She shoves Octavia to the side and plugs the television back in, using the buttons on the set itself to turn it on.
“I think I need to go to the hospital,” Raven tries, and Clarke cuts her a glare. “Fine, god. Turn to the news.”
It takes a minute, Clarke fumbling with the unfamiliar buttons as she clicks through the channels, but finally she lands on a news report, moving back in front of the television. The first report is about a large forest fire in Northern California. Then it loops back to the main story, and Clarke only parses the first few words Attempted assassination of Trigeda Commander during international address before her brain whites it out, fixated on the looping footage of Lexa, standing at a podium, suddenly pitching sideways, her hand pressed to her sternum, her blood so dark it’s almost black.
“It’s okay,” Octavia is saying when Clarke comes back to herself, slumped in Raven’s armchair, “she’s okay. Put your head between your knees.” She pushes Clarke’s head down and Clarke rests her elbows on her legs, looking at the carpet fibers and gulping air, her vision going black around the edges.
Raven rubs her back in soothing circles. “We were on campus when we heard. We came straight here.”
“What,” Clarke gasps, and wrenched her gaze back to the screen, where Lexa staggers to her feet and tries to complete her speech, her face going white and whiter, until blood bubbles over her teeth and Anya carries her away, the remaining press screaming questions as she goes. “Who?”
“Don’t know,” Octavia says, and the door opens again; Lincoln, looking as serious as Clarke’s ever seen him.
“She’s alive,” is the first thing he says, and some of the tightness in Clarke’s chest eases. “She’s in surgery.”
Clarke barks out something that she thinks is maybe a laugh, then claps a hand over her mouth as everyone peers at her, concerned. “Sorry,” she whispers against her palm. “I--uh.” Tears well up and spill over and she flees to her room, curling under her blankets with a pillow over her head. “I’m fine,” she yells when they bang at her door. “I just need a minute.”
She clutches her phone against her chest and goes through their old texts; nothing meaningful, nothing poignant, just little messages asking who’s home, what time should Lexa pick her up from her last class of the day, does Clarke need anything from the corner store?
The window squeaks and Octavia climbs through, muttering when her shirt catches on the latch. She crawls under the comforter and Clarke turns her face into Octavia’s chest, crying as quietly as she can until she falls asleep.
//
“Clarke,” Lincoln murmurs, kneeling beside her bed. “Wake up.” Octavia stirs and Clarke listens to them mumble to each other, Octavia leaving with a last kiss to her temple and a quiet caress of Lincoln’s shoulder, Lincoln smiling up at her.
Clarke sits up and rubs at her eyes, feeling gritty and drained. “What time is it,” she croaks.
“Late.” Lincoln hands her his phone. “She’s a little out of it.”
Clarke practically snatches it out of his hand, pressing it against her ear. “Hello? Lexa?”
She hears a slow exhale, wet and faintly pained, and then: “Clarke.” Her name on Lexa’s tongue, slurred and too slow and fumbly, and she presses her back against the headboard and tries to keep her voice from shaking.
“Lexa.” Lincoln pats her knee, comforting, and leaves, closing the door quietly behind himself. “Hey. Are you--how are you?”
“High,” Lexa sighs. “I told them not to give me the pain medication, but the doctors were insis--insista--Anya made me.” Her accent is harsh, almost to the point where Clarke can’t quite make out the words, and she slips into trigedasleng once before correcting herself.
“But you’re okay? The--it looked bad, on the news.”
“I’d hoped you hadn’t seen.”
“I did.”
Lexa sighs again. “Sorry. I don’t want you to worry.”
Clarke slides down until she’s lying supine on her back. “Too late.”
“I will be in the hospital for some time,” Lexa admits, “but my accovery has been ressured.” There’s a pause. “Recovery. Assured.”
“If you weren’t suffering from serious blood loss, I’d make fun of you,” Clarke tries to joke, and then can’t quite stifle a sob.
“Don’t cry,” Lexa mumbles, sounding halfway to sleep. “I’ll… I’ll call you tomorrow, ‘kay?”
“No,” Clarke blurts, “just--wait. Can you stay on the line? Just for a little while?”
“Yeah,” Lexa agrees.
“It’s okay if you go to sleep,” Clarke assures her, “you need to rest.”
“I don’t want to stop talking to you,” Lexa admits, “but I don’t think I’ll be awake much longer.” Her voices fades towards the end of the sentence, fainter and fainter.
