Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

On her very first night back in Camp Jaha, Clarke runs away again.

She tries to sleep, she really does, lying still on her slim mattress in the narrow room she's sharing with her mom, Abby's soft breathing the only sound troubling the quiet. The metal walls surrounding her are cold to the touch and her heart beats too fast, like a frantic bird trapped in her chest. She's inside the Ark for the first time in what feels like forever, and its massive, impersonal presence is as heavy as an iron anchor placed right upon her ribcage, forcing the air out of her lungs.

Clarke closes her eyes, grits her teeth, and wills the memories away, desperate, to no avail. Against her eyelids she sees her father, his warm smile as he waltzed with Abby inside their quarters in Alpha Station, his shocked expression when endless space swallowed him to his death.

Tears well up in her eyes, and Clarke hides her face in the crook of her elbow as they start falling down her cheeks, muffling the sound to not wake her mother, trying to block the image of her father's execution. But all it does is reminding her of her cell in the Sky Box, where she spent one whole year silently crying away her grief and loneliness, and it's like she never left, like she's back just where she started almost two years ago - truly, utterly alone and forgotten, a small expendable part lost in the anonymous machinery of the Ark.

So she gets out of bed, and runs.

She doesn't get very far, this time. She's already on the inside of the high metal fence encircling Camp Jaha, and there is no way the guards on duty would let her out in the middle of the night, barely five hours after her return.

Sometimes being kept safe feels eerily like being kept prisoner, doesn't it.

Still, when she steps out of Alpha's station entryway, the night's gentle breeze drying her tears, the empty courtyard lit a lovely shade of blue by the familiar moon, relief washes over her instantly. She looks around her and finds what she was looking for - one of the rudimentary watchtowers left empty for the night. It takes her only a minute to climb up the steel ladder and then she's standing on the elevated wooden platform, facing away from Camp Jaha.

From up there, the view is magnificent - the nearby woods on her left bathed in dark gray hues, the horizon far and full of promises. Clarke lets her eyes wander toward the fields of corn and vegetables to her right - Camp Jaha's most valuable possession, she's gathered already, guarded day and night against wildlife and marauders alike. The watchtower on that side of the fence is clearly manned, the harsh light of an electrical torch rolling across the fields with mechanical regularity.

She settles her gaze on the dirt road leading to the front gate, and something twists painfully in her chest, like a sharp shard of bone poking into her flesh. This is where she said goodbye to Lexa, where they both got down from their horse and looked at each other and, under too many watchful eyes, dared only to shake hands, despite Clarke's body thrumming with the need to hold Lexa close, one last time.

The memory of it is etched deeply in Clarke's skin, the way Lexa's fingers tightened around her forearm, the flutter of Lexa's pulse on the inside of her wrist, the smell of horse and sweat and woodfire, the weight of Lexa's eyes on her.

Lost in heartache as she is, Clarke doesn't immediately realize that she isn't alone anymore, and she has to suppress a surprised gasp when she notices the man standing beside her.

Lincoln is not looking at her, and he doesn't say a word. He's leaning against the sturdy wooden railing, his eyes set on the forest. His face, usually so stoic, is somber with a deep, restless sort of longing, the sort Clarke knows is probably showing in her own eyes.

And so she turns her head back to face the horizon, grateful for the comfort of a camaraderie she didn't expect to find here, and she fights the urge to leave Camp Jaha behind for a second time with the help of Lincoln's quiet presence at her side, both of them yearning for something they chose to give up, until dawn releases them from their wistful watch.

The next morning, Clarke tells her mom she won't be rooming with her in the fallen Ark anymore. She doesn't have to explain herself – doesn't even have to give a single justification for her decision. Abby's eyes are pained when she reaches to touch Clarke's cheek, hesitantly, carefully, and says of course, Clarke.

Clarke feels a bit like a wounded animal everyone is afraid of scaring away, a small broken thing you treat with exaggerated caution and gentleness, and well. Maybe she should be offended, but mostly, she's glad she doesn't have to argue with her mom.

She sets up her tent next to Lincoln's, on the west side of Camp Jaha, closest to the forest, and he helps her dig the metal poles in the hard-pressed dirt, without a word. He does smile, though, his tired eyes full of understanding.

The rest of her first morning in Camp Jaha is a long succession of people welcoming her back. No one but Abby got to see her last night - she was whisked away to the med bay and then brought to her mom's room when it was time to sleep - so it's no wonder they're all excited.

Clarke is excited too. More than excited, she's ecstatic, high on the sheer joy of so many long awaited reunions – she's been away for so long, and she's missed her friends dearly.

The first to come is Bellamy, of course, and she has to blink away delighted tears when he engulfs her in a bear hug, her nose pressed against the rough material of his old guard jacket. He feels familiar, he smells familiar, even with his hair cleaner than it's ever been on the ground, and his face clean-shaved.

“It's good to have you back, Clarke”, he says with a smile when they separate, his hands lingering on her shoulders like he's afraid she's about to dissolve into thin air.

“It's good to be back”, she agrees, before Raven steps in between them and she's swept in another fierce hug.

Raven's embrace is bone-crushing, but her fingers tremble against Clarke's back.

“Raven”, Clarke starts, and stops, the words stuck in her throat.

“Long time no see, uh?”, Raven says, a bit too bright, before letting go of Clarke and stepping aside, hands nervously stuffed in her red jacket's pockets.

Clarke's eyes linger on Raven's face, falling briefly to her leg brace, then back to her shiny eyes.

“Raven”, she tries again, but Monty is suddenly in front of her, launching himself into her arms, squeezing with evident relief, and then it's Harper, and Miller, and Monroe, and every delinquent is crowding her, eager to touch her, like they need physical proof that she really is back, and Raven is gone before she has time to say anything else.

The thing is, Clarke finds out, life doesn't just pause while you're away - much like trees, people don't stop growing when out of sight. Everything is always changing, whether you're here to witness it or not.

Coming back, then, means accepting the necessary lesson that she is not indispensable. It's quite a relief, for Clarke to understand that her people don't actually need her to survive, that they've managed to carry on just fine on their own.

And yet, what a bitter thing too, to find yourself estranged from your own people. They've all gone through so much transformation without her - her absence like a wound that hurt but didn't prevent the growth of new skin - and now that Clarke is back, there's only a scar where her place used to be.

The first thing she notices, of course, is Octavia's absence.

“She's been off with Indra since this winter, staying in Polis at first, and then busy rebuilding TonDC”, Bellamy explains when she asks about his sister's whereabouts later that day, the two of them sitting at a corner table in the crowded canteen. “She's training to be a warrior, for real now. Getting pretty handy with a sword, and all that.”

His eyes are filled with pride, but Clarke doesn't miss the way his shoulders bunch, the tension straining his neck.

“She's doing what she wants, then?”, Clarke says, and Bellamy nods, lips twisting in a lopsided grin she isn't sure how to read.

“She always does.”

Before Clarke can ask any more questions, the waitress – Gina, Bellamy called her Gina when he ordered their drinks earlier - walks up to them and slides two cups of pale ale their way, kissing Bellamy's cheek and ruffling his hair as she goes. And yes, that is definitely another novelty Clarke notices right away.

“So you and Gina...?” Clarke prompts, hesitant.

“Yeah”, Bellamy says, soft eyes following Gina across the room. “Yeah, for a while now.”

He doesn't offer anything else, and Clarke feels a pang of vexation – unfairly so, since it's not like she's volunteering any information about her private life.

They drink in silence for a while, a kind of silence that's not unpleasant, but not quite comfortable either, until Monty and Raven join them, fresh out of their shift at the workshop. Both of them are laughing, covered in oil and grease and sweat, and Bellamy shakes his head disapprovingly.

“You should at least wash your hands before dinner”, he mutters.

Raven rolls her eyes at him, fondly. “Oh, give us a break, Bell. Some of us were actually working today, while you and Clarke just drank the afternoon away. What happened to being a productive and valuable member of our new society?”

