Chapter Text
i.
Clarke Griffin would consider herself extremely multi-faceted, thank you very much. She prides herself on the fact that she knows how to look after people; and she's been reliably informed that that's one of her most pronounced features.
She's also able to switch off; make decisions that yield benefit to her people whilst making sure nobody else gets hurt when it isn't necessary. She's able to communicate with the leaders of other groups and form truces - ceasefires, if you will - and close the bridge that separates genuine fondness and fake companionship. Maybe that's why she got put in charge. Or maybe it's because nobody else knows how to look after people.
Clarke thinks, strangely, as she and Lexa are running towards the cage's door, if Lexa likes to take care of her people. She wonders to herself whether Lexa does it because she has to, because she's been practically shoved into the throne and forced to watch as her pawns pile up beneath her. Or does she do it for the satisfaction; the reward that comes with being a Commander? Clarke wonders if there even is an award.
"Inside, now!" Clarke yells, seeing that familiar bundle of fur once known as a gorilla catching up to them; hot on their heels like death itself. Lexa, with her injury, stumbles; she actually stumbles, and Clarke takes a moment to wonder whether anyone else has ever seen the Commander in such a pitiful state.
Observation: the gorilla is rapidly catching up.
Conclusion: Clarke should stop wondering, and instead, close the goddamn door.
So she does. As soon as Lexa is inside - for the most part, if not alive - Clarke pushes with all her might and seals the cage door; quickly popping all the locks and checking it's hinges. She thanks her lucky stars when it locks with a satisfying click; and then they're finally safe.
The silence that bubbles between them is understanding rather than awkward, but Clarke hates the way it sits in the air uncomfortably, sifting and seething.
Lexa collapses onto a bundle of crates; a look of sheer agony crawling across her face. Lexa has endured so much: war, the loss of close friends and kin; as well as Costia. On some strange, abnormal level, Clarke empathises with that loss. Costia is Clarke's Finn in a sense, and that precipe alone makes Clarke wonder if she'll have to keep on suffering as long as Lexa has; keep on losing as much as Lexa has.
But regardless of all the feelings that come wrapped up with a pretty bow on top alongside loving people; Lexa looks to be in absolute, writhing pain. And enemy or not, Clarke's not just going to let one of the strongest warriors in Polis bleed to death in some musty gorilla cage; not if they're going to be stuck here for longer than either of them would like.
"I don't envy you, Clarke," Lexa says quietly, as Clarke rummages through her coat pocket for her vial of drinking water. Clarke stares up at her with a cocked eyebrow.
"What?"
Lexa tears her eyes away; absentmindedly scanning the room as if she's searching for an escape. She gestures limply, "Doing this all the time. I'm positively out of shape."
"Well," Clarke shrugs, twisting the cap and sinking to her knees at Lexa's side, "that's what happens when you spend all day in a throne room. Maybe when we get back to Polis I can ask Octavia or Indra to train you back up to your old potential."
Clarke uses a strip of cloth from her shirt as a makeshift bandage, silently praying that Lexa'll be grateful she just ripped one of her cleanest shirts for her. Nevertheless, she tips back the neck of the vial and wets the cloth; before gently and every so softly, pressing it's dampness to Lexa's wound; applying not too much but not too little pressure to it and ensuring that it gets cleaned thoroughly.
As expected, Lexa winces, and then catches her words on a soft grunt, "My 'old potential'? Clarke, you should've seen me when I was selected as Commander. I was a runt. God knows why I was chosen; I was so skinny I could barely hold myself upright."
Clarke gives her a solemn look through a curtain of blonde hair; dabbing and working as she says, "That's, kind of depressing, actually." before, "you were a small kid?"
Chuckling fondly, Lexa offers a curt nod, "I was five foot one and ninety pounds until I turned sixteen. I can count on one hand how many times I was taken seriously as Commander when I was a teenager."
The wound is still at risk of becoming infected. A six inch gash with no medical attention is a slippery slope, but Clarke's happy with her handiwork. Happy enough, at least, to tuck the vial away and bandage up Lexa's wound with the remaining strip of cloth. It's not up to a doctor's standards, by any means, but it'll have to do until they get back to Polis.
"That's as clean as I'm gonna get it," Clarke affirms, standing up and washing stained blood off of her hands, "Make sure you stay hydrated and get some rest. The last thing I need is to be lugging a corpse back to Polis."
"And if I do die?" Lexa questions. But see, it's gotta be a joke or something, because Lexa can't die. She's a nightblood; she's the commander; she's got a hundred solider's worth of bodyguards willing to slit their throats rather than watch her be insulted, so she's almost immortal. And it's strange, everything about this is, because Clarke really doesn't want Lexa to die.
And if one of them has to die, Clarke prays that it'll be her. She doesn't even want to think about what'll happen if Lexa goes first, but she suspects that Polis'll become dull and dark and will forever lose it's nightlight.
"Don't every say something so stupid to be ever again," Clarke says bluntly; shakily, and almost chickens out of saying the last word. Again, again, again, feels like a curse. Like a toxic mantra sticking to the walls of her head. Clarke doesn't want there to ever to be an again.