“That’s okay. You need to rest.” Clarke rolls over, grabbing the charger and plugging it into Lincoln’s phone. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah,” Clarke says, swallowing so hard it hurts. “I promise.” She listens to Lexa’s breathing go even and deep, straining to hear, thumbing the volume on the phone all the way up, and presses her own hand to her chest, feeling her heartbeat and willing Lexa’s to keep going, thump thump thump, thousands of miles away.
//
“You’d tell if she was, right?” Clarke flops onto the couch, kicking her shoes off and propping the magazine open in her lap, her purse dropped to the floor carelessly.
“If she was what, Clarke?”
“Like… a highly advanced android. Like in the movies.”
Clarke is pretty sure Lexa’s rolled her eyes, but her voice still sounds vaguely amused. “Anya is not a highly advanced android.”
“But are you sure? She’s older than you, right? So you might not even know.”
“And what has brought on this unique line of questioning?”
Clarke grins. “I’m looking at the cover of this month’s Time magazine.”
Lexa groans. “I thought perhaps you’d miss that.”
“Because I’m too busy at my brand new internship?”
“Because your usual reading choices fall more in line with Highlights.” Lexa’s murmur is so fucking self-satisfied, pleased at her own joke, and Clarke can’t help her own smile, even as she sneers into the phone.
“Anyway, here in the article, which I totally read first and not at all skipped straight to the photos--” Clarke can hear Lexa’s huff of laughter because she’s listening for it, and her smile only grows “--it says she’s much older than you. But honestly, she hasn’t aged at all, based on this picture.”
“She has good genetics,” Lexa argues, mild.
“And she never smiles.”
“You have seen her smile.”
“Only when she sees someone in pain. A human in pain. How very… android.”
“Anya smiles,” Lexa repeats.
“Coronation,” Clarke lists, flicking through the photos, “meeting of the United Nations. Lexa, in this picture she’s literally kissing a baby. She looks like she’d rather be doing my homework for me.”
“She doesn’t care for children,” Lexa admits. “Although she was always an excellent caregiver for me.”
Clarke hesitates, considering not going forward into serious waters. “So she did raise you?”
“Yes, Clarke. Why would I lie to Time magazine?”
Clarke snorts. She flips a page and reads directly from an article. “‘I am very grateful to the group of extraordinary women who opened their home to me for the duration of my last year in the States, and for the invitation of friendship they extended.’”
“I don’t hear a lie.”
“Yeah,” Clarke says, “sure. Invitation of friendship. To my vagina.”
Lexa coughs, sudden and abrupt, and when she speaks it’s slightly strangled. “Did you really want me to disclose our---our relationship to the press?”
“No, I’m just giving you a hard time.” The conversation lapses into a slightly awkward silence. “How are you feeling?”
“Just the same as the last five times you have asked,” Lexa grumbles. “I have been out of the hospital for a week. I’m fine.”
“Mm,” Clarke hums, “Anya smothering you a little?”
“In between physical therapy workouts.” Lexa hesitates. “I… took your advice.”
“Which? I give out a lot of advice, and it’s all great.”
“To tell people that you care about them. To stop pretending I don’t feel for other people.”
Clarke sits up straight, holding her breath. “Oh?”
“Yes. I told Anya I cared for her, and appreciate her guidance, her counsel. Her presence in my life enriches it, and I would miss her deeply if we were to part.”
“And how did she take all of that?”
“She attacked me with a training knife.” Lexa pauses, thoughtful. “Perhaps I should have chosen a more appropriate setting.” Clarke exhales, snorting softly.
“Did she chant hodnes laik kwelnes or just go straight for your heart, screaming kali ma?”
“That’s culturally insensitive, Clarke.”
“It’s pop culture, Lexa.”
“I think,” Lexa starts, and her tone makes Clarke pause. “Love is weakness. But some weaknesses cannot be avoided.”
“That’s a lot of personal growth. Does Trigeda do Edible Arrangements? Because I could send you some flowers made of melon.”
“Fuck off,” Lexa says, cheerful again.
Clarke’s watch chimes on her wrist and she silences it with a mutter. “You have that meeting in ten minutes.”
“I’m aware,” Lexa sighs. “I should have majored in managing logistics instead of political science. It would have been vastly more helpful.”
“We’ll talk again tomorrow?”
“I look forward to it,” Lexa murmurs, unbearably fond, and Clarke has to hang up before she starts spouting her feelings out like some kind of girl.