The three of them snigger at what must be an inside joke, and Clarke just looks helplessly at their easy banter, unsure if she should ask for an explanation, feeling vaguely guilty and out of place. And that's another thing she's not used to, walking on eggshells around her friends.

Gina appears near their table, distracting her from that painful line of thought. She seems like a lovely girl, chatting with Monty about his day as she puts down two cups of honey-sweetened tea, smiling at Raven's jokes, laughing at the disastrous state of their work clothes. As soon as Gina is out of earshot though, Raven takes a sip of her tea and addresses the elephant in the room.

“So, Clarke. Feel like telling us where the hell you were hiding all this time?”

Clarke chokes on her drink. Well, Raven was never one to shy away from the heart of the matter, she thinks as Monty kindly pats her back while she coughs out at least half her beer.

“I was staying in a trikru village”, Clarke finally manages to say, wiping her chin with her sleeve.

There's so much to tell, she's not sure where to even start. They saved my life. They brought me back to myself. Instead, she jokes, just a bit awkward: “Kind of anti-climatic, I know.”

Raven's deep brown eyes find hers. “We thought you were alone in the woods, freezing your ass off all through winter.”

“Until Lexa told us you were alive and safe, then we were pretty certain she was holding you prisoner somewhere in her Polis dungeon”, Monty adds, only half serious.

At Lexa's name, Clarke's heart lurches. What she wouldn't give to have Lexa with her right now, guiding her through this bittersweet conversation. She forces herself to smile.

“Nothing so dramatic, sorry. The Commander only learned where I was by accident, and I asked her not to tell anyone. I... I wasn't ready yet.”

There's a pause after that, and they all look at her, clearly expecting something more, a full-fledged tale, an explanation, an apology maybe - Clarke has no idea, and she's all out of words.

“Well”, Raven says at last, breaking the silence, raising her glass, “here's to the prodigal daughter's return, then! Cheers.”

They clink their cups together, and when Clarke drinks the last of her beer, it sits heavily in her stomach.

The next day, Chancellor Marcus Kane sends for Clarke.

“Please, have a seat”, he tells her, gesturing toward the oval metallic table in the council room.

Clarke does as she's told. The walls are covered in maps and sketches of the region, schedules, roll calls, lists of various supplies, a calendar. Two whiteboards are displaying what she guesses are the electrical power and water distribution systems of Camp Jaha. Kane clears his throat, and she turns her attention back to the man sitting in front of her.

“Clarke, I wanted to formally welcome you back in the name of all of us survivors of the Ark.”

He pauses, and rests both elbows on the table, fingers linked like he's praying. He looks softer than the strict officer she remembers from space, softer even than the desperate man she met again on the ground; his beard is trimmed, brown with patches of white-grey, his hair longer, his eyes kinder. Still, Clarke can't say she'll ever fully trust one of the men who floated her father, so she only gives him a neutral nod in response, waiting to see where this is going.

He considers her, props his chin on his joined hands. “What you've accomplished on the ground is nothing short of a miracle, Clarke. You saved the Hundred, and you saved us all from Mount Weather. I know, I know,” he adds, in a placating tone, when she opens her mouth, “you weren't alone. Your friends have done a great deal of saving, too.”

Kane smiles. “And they've been thanked for their sacrifices and outstanding work. As you may be aware, Mr Blake is sitting at this very table as an elected member of our council. Miss Reyes and Mr Green have both been promoted to the board of our Mechanics and Engineering department. Nathan Miller and Zoe Monroe have enlisted in our guard unit, after successfully passing the examination. These are just a few examples, but as you can see, we've tried our best to make sure everyone was given a chance to maximize their true potential. This is not the Ark anymore.”

Raven's mocking words echo in Clarke's ears, what happened to being a productive and valuable member of our new society?

“I'm sure they're all very grateful”, she says diplomatically.

“And we are grateful for what you did for our people”, Kane answers without missing a beat. “Which is why I would like to offer you a seat on the council.”

Clarke blinks. “You... what?”

“You've more than earned it, Clarke. You've proven yourself every bit the leader we all hoped you would become someday. It seems only fitting to have your abilities recognized in an official capacity.”

“But I made so many mistakes!” Clarke protests, anxiety pooling in her stomach. “So many people are dead because of me.”

“And so many are alive because of you”, Kane counters gently.

“I thought council members were supposed to be elected...”, Clarke tries, weakly.

“You're absolutely right, which is why once you've accepted the offer, I will set up a vote to be held as soon as possible. I haven't the slightest doubt that our people will weight positively on this matter, Clarke.”

Clarke bites her tongue, out of excuses. She swallows, hard, fighting against nausea.

“No”, she says, voice a bit too soft for her liking. Kane's smile falters.

“No”, she repeats, more confident. “I won't do it. I'm done being in charge, and I don't want to be a part of the institution responsible for my father's death.”

She breathes out and goes on, kinder now. “Thank you for the offer, I'm honored that you think so highly of me. But I just can't accept it.”

Kane crosses his arms and leans back against his chair. “Very well. It is your choice, and I will respect it. If you change your mind, though, you know where to find me.”

Clarke nods and takes this as the dismissal it is, hurrying out of the room and all the way to the courtyard. Outside, the midday sun is hot on her skin, the air sticky with humidity, and Bellamy is standing near the doorway, waiting for her.

“Welcome to the council”, he says, taking a few steps towards her when she stops right in her tracks.

Clarke shakes her head. “I told him no.”

It takes a few seconds to sink in, then Bellamy's face falls. “Clarke”, he says, and already there's pleading in his voice, and her throat constricts. “Why? You know this is where you belong.”

“Not anymore”, she replies. The bright sun makes her squint, and it's hard to look him in the eyes.

Bellamy crosses his arms against his chest, just like Kane did. Except unlike Kane, she detects a hint of anger in the creased lines of his forehead, and it makes the anxiety souring her stomach come back full force.

“The last of the Hundred, our friends, they need us in that council, Clarke. We're living with the same people who sent us down here to die. They need you and me both on the inside, to protect them, to...”

Clarke interrupts him with a snort. “Don't tell me you, of all people, believe you can change things from the inside? You know your history, don't you? That never happens.”

He glares at her. “When you left, you told me to take care of them for you. That's exactly what I've been doing in the council. But there are things you do better than me, and debating for hours with the likes of Kane and your mother is one of them.”

“Bellamy, you're perfectly capable...”, she starts.

“I know I am”, he cuts in, impatient. “You're still better at it, just like there's stuff I do better than you. I'm not arguing out of low self-esteem, Clarke. I took care of all of them for you, the best I could, but now you're back, and you should take care of them too. Where you're most needed, which is inside this goddamn council.”

Clarke bites her lower lip, stubborn, unsure how to make him understand. “I can't do it, Bellamy. I just can't.”

There's a silence and he sighs, eyes downcast now, admitting defeat. “Why not?”

“It's not who I am anymore. As for what our friends need, I think I'll be of more use doing something I was actually trained for. I know the med bay is always looking for more staff.”

He gives her one last look, thoughtful eyes searching hers, and then he walks away, without another word, leaving her alone in the yard. Despite the heat, Clarke shudders.

That night, after dinner, when Clarke announces she wants to start working with her again, Abby's face lights up and her joy is so genuine, so transparent, it makes Clarke's chest bubble with something bright and tender and soothing.

“It will be like old times!” Abby jokes, a bit tearfully, as she pulls Clarke into a hug.

Clarke stays quiet, just closes her eyes and hugs her back. Abby's hand is warm and gentle on her cheek, and for a moment she allows herself to be a child again, small and safely tucked in her mother's arms.

There are only three other people working in Camp Jaha's medical facility – her mom, Jackson, and, to Clarke's surprise, Harper. The girl is sitting at a desk in the waiting room, studying the weekly schedule, when Clarke comes through the door the next morning.

“Hey”, Clarke says, as she slips out of her jacket and into a clean white cotton blouse. “You work here?”

“Yep”, Harper replies, without looking up.

“I thought you'd want to join the guards or something”, Clarke says, frowning. “You were pretty good with a gun.”