"It may be stupid, Clarke," Lexa replies matter-of-factly, straightening out her leg, "but it's the truth. Eternity is an ever-lasting circle and as Commander, I'm destined to orbit it for as long as the Earth keeps turning. And death certainly isn't the end; because my spirit will simply find--"
And Clarke knows she shouldn't; she really shouldn't. But she does. She lashes out; almost leaps forward and gets right up in Lexa's face. She feels like a damned dog, all bark and no bite as she almost cries in Lexa's face. If they weren't stuck in here and if Lexa weren't currently suffering from a six inch gash, Clarke is almost certain this would end in a fully-fledged brawl.
"Stop it," Clarke says, and then raises her voice ever-so-slightly, blinking back hot-boiled tears from her waterline.
"Fucking stop it, Lexa. Do you know how many people I've watched die? Do you know how many deaths I've been to blame for? Do you know how many dying people I've had to take in and stride right past and ignore for the sake of my people? My dad, Finn - fuck, all the people who made me glad to see the sun rise, all of them fucking dead. So if you speak one more time about the 'inevitably of death', or how 'your spirit will find another commander', I speak to God I'll throw you back to the gorilla."
Clarke immediately regrets it, she really does. She feels helpless and as soon as the words have spilled from her lips, she wants to stuff them right back into her mouth and swallow them. But she can't, because the fire's already been lit and the smoke has begun to burn. Lexa's face is written with absolute shell-shock for a few moments; her jaw practically reaching the unkempt ground of the cage. But then she does the unthinkable; she fucking smiles.
"What are you smiling for?" Clarke asks, voice distant. She backs away from Lexa's face as a sign of apology, but the brunette seems anything but intimidated or even upset. Even sprawled over the crates, dried blood all over her clothing, Lexa smiles at Clarke, all big and bright and hopeful.
"I knew you were the one," she says, and their fingers momentarily glide over each other's when Lexa reaches for the vial. Their fingers separate as quickly as they'd brushed.
Lexa takes a long, thick gulp of water before continuing, "I knew it from the moment I saw you. I knew you were the one who'd match me equally in battle and intellect and surpass me in human emotion. I knew you'd be the one I'd meet in the afterlife someday."
Clarke sniffs; defeated. She doesn't want to call Lexa a bible-thumping and crazed lunatic, because that's not fair, and telling from Clarke's previous outburst a moment ago; Lexa's obviously not the crazed one. Instead, the blonde simply watches with burning eyes; her head aching from stress and the mid-summer sun. When Lexa gives her the vial back, Clarke tosses it onto the crates.
She realizes in that moment, that her outbursts are her feelings. She's kept them caged and locked up for so long that she's taken it out on Lexa. Because through everything Clarke has endured, seeing another person - maybe even someone who could be considered a friend - dying might just do her in for good.
"Where are you going?" Lexa asks, when Clarke begins walking away from her.
"I need some space," and then she turns, "and Lexa? I hope you know this truce will only last as long as we're in here. And I saved you because I need you, okay? When we get back to Polis, we're back to being the Commander and Clarke of the Sky People."
"So right now we're just Clarke and Lexa," Lexa affirms, face blank. God, she treats everything like a mission.
In response, Clarke simply turns on her heels and goes to sit in the corner.
Later, when nightfall begins to creep in, Clarke finds a piece of charcoal rotting away at the bottom of a barrel of coal. She pockets it. Then, she finds a nice, blank space on the floor. For the first time in years, she draws.
And Lexa watches; smiling.
ii.
Nowadays, the concept of time is a mystery to Clarke. She faintly recalls having digital clocks in her bedroom back home in the sky before everything went to hell, but besides that, time was never really of essence to her. Sometimes, she'd spend hours on end working on her art and would forget to eat or drink or even sleep due to lack of keeping track of time. Honestly, not much has changed.
But Clarke suspects that it's about midnight when she blinks open her eyes; eyelids heavy with dehydration and sleep deprivation. She'd fallen asleep with charcoal in hand, and subsequently, it had smudged and ruined her work in progress. Clarke doesn't have the energy nor the patience to be mad about it.
It takes her a while to find the source of whatever has woken her up; and she finds the source courtesy of a rather obnoxiously loud blast of lightning hitting a patch of grass outside nearby. A storm, a fucking storm. Clarke wonders whether they'll have to wait it or, or simply make a run for it.
But with Lexa's leg and their lack of supplies, she decides that the latter isn't really the most logical idea.
Her first thought when she finally gains some level-headed alertness is Lexa; and she doesn't have to look far. It doesn't matter though, because she finds herself sighing with avid relief when Lexa quietly glances over to her from her position on the crates; her hand still clenched onto her leg. Though, she doesn't look as in pain anymore; more at peace; gentle and abnormally soft.
"There's a storm outside," she whispers, voice nipped and tucked. "It's keeping me awake."
Clarke shifts upright and lets out a melodramatic yawn; stretching out her arms. "Can't you ignore it? Or think about something else? You're gonna need some rest for the trip back tomorrow."