//
Anya shows up at four in the morning on a Thursday, and makes her presence known by climbing silently through Clarke’s window and sitting motionless on the foot of Clarke’s bed until she opens her eyes a crack to check the clock, her stretching foot hits something unfamiliar and she screams for ten straight seconds.
“Does Lexa know you are this loud?” Anya asks when Clarke finally stops to breathe, the blankets clutched to her chest and her lamp raised in her right hand.
“What the fuck,” Clarke hisses, her heartbeat thundering. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” The house is suspiciously silent. “Oh my god, did you kill everyone?”
Anya rolls her eyes. “They are fine.”
Clarke narrows her eyes. “You told them, didn’t you. And then you climbed in here to freak me out.”
“You told Lexa to discuss her feelings for me,” Anya shoots back, sulkier than Clarke has ever seen her, ever. She stands. “Consider this payback.”
The only thing Clarke is considering is flinging the lamp at Anya’s head, but she puts it down with an effort. “I hate you.”
“We will speak in the morning,” Anya says, and has the audacity to wave as she leaves, the cheek.
//
They don’t actually speak until lunchtime, Clarke sleeping in on her day off, and when she shuffles out Anya has poured her a cup of coffee. Clarke takes it, trying to look like she’s enjoying the smell of the brew and not like she’s investigating for traces of cyanide.
“I don’t know how you take it,” Anya says. She slides the ceramic sugar jar across the tabletop. “You seem like the sweet type.”
Clarke shakes a spoonful into her mug, suspicious. “Why are you being nice to me?”
Anya frowns. “This will be… a difficult conversation. There is no need to start off badly.” She looks down and to the right.
“Lexa told you to be nice, didn’t she.”
Anya grimaces. “Even worse than an order; a request.” She sighs, sliding into a chair across from Clarke. “I have always found it difficult to deny Lexa her requests.” She looks up at Clarke, catching her eyes. “She makes them so very rarely.”
Clarke sits, sipping at her coffee. She usually takes it with creamer but this is an odd atmosphere, the air between them, and she doesn’t want to break it. “I see.” She’s hoping Anya will explain herself, but Anya just looks at her, searching, and it’s unnerving enough Clarke breaks the silence. “I’m surprised you’re here, so soon after Lexa’s injury.” Anya’s eyes flash. “Not that it’s your fault, I just--I’m surprised. That’s all.”
“I am on ordered vacation,” Anya mutters. “The destination is of my own choosing.” Her eyes soften. “Reivon is… fond, in my heart.” The phrase is clumsy, like she’s translated it from something else, but it makes Clarke smile, tentative. The sliver of softness disappears as soon as Anya sees that Clarke has noticed. “I also need to talk to you. You need to make a choice.”
Clarke thinks about the stack of medschool applications, filled out and ready to be submitted, on her laptop and her desk. “Oh?”
Anya’s frown deepens. “Lexa came… quite close. Her fight was nearly over.” Clarke’s fingers clench abruptly on the handle of her mug, her breath quickening. “These experiences provide clarity, but she is stubborn.” Anya’s pupils flick up, the barest hint of an eyeroll. “She will never ask you to leave your home.”
“Um,” Clarke starts, but Anya ignores her, continuing.
“It may not be fair, but it’s on you. Commit or break it off. You can’t keep talking every other day.”
Clarke glares. “We’re friends.”
“You will never be friends.” Anya stands, dropping her own mug in the sink. “Make her happy or put you both out of your misery, I grow tired of her teenaged sighs.”
//
Lexa calls her and Clarke hesitates, before clicking it through to voicemail. She shoots off a text, saying she took on a shift last minute, and paces in her room before going out to the kitchen. Lincoln is there, humming as he bakes what looks to be a cake, and Clarke realizes with a guilty jolt that Raven’s birthday is in three days. She makes a note to tease Anya about being a softy at her next earliest convenience.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Lincoln says, layering the batter into a cake pan. She leans against the counter, clicking her nails on a cup of orange juice, until he slides the pan into the oven and turns to her. “Something on your mind?”
“Do you regret coming here?” Clarke frowns. It came out blunter than she intended. “I mean, it must have been hard, to leave your home.”
“Yes,” Lincoln agrees. He steals her cup and swigs from it, grinning good naturedly and holding it above her head when she tries to retrieve it. It makes her smile, despite everything, and she thinks she really does understand why he and Octavia fit so well together, despite not being together for even a year yet. He gives it back to her and she retreats across the tile, hissing playfully.