At that Harper raises her head, and fixes Clarke with a blank stare. “Chronic pain”, she offers, finally. “From when those Mount Weather bastards drilled into me for days. Nobody wants a guard who can't stay on her feet for more than three hours.”

Clarke's ribs tighten around her heart. “I'm sorry”, she says softly.

“Don't be, you're the one who got us out of there. Well, most of us. And this job ain't too bad... at least I'm not working in the fields.”

Harper goes back to her schedule, and Clarke makes her way into the sick bay, pushing sorrow out of her mind. There's nothing to be done about the past, but she's here now, and she has the means to help people, and that will have to be enough.

The disheartening truth, though, is that there isn't much they can do at the moment. After a harsh winter, where close quarters, insufficient food and lack of foresight meant illnesses spread faster than they ever did in space, Camp Jaha is running low on supplies, including medical ones. The recently assembled chemistry research team is locked in their lab day and night to produce the amount of medication needed, and yet they still barely manage to deliver the indispensable.

“It's so bad, your mom hasn't been taking her pain meds for weeks now. She's saving them for the patients”, Jackson whispers to her in confidence, as they change bed sheets together. Clarke glances at her mother, noticing the rigidity in her hips as she walks past them, her furrowed brow.

“I've tried to tell her it's a bad idea, but she doesn't listen to me”, Jackson adds, evidently worried. “Maybe you could...”

“I'll see what I can do”, Clarke says, “but I don't think she'll listen to me either. Stubbornness kinda runs in the family.”

Jackson smiles at that, and gives her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “That it does.”

As she predicted, Abby just waves her concerns off, and Clarke and Jackson have to resign themselves to making her drink white willow bark tea twice a day. With their depleted stock of medication, the Arkers have had to make do with their surrounding flora – and what their botanical knowledge didn't cover, Lincoln was more than happy to teach them.

On her second day of work, Clarke, eager to resume an activity she's grown fond of during her time as a trikru healer, announces that she's going out to look for medicinal herbs in the woods nearby. To her dismay, she's told to stay put, and that they already have people for that – foragers, they're called, apparently – a handful of scientists who only leave Camp Jaha with a heavily armed escort.

“But I used to do it on my own all the time!”, Clarke complains. “I know the area's vegetation better than anyone who isn't Lincoln!”

“Your place is right here in the med bay, where you have plenty of work as it is”, Abby retorts, in a no-nonsense tone. “Learning to delegate is a good thing, honey”, she adds, voice softer, when Clarke pouts.

My place is right here, Clarke thinks later, after the night has fallen, stripping down to her underwear and lying half naked on her straw mattress. The air is so hot inside her tent, sweat is dampening her hair, blond curls sticking to her forehead, her temples, the nape of her neck. She repeats the sentence in her head, over and over and over like a dog gnawing at a bone to suck the marrow out of it, until it cracks under her teeth and she can't put the fragments back together to make it sound true anymore.

She dreams of Aquia that night, for the first time since she left the village. She wakes up aching for the woman who welcomed her, and saved her, and made her feel more at home in a small trikru village than she's ever felt since she landed on earth.

“What about Mount Weather? They had plenty of medical resources, why not just go retrieve them?”, Clarke asks her mother one evening, as they wait for the foragers to return with their haul of medicinal plants.

“Off-limits”, Abby answers. “The Commander made it very clear during our negotiations with the clans in Polis. No one is to come within a hundred feet of any of the Mountain's entrances, upon penalty of death.”

She grimaces. “She was pretty graphic in her description of that last part.”

Clarke frowns. “Did you explain to her how much useful stuff is in there? I mean, I get why Grounders would want Mount Weather condemned, but it just seems like such a waste... I'm sure Lexa could be convinced of raiding the place before closing it off for all eternity.”

Abby looks at her, one eyebrow raised. “Well, none of us thought it wise to question a direct order from the Commander right there in her throne room, but I'm sure if you bring the matter up to her she'll be more inclined to listen...”

Clarke averts her eyes and pretends to read over the timetable for the week's night shifts, cheekbones tinged rosy pink. Her mother, thankfully, doesn't comment any further.

Apart from the medical team, the person Clarke sees the most is Raven. She should have expected it, really, given what her friend has been through since she landed her miraculous pod on the ground.

Raven comes at least three times a week to the med bay – once for her weekly prescription of pain medication, twice for physical therapy. And that's counting without the various minor work incidents that require medical attention, and the odd bad leg day, as Raven calls it.

All in all, Raven is around Clarke a lot, and nothing about it is easy. At first, Clarke mostly observes while Abby demonstrates how to massage Raven's leg, hips, back, how to check for further nerve damage, or suspicious swelling, how to touch Raven in the least painful way possible. And Clarke knows she's meant to pay attention to the technical aspect of all this, but what she sees instead is her mother and Raven acting with so much familiarity and affection with each other, it's as if she wasn't even there.

The sudden jealousy simmering low in her gut is unexpected – unheard of, actually, with the Ark's strict one child rule – and at first Clarke is convinced she's fallen ill, before she realizes what's happening.

Oh, she's not proud of it. She knows she should be happy Abby and Raven have such a good relationship, since they're forced to see each other so often. But she can't help feeling replaced, somehow, and Raven's new friendship with Gina makes the matter even worse.

Gina comes almost every time Raven has an appointment, and holds her hand through difficult sessions, or keeps her company in the waiting room, or gently chides her when Raven tries to get out of physical therapy. They clearly are very close – a realization that settles heavily, and a bit bitterly, in Clarke's chest.

Once Abby is satisfied with her training, Clarke takes care of roughly half of Raven's sessions, and things get a bit easier. For one, they start talking again, in earnest, first a few jokes here and there, casual comments about the weather or the food, and finally more in depth conversations about Camp Jaha. Raven tells her how they've been scrounging for parts since Mount Weather, searching through Factory Station's crash site, exploring bunkers and ruins nearby.

“We're scavengers, now”, Raven says one day, bitterly, as Clarke digs her fingers into the base of her spine, deep enough to massage the hurt tissue. “There's no place for pride in survival.”

She grunts when Clarke's hands find a sensitive spot. “And you know the worst part? It's barely enough to keep us alive and running. Everyday I go to work expecting this place to crumble, and everyday when it doesn't, it feels like I'm just pushing away the inevitable.”

“We're all doing our best”, Clarke hums, trying to be comforting.

Raven sighs. “We need permanent solutions and more space, is what we need, not band-aids and bits of scrap metal.”

As much as Clarke enjoys her conversations with Raven, though, there is something a bit off, something a bit strained, about them still. Sometimes she thinks she can feel the ghost of Finn, between them, an invisible yet insurmountable force keeping them apart.

Monty is also a regular patient, and the more Clarke looks at him, the less she recognizes the quiet but cheerful teenager she met about nine months ago. His eyes are weary, his shoulders slump ; he still smiles and laughs, of course, but there's a sharp edge to his joy now, something hard and brittle hidden underneath.

He suffers from insomnia, and terrible headaches that leave him curled up on one of the sickbeds, jaw locked and eyes tightly shut.

“PTSD”, Abby tells her the first day it happens, laconic, something sad creeping in her voice, as if Clarke hadn't already guessed.

“You know he lost his parents, right?”, Harper whispers, after Monty leaves. “According to Sinclair's calculations, Farm Station fell way up north, right into Ice Nation territory. Bellamy asked around when they went to Polis for the negotiations, and the Trikru said we shouldn't hope for any survivors.”

She pauses, and looks away from Clarke. “I mean, my dad was from Factory Station, he died in the crash. And he was an asshole but it still hurt to lose him, you know? But Monty's parents... they were different, they loved him so much. I can't imagine...”

“I can”, Clarke says, and both of them stay quiet after that, alone in the empty waiting room, grieving for their own loss and for their friend's.