Lexa extends a fingertip, and points to the roof. When Clarke cranes her neck to look upwards to where the brunette is pointing, she sees the metal sheets on the roof thrashing and bending due to the unrelenting pellets of rain; and suddenly, being locked in this gorilla cage sounds like a vacation Clarke would prefer to opt out of.
"Listen to that," Lexa says, raising a perfectly-arched eyebrow, "I don't think that's stopping any time soon, do you?"
"And your leg?" Clarke asks, disregarding the rain completely. "Is it healing okay?"
The blonde crawls over to the abundance of crates, grabbing the vial of - nearly empty - water in one hand and grasping the knot of Lexa's homemade knot in the other. The knickpoint of Lexa's wound seems to have healed pretty well, Clarke decides, it's only the deeper sections that are at immediate risk of infection. If they had more water or even something to stitch the gash up with, they could leave tonight under the cover of dark.
"I'm more concerned about the rain," Lexa affirms, "I think it'd be slightly embarrassing to my men if I died of hypothermia rather than in battle."
Clarke taps two fingers against Lexa's wound, and feels delight when Lexa doesn't display any physical signs of pain. Leaving tomorrow is already starting to look like a reality. If only the storm would be more generous.
"If we could stitch this up, we could leave tonight and return to our people," Clarke says, almost not noticing the our before it's out of her mouth and making itself at home in the room. Instead of addressing it, Clarke elects to ignore it. Because whilst Lexa is a nice person, - truly, she is, right down to the gooey core - she displays a sour outside.
And Clarke can't risk opening up to Lexa and letting her in if Lexa's just going to put up her walls again.
Lexa chuckles again, but this time, more sarcastically. "Here? Without medical standby? I know you're the doctor here, Clarke, but I don't really feel like dying of shock, either."
"Fair point," Clarke replies, patching the wound back up; her fingers nimble and cold from the imminent storm. She hates herself for this; hates herself for not seeing the risks of getting involved. Because whilst Lexa likes to take risks, and naturally, likes to play with fire, that means Clarke is going to get burned too.
Lexa says, "You should make a fire."
"We don't have hypothermia yet."
"When you stop shivering, that's when hypothermia has you. That's when you're on the road to Death City. There's no guarantee that we're not going to freeze to death."
"I'd rather freeze to death than get torn apart by that gorilla, or worse, by that storm."
Lexa furrows her brow, and almost yelps in pain as she shifts position, "No, you wouldn't. Costia suffered from frostbite on a hunting trip after getting trapped in a tree well and I was there to witness the outcome. The cold's never been my friend since."
Clarke treds throughout the room; grabs the charcoal; some planks of wood; anything that might start a flame.
"Costia had frostbite?"
Lexa nods gently, "Yes. Explains why she only had nine toes."
And then they laugh; almost in sync. They're glad that the storm masks their chuckles from the gorilla - who still may be lurking outside - and relish in each other's girlish giggles. After a while; after a long bounce of chuckles, they're not even laughing anymore. Clarke's in between crying, and Lexa's almost coughing. They're tired. They're hungry. They're lonely. They're desperate.
And desperate people become crazed.
Clarke hauls the barrel of coal to the centre of the room, heaving from physical exertion as she does so. Lexa looks hesitant; as if she wants to help, but she doesn't even come near to fooling Clarke. Clarke can see the heavy eye bags under Lexa's sockets; weighing her down like the weight of the world; the weight of everything she's seen and endured.
"Go on, Heda," Clarke says, drawling out the last word sarcastically. "Get some sleep. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? I need you rested and ready."
"If you're sure, Clarke." Lexa replies quietly; tired; still hesitant. She uses one of her boots as a pillow, and for some reason, Clarke finds that hilarious. She starts to wonder if they've gone made; if the hunger and the solitude is driving them insane and delirious.
After a while, Clarke does manage to start a fire, and the warmth it gives off makes her sleepy. She cradles her pistol like a newborn baby, hovering behind Lexa as she dozes off. They'll take turns keeping watch, of course. But for now, Clarke's just listening to Lexa's uneven breathing; the way she lets out little snores and honks and the rise and fall of her chest and how she rolls to her left, to her right, and then unto her back.
Clarke's always been an observer, after all, and it just so happens that Lexa is so imperfectly perfect for observing.
"Wanheda," Lexa whispers into the darkness, "For the record, you've been a pleasure to be stranded with tonight. If I were stuck in the middle of nowhere ever again, I'd definitely want you to be my accomplice."
"Go to sleep, Heda," Clarke replies, but it's not stern, it's soft and wilting. This is the first time she's been able to soft and prim and so honestly messy with someone, so Clarke doesn't hide her smirk. She simply watches, blooming; seething.
After all, they're just midnight girls dancing on the stars; waiting for dawn to come and for the sun to finally rise.
iii.
A few minutes later, when Clarke finally believes that Lexa has succumbed to sleep, she risks a whisper. She lets her words sit in the air and she doesn't regret them.
"I don't want you to die, Lexa."
And when Lexa's even breathing draws to a halt, and the room falls stuffy and quiet; the heavy rain pattering down on the sheets above; Clarke is only slightly sure that Lexa is asleep.