“Do you uh, need help? With the cake?”
“No.” He starts to mix things together, and it smells like sugar and vanilla and baking things, the sweet hint of cream cheese frosting. “It was hard,” he says after a quiet comfortable moment of shared silence. “I had dreamed about returning home for so long. The trees and the water, the village where my mother was born, the city where she died. I laid a tombstone in the ground for her.” He’s quiet for another moment. “In many ways, Trigeda will always be home in my heart.”
“But you still chose to leave.”
He shrugs. “Maybe someday I return. Maybe I don’t. There are other things to keep in my heart.” Octavia bounces into the kitchen, demanding they allow her to taste the frosting, and Clarke and Lincoln keep her at bay with wooden spoons and plastic spatulas, until Octavia flips the timer on and Lincoln lifts her into his arms, spinning to the sofa, so much love in their laughter.
//
Raven’s birthday is both too much and reserved, drinking around the kitchen table and the walls ringing with laughter. Raven smashes her cake over Anya’s face and then licks it off until they make everyone else uncomfortable, a few people from Raven’s program and Bellamy. They drink some more until everyone else staggers into an Uber, Bellamy passed out on the kitchen floor with a fleece blanket thrown over his legs and a cardboard box placed next to his head just in case of emergency. Clarke is throwing beer bottles out the kitchen window into the recycling bin when she turns and sees Anya and Raven in the hallway, just shadows in the night, kissing softly before slipping into Raven’s room, fingers linked.
Clarke showers, fast, and slips into bed still tipsy. She calls Lexa even though she knows Lexa’s in a closed doors meeting, her phone turned off, because she and Lexa had synced their calendars a week ago. “Hey,” she mumbles to Lexa’s voicemail. “I miss you. I miss you a lot.”
//
Clarke storms out of her shift and misdials three times before she gets the number right. Lexa picks up on the first ring, which means she knew, at least a little, about what was going to happen and is at least considerate enough not to keep Clarke waiting. “You asshole,” she fumes, and Lexa makes a noncommittal noise. “Explain yourself.”
“I don’t believe you need an explanation.”
“I was just pulled aside,” Clarke says, fighting to keep her voice even and failing, “by the Department of Homeland Security, among several other agencies, because apparently I’m being vetted for top level ambassador clearance!” Her voice is a shout by the time she finishes, and she hurries the last few steps to her car.
“I doubt that is what your country calls it,” is all Lexa has to say for herself, and since Clarke is safe in her car she lets out a small shriek of rage. “You did tell me to pick someone I trust.” Clarke shrieks again, and Lexa sighs. “You are under no obligation to accept any postings,” she says, oddly stiff. “It is just--it is so you are awarded official status. If you should ever visit Trigeda again.”
Clarke pauses. “Oh. Because I don’t want to be an ambassador, okay?”
“I know,” Lexa says, and it’s quiet and so full of pain.
//
“I’m not happy about this,” Raven announces, crossing her arms as she leans against Clarke’s doorframe.
Clarke freezes, one hand still in her duffel bag. “Um. This is… not what it looks like?”
“You’re going back with Anya.”
“Oh. Well then, it is what it looks like.”
Raven frowns. “I was hoping to sweep you off your feet, in three to four years.”
Clarke blinks, halfway through folding a shirt. “What?”
Raven shrugs. “When you were done with medschool, I was going to like,” she makes a gesture with her hands, “swoop. Whisk you away to Trigeda with me. Have their queen owe me a fat one.”
“Lexa’s not a queen,” Clarke rebutes, automatic. “Wait, what?”
“You’re both just so pathetic, moony eyed and sad. Anya’s beside herself as well. So when you were done, I was going to take the job she offered me and make you come with me. There’s hospitals all up in the capital, you can do your residency in any department you want.”
“You want to move to Trigeda?”
Raven shrugs again. “Space is cool, but it’ll always be there. Planning power lines and roads, building generators, getting clean water to everyone in the country? That’s a challenge I can sink my teeth into. I figure I’ll give them a few years to fuck it all up, make it interesting.”
“And Anya?”
“An added perk. And we’re on the same page about it, which is more than I can say for you.” Raven’s smirk goes smug. “That’s right. We had a conversation about our feelings before you and Lexa. Me and Anya.”
Clarke throws a pair of socks at her. “That’s… not a bad plan.”