From then on, Clarke makes it a rule to sit with Monty every time she's on duty when he comes in. Sometimes his pain is too intense, blinding, and there is nothing to do but hold his hand, and wipe the sweat off his brow. Often they talk, though, when he comes to them at night because he can't sleep, or when his migraine is milder, less incapacitating. Clarke describes her life in the village, the people who welcomed her, all the food and drinks she tried for the first time, the new skills she learned. He tells her about the delinquents, sharing anecdotes and gossip, who's been caught making out in a supply closet – Monroe and some Factory Station girl named Mel -, who's fighting with who, who's not happy about their work assignment, the latest theory on where the hell Murphy disappeared and what he might be up to.

Clarke learns a lot about Camp Jaha, in those conversations with Monty ; how harsh winter was on all of them, how hungry and desperate they felt ; how the survivors of the Hundred grew restless and disillusioned as they were told to fall in line and follow directives, after tasting freedom for two whole months. Monty recounts the arrival of spring too, and everyone's sudden obsession with farming – he recites Kane's speeches word for word, about plans to gather and stock food in preparation for the next winter, about everybody doing their part for the survival of all.

They never bring up what happened in Mount Weather, in the control room – not that it doesn't cross Clarke's mind, but she figures this conversation needs to happen on Monty's terms. And maybe, deep down, she's grateful for the delay, maybe she's not quite ready to open that can of worms either.

And then, of course, they never talk about Jasper.

Jasper has been avoiding Clarke, and the first time she sees him again, she's been back almost three weeks already, and he's drunk out of his mind.

Miller and Monty drag him into the med bay, yelling incoherently, reeking of vomit, knuckles cracked open. Clarke stands still, shocked. Jasper turns his head, their eyes meet – and the sheer disgust she finds in his makes her take a step back against her will.

Jasper spits in her face before Miller and Monty can do anything to stop him.

“Not her”, he hisses. “Get her out of here”.

“Jasper...”, Monty tries, pleading.

“Get her out! Get her out of my sight or I swear I'm gonna punch her too!”, Jasper yells, and that's when Clarke notices Monty's swollen eye, eyelid half-shut, skin already darkening.

She's paralyzed, feet stuck to the floor, unable to breathe. Jasper is still screaming, but she can't really hear his words. Her world narrows down to the way his mouth contorts with rage and loathing, the pained look on Monty's face, the low drum of her own heart beating too fast in her ears.

“Clarke!”, Abby snaps, and that breaks the spell. Clarke blinks, and then turns around and gets out, leaving her mother to deal with this mess.

Later, she examines Monty's eye, prodding gently at the bruise. Her fingers shake when they apply salve on his skin, and his eyes are watery. Neither of them say anything about Jasper.

Weeks pass, and Clarke settles back in the ebb and flow of Camp Jaha's routine, and it's – good. Not perfect, exactly – some awkwardness lingers, some subjects are kept out of conversations, she still wakes up from nightmares, sometimes – but Clarke pushes these things to the back of her mind, and carries on. She's living with her people again, and slowly, she regains a sense of familiarity, of normalcy, and it feels good.

It feels good, to sit with her friends at dinner and listen to them talk about their day. No catastrophe to handle, no recent death to mourn, no imminent disaster to prevent. Instead, Miller complains about the food – granted, he has a point, and Clarke does miss Mac and Willow's spicy cuisine after a whole month of bland meals – and some nights, Monty spikes the herbal tea with his famous moonshine, and what is left of the delinquents partake in almost scarily banal fun.

It's amazing how a few simple things can make you feel so young, Clarke thinks, a cup of alcohol in hand, sweat dripping down her temples, as she sways to the music coming from an old sound system, courtesy of Raven. It's on nights like these that she misses Wells the most, when she feels fifteen again, sneaking out to a not-so-official party, getting drunk without a care in the world.

Around her, teenagers and young adults drink and laugh, dance and sing and make out, while Bellamy keeps an eye on everyone, Gina settled comfortably on his lap. She hears snippets of conversations here and there, “Work was floating exhausting today, I hate planting corn” and “Do you think he likes me?” and “I'm so hot right now, I almost miss winter” and “Ugh, I can't believe we're out of leather, again! I need new shoes so bad”.

It feels good, to be a part of something so ordinary.

And it's not just the partying: Clarke likes her job, too, and most of all, she loves learning. Abby, for all her faults, has always been a great teacher, and she's especially invested in perfecting Clarke's education after sending her to the ground so unprepared. Most of the Ark's documentation and archives are still accessible, which means Clarke spends countless hours reading and memorizing and practicing on poor Jackson.

She's found her place, carved a small space in Camp Jaha where she belongs, and it feels good.

It's a full month before she sees Lexa again.

Clarke is studying anatomy in her mom's office, the late afternoon sun bathing the room in warm orange, when she hears a commotion outside - people yelling and the low rattle of the metal gates opening. She drops her tablet on the desk and runs, adrenaline shooting up her spinal cord, seized with the terrible fear that someone she loves got hurt again, that they are under attack again, memories of wartime and survival rushing back to her.

But when she's finally through the small crowd, what she sees is Lexa, standing alone and weaponless between the open gates. Behind her, a small group of warriors is waiting, still mounted on their horses. Lexa's face is free of war paint and she's wearing a loose sleeveless tunic that dips a little on her chest and falls down to mid-thigh, hiding the top of her riding pants – and for a few seconds, Clarke can't look away from Lexa's bare arms, tanned skin and tattoos on display.

“Commander”, Abby says from behind her before Clarke regains her ability to speak. “What brings you here?”

Her tone is polite, not unfriendly, but not warm either – there's caution there, edging on distrust.

“Abby Griffin”, Lexa acknowledges, and then she turns her head slightly. “Clarke.”

Their eyes meet and Clarke feels a pull in her chest, like her heart is trying to break free. She takes a shaky breath, while Lexa answers Abby's question.

“I'm traveling away from Polis to visit some of the western clans, and found Camp Jaha on my way. As it is dusk already, hospitality for the night for me and my warriors would be greatly appreciated.”

There's a rumble of unease, and Clarke guesses that Lexa hasn't spent a lot of time here, that this is unusual and the Arkers aren't sure how to feel about the presence of Grounders inside Camp Jaha. Suddenly, Lexa's casual appearance makes a lot more sense: she doesn't look like a threat, just like a tired girl who had a long day.

“It would be our pleasure, Commander”, a voice booms suddenly. Clarke spots Kane making his way through the crowd.

His smile is genuine when he greets Lexa, extending his hand. “I would like to invite you all to share our evening meal, first, and then you'll be able to set up your tents inside our fence for the night.”

“Thank you, Chancellor”, Lexa says, grasping his forearm. She gives a few orders in quick trigedasleng to her silent companions, and they all follow Kane towards the canteen.

Clarke looks at her mother, pleading ; she's supposed to be on call for the night. Abby sighs, and crosses her arms. “Go”, she says, “you can work tomorrow night instead.”

Clarke, grateful, presses a kiss to her mother's cheek, before hurrying to the canteen for dinner. The room is packed with curious Arkers, but Clarke manages to find a seat not too far from Kane's table. Lexa is seated at his right, and next to her is Sinclair, who looks like the imposing trikru warrior seating beside him just threatened his life.

Bellamy and Lincoln are both nowhere to be seen, but she spots Raven and Miller whispering to each other near the bar counter. Gina is working tonight, and her smile is visibly nervous when she brings a platter of food to Kane and Lexa's table. Lexa thanks her with a nod, eyes scanning the crowd. When she finally finds Clarke, she gives her a quizzical look, clearly expecting Clarke to be seated with the important people – but Clarke shakes her head, and Lexa turns her attention back to her companions, impassible.

Seeing Lexa in the canteen is weird. She's perfectly at ease, calm and collected, talking with Kane and Sinclair, eating deliberately slowly, even indulging in a cup of ale, all the while subtly keeping an eye on her warriors disseminated in the crowd. Clarke knows she's staring but she can't help it – she's like a dried up flower in the dead of summer, and Lexa is the long-awaited rain. Just the sight of her fills a hole in her chest she wasn't quite aware was there.

Sight isn't enough, though, and as soon as Lexa's plate is empty, Clarke, who barely touched her own food, makes her way to the Chancellor's table.

“Commander”, she says, with a respectful little bow.

Lexa's lips twitch like she's holding back a smile. “Clarke.”

