Chapter Text
"Lexa?"
She groans and rolls over so she's facing away. her eyes never open and she ignores the call.
"Lexa," the voice coos, a firmer shove and she has to grip the bed before she's chucked off the side.
"What?" She doesn't have to ask. She knows. It's happening more and more frequently. Three nights ago, it was beer. Last week, it was nachos with chocolate sauce and salsa--what the fuck?--and tonight, who knows? Since Clarke entered week twenty, the cravings have skyrocketed.
"Are you asleep?" Clarke asks.
"No," she grumbles but doesn't turn over. She feels fingers on her arm, gently touching her skin. She slow rolls onto her back, looking up to Clarke. Her blonde hair barely out of place; she's been up for hours.
"I saw a picture today online Denny's posted," she begins and Lexa audibly sighs. Denny's was over an hour drive from where they lived. "It was the one like the clocks--"
"The Persistence of Memory?" Lexa corrects and Clarke rolls her eyes.
"Not the point," she rallies the conversation back. "It was with pancakes instead of clocks," she muses, leaning back against her pillow. It was higher up on the headboard--she has a hard time sleeping on her back. When Lexa doesn't respond, Clarke continues. "Well, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I really, really want pancakes."
"Of course you do," Lexa says, tired. She rubs the back of her hand across her eyes. "Denny's is over an hour away."
"No, no. I want your pancakes. With chocolate or strawberries. You make the best. Better than Denny's."
"I'm swooning."
"Please?" Clarke whines but they both know she'll get her way. Lexa forces herself out of bed but Clarke pulls her back and plants a long kiss on her lips.
"I gotta go to the store," she tells her and glances at the clock. 1:46AM. The light indicating a set alarm continues to blink but it doesn't stop her. She slips on something somewhat presentable: dark sweat pants, a hoodie, and bedroom slippers. There was no need for the whole rundown for a middle of the night stop at the 24 hour grocery store.
When she returns, eggs, strawberries, and milk in hand, the kitchen has a few things spread out on the counter. Mixing bowls and measuring cups and a few other items Clarke thought she might need.
"Clarke?" she calls out, putting a few things away. She steps out into the living room and, illuminated by light radiating from the kitchen, rests a sleeping Clarke on the couch.