Raven takes a hesitant step into the room. “Yeah? It’s uh. It’s big.”
“It is.” Clarke zips her bag up, slinging it over her shoulder, and Anya appears at Raven’s back, dropping a kiss to her neck. Raven’s eyes close, briefly, and her smile goes gentle. “I like it, though.”
“Me too,” Raven says. “I’ll see you when you get back?”
Clarke presses a kiss to her cheek and ignores Anya’s growl. “Promise.”
//
Anya walks Clarke into Lexa’s bedroom, throws a new badge at her chest, and leaves, shutting the door behind her. Clarke takes a shower, wrapping herself up in one of Lexa’s fluffy robes, and combs her hair out on the balcony, watching the sunset over the city. Someone dropped off a bowl of stew while she was in the shower and she eats only a few bites before crawling onto Lexa’s fur covered monstrosity of a bed and dozing. The door wakes her.
Lexa comes in slowly, shutting the door behind her and swallowing hard. “You’re here.”
Clarke sits up, wiping at her eyes. “I am.” Her mouth tastes a little stale, and she starts to rise out of the bed, thinking about the pitcher of water on the small table against the far wall. Lexa closes the distance between them in a blink, her hand gentle but insistent on Clarke’s shoulder, keeping her knelt on the bed.
“Don’t,” she murmurs. “Let me look at you.” She trails her fingers across Clarke’s face, the bridge of her nose and her cheekbone, down to around the underside of her jaw. She tucks Clarke’s hair behind her ears and holds her like that, her hands on either side of Clarke’s head. Her smile blooms, so full of joy, and Clarke pushes up. Their kiss is soft, close-mouthed, almost chaste, except for the flicker of heat under Clarke’s skin.
“Did you get my message?” Clarke slips the blazer off Lexa’s shoulders, and Lexa drops her arms to let it fall off her. Clarke kisses the hollow of her throat, and feels Lexa swallow again, hard.
“Yes.” Clarke undoes the first few buttons of Lexa’s shirt, trailing kisses, and Lexa’s breath stutters. “I--I missed you as well.”
“Good.” Clarke leans back; Lexa’s eyes are dark and blown and still so soft, looking at Clarke like nothing could rip her gaze away. “Take off your pants.”
Lexa almost falls over, hopping on one foot and then the other, until her shoes and socks are strewn across the floor, her pants in a puddle. She hesitates, her fingers on her panties, and looks to Clarke for permission. Clarke squeezes her thighs together and nods, and Lexa slides her underwear down her long tan legs, stepping out of them before crawling up the bed and Clarke’s body, nudging her onto her back to settle over her and sinking her teeth into the side of Clarke’s neck with a satisfied sigh. She sucks hard, breaking the skin, then soothes with a soft lick before biting again, just below the first mark. Her hands push the robe aside, baring more skin, and she sighs again.
Clarke lets her make three more marks, layered over each other, before she says, her voice lower than she’s ever heard it, “Stop.” Lexa sits up immediately, even if it is with a small pout, and Clarke splays a hand across Lexa’s belly, under her shirt. “Take off your shirt. Slow.”
Lexa gets to it, obedient, and Clarke slips her hands up Lexa’s ribcage before skimming teasingly across her nipples, making Lexa bite her lip. She keeps going until she finds what she’s looking for. Lexa goes completely still, her hands dropping, and then starts to pull away. “No,” Clarke protests, sitting up and pulling Lexa back into her. “It’s okay.”
Lexa breathes into her shoulder. “It is--I am not vain,” she adds, stiff. “And it does not hurt, anymore.”
“Can I see?” Lexa waits a long time, but then she nods, and sits back, shrugging off her shirt. Clarke scoots them back until she’s sitting back against the headboard, Lexa straddling her lap, and runs very careful fingertips around the puckered scar tissue, darker than the rest of her sin, raised in some places and sunken in others. “You’re beautiful,” Clarke says, and curls to press a single careful kiss to the center of the scar. “And you’re alive.”
Lexa goes a little limp, back against Clarke’s shoulder, and Clarke turns them until Lexa is tucked underneath her, Clarke pressing soft long open mouthed kisses to her collarbone, licking back up to her jaw and fluttering her eyelashes across Lexa’s face to her forehead. She’s ready to curl up and sleep, but Lexa shifts under her, her hips rolling, and Clarke smiles when she closes her teeth around Lexa’s earlobe and Lexa moans. “You sure this is okay? It doesn't hurt?”