Clarke grins and addresses Kane. “Chancellor, I was thinking maybe the Commander would like a tour of the camp before nightfall. What better way to honor our alliance, and keep on building trust between our people, than to have the two of us seen together? I would be happy to guide her through some of our new facilities.”

Kane returns her smile. “What a wonderful idea. Commander, what do you say? We've expanded quite a lot since last fall, and I would love to hear your thoughts on some of our more recent improvements.”

Lexa cocks her head and finishes her drink, locking eyes with Clarke. “Thank you, Clarke. It would be my pleasure to visit your home.”

When she rises, the warrior next to Sinclair looks like he wants to get up too, but she stops him with a single hand gesture. “There is no need to accompany me, Moran. The Sky People are our allies and our friends, and we have no reason to fear for my safety inside their camp.”

Moran sits back with a groan, and sends Kane a glare that speaks of some doubts regarding that statement. Still, he obeys, and Lexa alone follows Clarke out of the canteen.

They walk the length of the hallway in silence, side by side, so close that the back of their hands are touching every now and then. Everybody else is eating dinner – minus the few unlucky people who could not get out of work for the occasion – and the inside of the Ark is eerily quiet. The only sound is the soft thud of their feet on the metallic floor, though Clarke is pretty sure Lexa can hear the frenzied beating of her heart. They haven't been alone together in a month, and it seems both an enormous amount of time, and as insignificant as the blink of an eye.

They finally reach a partially opened door, and Clarke leads the way into the deserted engineering workshop, checking that nobody is in there before hurriedly slamming the door shut. Lexa stands in the middle of the huge cluttered room, letting curious eyes roam over the machines and various half-finished projects on display – and Clarke watches her taking everything in, watches the artificial lights paint blue shadows on Lexa's bare throat. At last, Lexa turns around to face her, and her eyes are soft and vulnerable, and Clarke just can't wait for another goddamn second.

She throws her arms around Lexa's waist and pulls her into a hug. One of Lexa's hands finds the curve of Clarke's lower back, the other is gently cradling the back of her neck. She rests her chin on the top of Clarke's head and holds her tight yet delicately, like a flower she's afraid to crush. Clarke closes her eyes, her lips brushing Lexa's bare collarbone, and she feels at home for the first time in a month.

They stay locked in their embrace for a long time, long enough that Clarke starts to sway a little on her feet, and Lexa presses a soft kiss to her forehead before releasing her.

“I've missed you so much, you have no idea”, Clarke says, her words slurred as if she'd been drinking.

“Believe me, I do”, Lexa replies, voice barely above a whisper, looking at Clarke like she can't quite believe she's real. She shakes her head, and her eyes lose some of their dazed quality.

“You weren't seated with the other leaders of your people”, she remarks.

“Great observation skills, Commander”, Clarke teases, with no real bite. “This isn't who I am anymore”, she adds with a sigh when Lexa just waits for her to say more, “that much hasn't changed.”

Lexa stares at her, skeptical, but she must know Clarke is not in the mood to discuss this further, because instead of arguing she raises one eyebrow, playful.

“I believe I've been promised a tour of Camp Jaha?”

Clarke chuckles, relieved, and reaches to take Lexa's hand in hers. “Prepare to be amazed, Commander. I plan on being very thorough.”

She winks and Lexa dips her head to try and hide her smile, and it's the loveliest thing Clarke has ever seen.

After the kitchens, the sleeping quarters, the chemistry lab, and the med bay – where, thankfully, they don't run into Clarke's mother -, Clarke takes them outside, to the small herb garden situated north of the courtyard, and then to the building of concrete and scrap metal that stands farthest away from the fallen Ark station.

“This is our shower facility”, Clarke says as she opens the door to reveal a narrow room furnished with a long middle bench, and multiple baskets filled with towels and clean clothes. Both lateral walls fit twenty or so doors, leading to individual stalls. “It's Sinclair's pride and joy: the showers are solar-heated, and consume absolutely no energy whatsoever.”

Lexa wordlessly walks to one cubicle and opens the door. “This is how you bathe?”, she asks Clarke, tone full of wonder. “Show me how it works.”

Clarke smiles, amused by Lexa's interest in something so mundane, and joins her, closing the door behind them. She pushes the shower curtain to the side, revealing the shower head, and turns the handle up. Water starts pouring steadily, and Lexa's mouth opens wide.

“How?”, she says, slipping a hand under the stream as if to make sure she isn't hallucinating.

Half of Clarke finds her awestruck expression adorable and the other less charitable half wants to tease Lexa mercilessly, but before she can settle on a reaction, Lexa does something that makes her mouth open wide.

She undresses.

And it isn't the first time Clarke has seen her naked – in fact, it's not even the tenth time, or the fifteenth. But it has been a month, and Clarke gasps and feels warmth spreading on her cheeks and down her neck, because Lexa is standing unabashedly bare in front of her, gathering her brown tresses in a messy pile on top of her head, eyes bright and young, and god, what a beautiful sight she is.

Lexa steps under the water and closes her eyes as her lips curve in a delighted smile. “Clarke”, she says, eyelids still shut, “won't you join me?”

Of course Clarke does, pulse going wild in her throat, fingers shaking as they hurriedly dispose of her clothes. The water is warm on her skin, but it's nothing compared to the fire stirring up inside her chest when Lexa opens her eyes again and stares right into hers.

“I've missed you”, Clarke says for the second time that evening, and her cheeks are wet long before the running water touches them.

“I know”, Lexa says. She slides one careful hand up Clarke's arm, to her neck, and gently cups her cheek. “I'm here.”

Clarke leans into her hand and turns her head so she can kiss Lexa's palm. Lexa's breath hitches, her eyes darken, and Clarke wants nothing more than to kiss every inch of her, every square of wet skin, every vein, every bone.

Before she can put her plan to execution, Lexa points to the small wooden case hanging off one lime-washed wall. “Is this the soap you use?”

Clarke nods, mouth too dry to talk. Lexa takes the small plastic bottle and sniffs once, a bit disdainful. “Next time I come, I'll bring you some oils from Polis. They smell much better than this.”

Clarke swallows hard, both at the reminder that Lexa is going to leave in the morning, and at the implication that she plans to come back. Lexa pours a bit of liquid soap in her hand and frowns, and Clarke rolls her eyes, welcoming the distraction from her conflicted feelings.

“Well, sorry our soap isn't up to Polis' standards, but it does the job, and we have neither the resources nor the time to devote to such luxury items.”

She pours some of it for herself, and starts rubbing it on her skin. A few seconds later, Lexa imitates her, still frowning slightly. “It really leaves much to be desired”, she mutters under her breath, and Clarke splashes some water right in her face.

Lexa sends her an offended glare, so obviously Clarke does it again, and then both of them dissolve into helpless giggles.

“Let me wash you hair”, Lexa says, when their laughter quietens.

She waits for Clarke's permission before slathering her head in soap and scrubbing softly. Clarke stays immobile for a minute, but the angle is wrong – they're almost the same height, and Lexa's arms have to bend awkwardly. Clarke, without a second thought, sinks to her knees in front of her.

Lexa makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat. “Clarke”, she says, uncertain.

“Please”, Clarke says as she presses one side of her face against the jut of Lexa's hipbone, “don't stop.”

Slowly, Lexa's fingers resume their work, massaging Clarke's scalp, threading carefully through the strands of wet blond hair. Clarke closes her eyes, and rests both hands on Lexa's waist.

Time stops, Clarke's heart slows. Everything is still, but for Lexa's hands stroking her hair. The concrete floor is hard under her bare knees, but the warm water streaming endlessly on her face, between her shoulder blades, down her back, is drowning anything that isn't Lexa's gentle touch.

On her knees and naked, lost in the relief of being cared for so tenderly, Clarke has never felt more at peace with her place in the world.

They have sex that night, in Lexa's tent. It's sweet, and loving, and Clarke gets to kiss her, finally, a deep and hungry sort of kiss that leaves Lexa gasping for air, and Clarke's lips swollen red.