“It’s fine,” Lexa affirms, trying to shift her thigh between Clarke’s legs. Clarke pinches her side and Lexa stills, waiting.
“Take my hand,” Clarke murmurs, and their fingers tangle. She sweeps her hair over one side of her neck and learns Lexa’s new scar with her tongue, keeping it careful and gentle, and after three minutes Lexa goes from cringing away to lax and lazy, pliant under her lips and her teeth. Clarke sucks a dark mark into each one of Lexa’s ribs, rewarding, and Lexa dissolves into mumbles and pleas, so perfect, so Clarke slides all the way down on a trail of bruises and bitemarks and settles Lexa’s hands in her hair before taking Lexa apart with her tongue, Lexa’s leg over her shoulder and her hands around Lexa’s hips, pinning her down.
“C’mere,” Lexa says, after she’s settled and Clarke’s soft tongue cleaning her up feels like too much. She pulls Clarke up her body and sucks herself off Clarke’s tongue, sighing and going even limper. “Do you want--”
“Just you,” Clarke says, and Lexa slips three fingers into her, crooked just so, and Clarke comes embarrassingly fast, Lexa’s thumb pressed against her clit and her head thrown back. “Fuck,” Clarke mutters as she comes down. “Tell me you can reschedule that meeting between the two ambassadors and their Romeo and Juliet situation tomorrow.”
“No,” Lexa says, regretful. “But I will be very stressed afterwards.”
“I think I can help with that.”
Lexa hums, then goes oddly stiff. She doesn’t say anything, but Clarke just went through a lot of trouble to make Lexa into the most comfortable pillow under her, and she pokes Lexa in the ribs, questioning. “When do you leave?” Lexa asks, so quiet.
“A week.” Clarke noses into the side of Lexa’s neck. “I uh, I need to talk to you about that, actually.”
“Anya spoke to you.” Lexa’s hands come up, pushing Clarke away and trying to curl into herself, and Clarke slides off, giving her space.
“Yeah.”
“I told her--” Lexa huffs, drawing her legs up in front of her. She looks very small like this, naked and curled up against the end of her bed, Clarke’s marks standing out stark under the candlelight.
“I uh.” Clarke’s hands twist together, nervous. “I have this plan, for how it could go.” she shrugs. “Long distance is hard, but I think we could do it. Maybe. Unless you don't think we could. Which is valid, because this is, you know, a partnership, not a dictatorship.”
Lexa lets her legs unfold. “You--you wish to have a long distance relationship.” She frowns. “I would not ask you to stay, Clarke. And I cannot leave.”
“Well medschool,” Clarke says. “I’ve been accepted a few places, and could get into a few more, depending on what I want to do. I have to figure that out. And that’s four years, and of course I wouldn’t ask you to get me a job after, maybe just help with the forms or something, for--”
“You intend to come here,” Lexa breaks into her babbling. “And to. Live here?”
“Well,” Clarke says, but there’s not really a way to get around this part of her plan or mask its seriousness. “Yeah. If you want.”
“Your mother does not live here. Nor do your closest friends.”
“Well actually--that doesn’t matter. You live here. I want to be with you.” Clarke holds her breath, staring. “If you want me to be with you, too.”
“Nothing,” Lexa says, pulling her close again, “would make me happier.” She pulls a blanket over their heads, but not fast enough to hide her smile, beaming and wondrous and so, so happy. They kiss, lazy and slow.
“If it wasn’t for jetlag,” Clarke mutters. “First thing tomorrow, exuberant relationship sex. Wake me up in time for you to make it to your meeting.”
“Of course, Clarke,” Lexa agrees, indulgent. She bites under Clarke’s jaw and sucks insistently, making soft pleased noises.
“Is this a thing you like? The biting? Because it’s going to make going back to work very embarrassing.”
“Mm.” Lexa nips her shoulder, sharp. “Go to sleep, Clarke.”
“We still have a lot to sort out, you know.” Clarke wiggles until her back is to Lexa, Lexa’s soft warmth pressed along every inch of her body, their legs tangled, Lexa’s breath on the back of her neck. Lexa wraps an arm around her, trailing careful fingers up to rest loose around Clarke’s throat, possessive.
“Tomorrow,” Lexa says.
Clarke reaches back and hooks Lexa’s leg around her hips, wiggling her ass a little to make Lexa bite at her neck again, censoring. “Tomorrow,” she agrees.