Afterward they lie together on Lexa's bed, the air warm and humid, sticky with sweat yet unable to stop touching each other. Lexa has a leg thrown over Clarke's thighs, her head buried in Clarke's neck. She keeps giving Clarke tiny kisses, ghosting her tired lips over damp salty skin, and now and then she lets her teeth graze Clarke's throat, and Clarke shivers.

“I could leave with you”, Clarke whispers in the darkness. “Tomorrow morning, when you go, I could just leave with you, couldn't I?”

Lexa exhales against her neck, and rubs a thumb on Clarke's hip. “This is a bad idea, Clarke. Do not let your thoughts follow this path.”

Clarke knows Lexa is probably right, but she pouts nonetheless. “Don't you want me to come with you? I would be in your tent, every night. We could do anything we want, no sneaking around, just... you and me. Preferably naked.”

“Clarke”, Lexa warns, but she hides her smile into Clarke's collarbone. “You can't. Your people need you...”

“No, they don't.”

At that Lexa finally puts some distance between them, raising herself up on one elbow. She searches Clarke's face, serious, worried. “Are you not happy here?”

Clarke sighs. “No, I am.” She pauses and adds, thoughtful: “Though it would be nice if Camp Jaha wasn't running low on everything.”

Lexa hums and sits up, reaching for her waterskin. Clarke trails fingers on Lexa's back while she drinks, following the twirling lines of her tattoo, wishing for her charcoal, wishing for more time.

“Has Kane mentioned anything about trading agreements to you?”, she asks eventually, tracing the bumps of Lexa's spine. “I know previous negotiations only covered commerce between us and Trikru, and Kane seems convinced it's too soon to ask for more, but I was hoping you could maybe facilitate some exchanges with the other clans. We need material for our clothes, clay, salt for food preservation... You're about to visit a couple of them, couldn't you get them to agree to do business with us?”

Lexa turns around and offers her the waterskin, before shaking her head.

“I'm sorry Clarke, but all trade negotiations must happen between the clans' ambassadors, under my supervision. I cannot make any deal in your stead.”

Clarke sets the waterskin aside and gives her an incredulous look. “But it's going to take ages to get everyone on board, and we need those supplies now. Are you sure there's nothing you can do?”

“It would be against our laws.”

“You're the Commander!”, Clarke snaps, impatient. Lexa looks at her with just a hint of disapproval, and Clarke blushes.

“You cannot ask me to use my position to favor your people, Clarke.”

“I know, I know, sorry.”

There's a silence, and Lexa shifts until her back is leaning against the short headboard. Clarke rolls to her side and faces her, rubbing her fingertips on the back of Lexa's hand in a wordless apology.

“What about Mount Weather? Mom told me you've forbidden all access to the mountain, but you don't even know what's inside. If you just allowed us to...”

“No.”

Lexa's tone is firm, categorical, and she levels Clarke with a stern look. Clarke bites her lower lip, frustrated. “At least hear me out.”

“This is not up for debate”, Lexa says. The way her jaw clenches tells Clarke this is a lost battle.

“Fine”, she concedes, secretly determined to revisit that particular point later. “I see you're not in the mood for compromise tonight.”

“Why should I be?”, Lexa retorts, sharply, before adding in a softer tone, “Sky Crew isn't part of my coalition, Clarke. We are allies, that is all. I won't bend our traditions to accommodate your needs.”

Clarke frowns, but Lexa reaches out and tucks a wild lock of hair behind her ear, tenderly. “But I do care about your people. Let me think about it, alright?”

“Alright”, Clarke says, with a sigh. “I guess I'll take what I can get for now.”

Lexa's lips curve into a smirk. “For someone so adamant that she's no leader, you have a lot of strong opinions about all of this.”

“Shut up.”

Lexa chuckles, and then turns serious again. “Since we are talking about political matters, I want to ask you something. Are you aware of any contact between Sky Crew and the Ice Nation? Has the Queen sent any messenger to your Chancellor since this winter?”

Clarke considers her, curious. “No. Why do you ask?”

Lexa purses her lips, eyes downcast, and Clarke gives her left shoulder an exasperated little shove.

“Lexa. Why? Should I be worried?”

“No, I don't think so, not yet. There have been rumors of a possible conflict between your people and Azgeda. I wanted to see for myself if it was true, but it doesn't appear to be the case.”

Clarke narrows her eyes. “Is that why you stopped by Camp Jaha on your way from Polis? To check if we've been seduced by the Ice Queen?”

Lexa's eyes give nothing away, but Clarke huffs. “And here I thought you wanted to see me.”

“You know I did.”

“Yes, or you just got all paranoid that the Queen was going to hurt you again, and...”

“Clarke”, Lexa interrupts her. She keeps her voice flat, but her eyes are wide and almost pleading. “Can we talk about something else?”

Clarke's heart throbs, suddenly, and she's tired of arguing, tired of discussing politics ; she rises to her knees on the bed and kisses Lexa's sadness off her lips. “We don't have to talk at all.”

Clarke wakes up to the feeling of Lexa's fingers drawing lazy patterns on her naked back, gliding over the curve of her ass and down to the back of her thighs, and then up again, in a soothing, peaceful rhythm. It's not even dawn yet – the birds are quiet, the tent is still dark but for a few candles perched on a side table.

She sighs contentedly, enjoying the attention, and burrows her face further into the pillow, unwilling to get up just yet. Lexa keeps touching her, gentle, as she speaks.

“Clarke, it's time. My warriors and I leave at dawn, and I will be meeting Marcus Kane by the gates before we do. Unless you want your people to know you spent the night with me, you should go now, while everyone is still asleep.”

“I don't want to leave you. Not yet”, Clarke mumbles in the pillow, whiny, voice still sleep-rough.

“Clarke. I know you want to be smart about this.”

“Not yet. Five more minutes.”

“Clarke.” This time, Lexa stresses her point with a firm little tap on Clarke's ass. Clarke groans in response, but it does the trick and she finally opens her eyes and sits up, yawning and disgruntled.

Lexa is already dressed in dark leather pants and a loose cotton shirt, her hair gathered in one thick braid, feet tucked in worn-looking boots, dagger strapped to her thigh. The sight of her, all travel-ready, dispels the last of the sleep-fog clouding Clarke's mind.

“I have to go”, she says, urgently, scrambling off the bed to her clothes scattered on the floor.

“I know”, Lexa mutters, but her tone is more fondness than exasperation.

Once she's dressed, Clarke walks up to Lexa, who's still sitting on one end of the bed watching her, and nudges her knees apart to slip in between her legs. “Good morning”, she murmurs against her lips, hands rising to cup her cheeks. Lexa is warm and soft and pliant when Clarke kisses her – her mouth opens for Clarke's tongue without prompting, and she whimpers quietly when Clarke nips at her lower lip. The sound stirs up something strong in Clarke's stomach, equal parts desire and tenderness, and she slides her fingers into Lexa's hair, pressing their faces together with renewed fervor.

As goodbye kisses go, it's a pretty phenomenal one.

“I will see you soon?”, Clarke asks after they separate, breathless, hope and uncertainty laced together in her words. She purposefully avoids saying may we meet again.

Lexa nods, swallowing hard.

“Promise you will think about what we discussed? The trading agreements? Mount Weather?”

Lexa rolls her eyes at her, but she can't hold back a snort of laughter. “You truly are relentless. Yes, you have my word, Clarke. Now go.”

Clarke leaves with one last kiss to the corner of Lexa's mouth, and a heavy, heavy heart.

Walking through Camp Jaha in the early morning is like walking through a dream – nothing seems quite real. The ruins of the Ark stand tall and dark against the sky, tainted pink with hints of the upcoming dawn. There isn't a single soul outside as Clarke makes her way to the few tents scattered on the west side where she, Lincoln, and a handful of former delinquents have established their quarters.

She's almost to her tent, ready to fall face down on her mattress and close her eyes – maybe cry a little, to ease the aching pressure in her chest -, when she unexpectedly collides into another person sneaking back to their tent. For a few second, she's too shocked to recognize him, and then her stomach drops.

“Ow”, Jasper moans, rubbing his jaw where Clarke's shoulder hit him. She can smell alcohol on his breath.

“Are you okay?”, she asks, voice low, careful not to disturb her friends sleeping in the tents around them.

He snorts. “Am I okay?”, he repeats, loudly, swaying as he attempts a mocking little bow. “I'm peachy, thank you so much for asking.”

Clarke resists the impulse to shush him, knowing full well this would only anger him. She's in no mood to handle Jasper right now - she's tired, and sad, and missing Lexa already.

“Good night, Jasper.” She takes one step forward, but he reaches out and catches her arm, tugging her back towards him.

“Well, someone certainly had a good night”, Jasper sneers, staring at her neck. Clarke jerks her arm free and brings her hand to her throat, confused. It hurts when she presses fingers against her skin, and she suddenly remembers Lexa's mouth on her neck, sucking, licking, biting.

“I'm glad genocide is such a turn on for some people.”

His voice carries far in the silence surrounding them, loud and bitter, and she winces. “Jasper, please. Everybody's sleeping.”

“What, you think people give a fuck about your sexcapades?”, he laughs. “Nobody cares if you had sex with a guard, or an engineer, or the floating Chancellor for that matter. Unless...”

He pauses and gapes at her. Clarke swallows, apprehension rising, thick and sickening, in the back of her throat, and she should leave, but her feet won't move, and before she can say or do anything there's a flicker of understanding in Jasper's unfocused eyes.

“Her?”

“No...”

He doesn't pay attention to her, and a grin slowly stretches his lips. “The Commander? That's who you've been with? Oh, that is priceless.”

Clarke wants to protest, refute, feed him an easy lie, but Jasper is staring hard at her, and she's suddenly too tired to care.

(And maybe the sight of that boy who hates her so vehemently, when she once considered him a friend, is just too unbearable tonight – she has exhausted her will to fight.)

“Fine”, she sighs. “Yes, I was with Lexa. Happy?”

Jasper shakes his head, and when he speaks his voice gets brittle, venomous.

“I knew she fucked you over at Mount Weather, but I didn't think you'd let her keep fucking you. I guess murder makes you desperate!”

“Okay, enough..”

“Enough?”, he scoffs. “I'm just getting started. So is that why you left, instead of facing what you did like an actual decent person? You just ran away to get some?”

“Shut up.”

“Is she good at least? Does she make you forget the blood on your hands?”

“I said enough”, Clarke whispers angrily, advancing towards him with balled-up fists. Jasper bursts out laughing, clearly unfazed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Instead, he turns towards the tents, and starts shouting.

“Hey, guys! Wakey-wakey, have you heard the news? Clarke is...”

“Shut up!”, she repeats, taking hold of his shoulder and yanking him towards her, violently, but it's too late, she can see movement in the tent closest to them, and then there's hushed voices, the flicker of a candle, and the flap is pushed aside.

“What the hell is going on?”, Bellamy says once he's outside, shirtless, voice gravelly, looking worried and just a tad annoyed.

“Jasper is drunk”, Clarke replies hastily, just as Monty, Harper and Miller emerge from another tent to their right.

“Jasper is drunk”, Jasper confirms, in a sing-song voice, “and our dear Clarke is fucking the Commander!”

He claps, delighted, and Clarke has to fight back angry tears. She doesn't want to deal with any of this, not right now, when barely fifteen minutes ago she had to leave Lexa, again. She swallows, and can't find it in her to deny the accusation – her heart already bruised enough.

Movement again, and Gina steps out of Bellamy's tent, wrapped up in a blanket, hair disheveled, followed by – Raven? The two of them stare at Clarke with owlish eyes, and if she wasn't so upset, Clarke would definitely at least wonder, but as it is she doesn't have the energy to even question this new development. Instead, she approaches Jasper, and glares at him, in a way that makes him visibly flinch.

“Who I sleep with is none of your business, and I don't care about your opinion on the matter. I get that you're hurting, but I won't be your punching bag, Jasper, so quit it. And as I'm sure you all understand, this information can put both my and Lexa's lives at risk, and that's not even touching on what it could do to the alliance, so please”, and this time she addresses everyone, “keep your mouths shut.”

She doesn't dare look at them before striding to her tent, afraid of what she would find on her friends' faces.

Things are even more stilted, after that. No that there is any more altercation on the subject – even Jasper keeps his distance – but the latent unease between Clarke and her friends is hard to ignore, and it weights on Clarke's shoulders like the hot sticky air of the summer, something oppressive and likely to end in a storm.

“Were you with her the whole time you were away?”, Bellamy asks her one night, sliding on a stool next to her at the canteen bar. He doesn't look at her, eyes on his drink.

“No”, Clarke replies, tone sharper than she intended. She's not sure she wants to hear what's on his mind.

Bellamy rests both elbows on the counter and sighs. “Nobody will talk, I made sure of it. Even Jasper. Whatever is happening between you and Lexa, it's your call, and they won't interfere.”

Clarke looks at him, touched. “Thank you”, she says, softly, and she misses him, suddenly, acutely, painfully, misses the ease of their friendship, the trust that used to exist unmarred between them, before she left.

He takes a long sip of his beer, and glances at her, pensive. “Do you love her?”

Clarke freezes. “I don't know”, she mumbles, avoiding his eyes.

“Just... don't do anything stupid”, Bellamy says grimly, staring back at his drink. “She betrayed us once, and we're still paying the consequences. Don't let her hurt us again.”

He swallows the rest of his beer and gets up, leaving Clarke to her thoughts. His words echo in her ears, and for a few minutes she lets herself remember the dreadful night Lexa looked straight in her eyes, face covered in blood that wasn't hers, and crushed her hopes with just a couple of words. I'm sorry, Clarke.

She doesn't think of the betrayal often, these days – her forgiveness was hard won, but offered willingly and completely – which isn't to say it doesn't hurt, still. Clarke suspects some wounds will always be sore, even if the ache fades with time. The short conversation with Bellamy does more than awaken painful history, though – it forces her to face a truth she kept at bay since she left the village: when all is said and done, Lexa and her still aren't on the same side.

Lexa cares, yes, but she's still the head of a federation of foreign nations. Clarke knows, without a doubt, that given a choice between the Sky people and the coalition, Lexa will choose the latter, every time. And Clarke is a political figure of her own, whether she likes it or not. The great wanheda might be hiding in the shadows of Camp Jaha for now, but the world won't forget about her so easily. Given the circumstances of their lives, negotiating their relationship, however they define it, is only going to keep getting more and more difficult.

Clarke sighs, and signals the bartender – not Gina, she notices, with a guilty pang of relief – for another beer.

“You already had your authorized alcoholic beverage”, the man replies, shaking his head. “You know the rationing rules as well as anyone here. I can't give you another.”

She groans, not even attempting to protest. “Just give me some tea. Make it strong.”

“Add maple syrup in mine”, says a voice next to her, and Clarke almost jumps out of her seat.

“God, Lincoln”, she gasps, pressing a hand to her heart. “Stop doing that!”

Lincoln grins, showing his teeth. “And deprive myself of such an easy source of entertainment?”

Clarke tries to frown, but his good mood is contagious, and she ends up with a smile too, albeit weaker than his. If things between her and her friends are complicated, the opposite could be said of her tentative friendship with Lincoln. Since that first night on the watchtower, they've grown closer, often spending time together in the few evenings Clarke has free from work. It's so effortless, that sometimes she even forgets the context of their first meeting, the fact that she was complicit in his torture, and every time she remembers remorse trickles down her spine, syrupy and unpleasant. She doubts he can ever forget.

“I heard from Octavia”, Lincoln says, eyes bright with joy. “She gave a message to one of the trikru merchants who brings us honey, said it won't be long till she visits Camp Jaha again.”

Clarke puts her hand on his shoulder. “I'm so happy for you both! I know it's been a long time since you saw each other.”

“It takes as long as it takes”, Lincoln shrugs. Clarke nods, understanding, and takes a sip of the hot tea placed in font of her. “When you saw the Commander”, Lincoln starts again, his voice growing cautious, “did she mention anything about lifting the kill order?”

Clarke's heart gives a painful squeeze. “No, she didn't, I'm sorry Lincoln.” She swallows down her guilt, and faces him. “I'll ask her about it next time, I promise. I should have thought of you. I'm sorry”, she repeats, a bit ashamed.

Lincoln nods and drinks his tea. “It's alright, Clarke. It' not your burden to bear.”

She keeps quiet, despite the stubborn voice hammering inside her that yes, yes it is.

She tells him instead about her conversation with Lexa, the possibility of trading with other clans, of reopening the Mountain. Lincoln visibly flinches when she mentions Mount Weather.

“The Commander will never agree to that”, he declares, somber. “But trading is going to be the bare minimum, otherwise your people won't survive another year. And it might very well not be enough, anyway.”

“I know”, Clarke says, tiredly. It's not the first time Lincoln and her have discussed the issue of sustainability and Camp Jaha. The parcel of land allotted to the Sky Crew during the negotiations with Lexa has too few arable surfaces – the rest is taken up by the forest, which is great for foraging and woodcutting, not so great for actually producing enough to feed the near 300 Arkers over an extended period of time.

“There's nothing we can do about it, for now”, she says eventually and then, determined to not let Lincoln's good mood disappear, she swiftly changes the subject. “Oh, I wanted to ask you – remember when we were drawing together the other night, and you said you'd teach me how to make the same color pastels you were using?”

Lincoln's face lights up and he starts talking about pigments and dye and chalk, and Clarke lets herself relax for the first time since Lexa left.

Spending most of your existence in a spaceship doesn't exactly prepare you to handle a number of basic living conditions on the ground, one of these being the weather. Since the Ark was always carefully kept at mild temperature, apart from minor flukes due to system malfunctions, there was absolutely no fluctuation in heat or humidity level. So it's no wonder the Arkers are having a really hard time dealing with the week-long heatwave that surprises them mid-summer.

Under the relentless sun, Camp Jaha turns into a pot of boiling water, and underlying tensions rise to the surface like bubbles. On day two, the ex-delinquents working in the fields stage a protest that ends in a brief scuffle with the guards on duty, and Kane postponing any heavy manual labor until after the weather is back to normal. On day three, Sinclair enforces an emergency protocol, limiting the number of showers per person to only one a week, concerned about depleting their water supply – a measure that leaves the population far sweatier than before, and the general mood dangerously close to homicidal.

Clarke isn't immune to the phenomenon – on more than one occasion, she finds herself snapping at Abby, who in return chides her like she would a petulant teenager, which does nothing to soothe Clarke's irritation. During her long hours in the stifling med bay, she daydreams of that lovely spring afternoon she spent lounging on a river bank with Lexa, and the doodles in her journal all somehow turn into her idea of an idyllic beach, complete with palm trees and cold drinks.

(One even has a roughly sketched Lexa in a very skimpy outfit – and Clarke will deny any knowledge of this to her deathbed.)

And then, finally, one late afternoon, the dark grey clouds looming over them erupt in a violent outburst, sudden rain pouring down on Camp Jaha and transforming the courtyard into a mud bath in mere minutes, electricity crackling high in the sky. It's the first summer thunderstorm they've ever witnessed, so understandably they all run for cover inside the Ark.

With everybody soaking wet and confined to a crowded canteen, things get uncomfortable very fast. Insults fly, people push and shove, and Clarke, seating at a table with Raven and Bellamy, looks sourly at the chaos before her.

“A few hours of that and I swear I'm leaving this camp to go live in the woods forever”, she grumbles.

Raven lifts her head to stare at her, irritation creasing her face. “Yeah, cause that's what you do, now. Run away when things get a bit difficult.”

“That was a joke”, Clarke replies after a pause, taken aback by the hostility in Raven's tone.

“Whatever you say, Clarke.” Raven goes back to glaring at the table, and Clarke sighs. “Look, if you have something to say, say it.”

Raven locks her jaw and stays quiet ; Clarke looks at Bellamy but he doesn't meet her gaze, mouth set in a stubborn line, and she feels her own anger bubbling in her chest. “If this is still about me going away, it's been 8 months, guys. More than half a year. Time to move on.”

Now, that gets Raven's attention, and she turns to face Clarke, incredulous. “Move on? How? We never even talked about it!”

Clarke reels back, defensive. “What is there to talk about? I needed some time to myself, that's not a crime.”

“You left us, Clarke”, Bellamy says, and his loud voice make a few heads turn their way. “We all went through hell, together, but then you... you just left. Do you know what it was like, picking up the pieces after Mount Weather, trying to overcome what they did to us? I was tortured, caged, drained of my blood. Raven was strapped to a table and they fucking drilled into her, and Harper too, and Fox died, and Jasper...”

He takes a shaky breath, and Raven puts a hand on his shoulder, comforting. “I pushed that lever with you, Clarke. Did that mean nothing to you?”

“You don't know half the things I had to do”, Clarke whispers, darkly. Bellamy shakes his head, and fixes her with cold eyes.

“What, like leaving my sister to die in TonDC, or lying to me about it in the first place?"

Clarke opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. “Yeah, Octavia told me”, Bellamy continues, bitter. “What was it, you said to Raven? That it was better if I didn't know, so I could keep doing my job?”

“I'm sorry”, Clarke says, ignoring the sudden need to cry building in her throat. “I really am, Bellamy, you know I would never have left Octavia if I didn't think it was our only option at the time. But...” She breathes out, and steadies her voice. “But I should have told you, on the radio. I should have trusted you.”

“Yeah, you should have”, Bellamy agrees, tone sharp, unforgiving. “And you should have stayed.”

“No”, Clarke retorts, not willing to concede that part. “It was better for me to go, and I won't apologize for that. It's what I needed, at the time, and I'm glad I did it.”

Bellamy grits his teeth, but it's Raven who speaks next, and her words tear at Clarke's heart, like countless little thorns piercing her skin, and finding the guilt simmering underneath.

“You didn't even say goodbye.”

Raven looks like she's fighting back tears. “Wick carried me to the med bay and I passed out, and when I woke up the next morning you were gone.” Clarke blinks rapidly, still refusing to cry, as Raven keeps talking. “Finn was gone, and you were gone. I was in pain, and alone, and grieving, and you didn't even care enough to say goodbye.”

“Raven...”

“You killed him.” Raven's voice is like steel this time, cutting through Clarke's pleading voice. “I understand why you did it, I don't blame you for it, but it still happened, Clarke. You killed him, and then you left me alone to deal with his death, and I'm not sure I can forgive you for that.”

Clarke's heart is pounding a desperate beat, her ribs tightening, compressing her lungs – she can't breathe, she can't talk, she feels trapped and guilty and sick to her stomach.

She gets up, hastily, and her stool falls with a dull thud to the ground. “Sorry”, she mutters, staring at her feet, before she turns around and rushes towards the door.

“See! You're doing it again”, Bellamy yells after her. “Things get tough so you just run away!”

She ignores him, just walks out of the canteen and through the Ark's damp hallways until she's outside, under the rain. She takes a deep breath, wet clothes clinging to her skin, and finally, finally, she lets herself cry, violent sobs lost in the violent storm.

After a while, she becomes aware of a presence behind her, and she turns her head, expecting Lincoln. But it's not him ; it's Gina.

“Did you hear everything?”, Clarke asks in a small voice, feeling very vulnerable and half expecting another fight.

“Yes”, Gina says. The softness of her tone eases some of Clarke's tension.

“I never wanted to hurt them”, Clarke says. In front of her, the rain falls endlessly against the gates, and the metallic clang resonates bitterly in the deserted courtyard. “I never wanted to hurt anybody.”

Gina takes a step forward and stands next to her, shoulders touching, eyes staring straight ahead. “They love you, you know”, she says, quietly. “And I don't mean just Bellamy and Raven, I mean all the kids from the dropship. They love you."

Clarke shivers under the rain, feels icy drops of water running down her spine. Gina goes on. “Everyone took it very hard, you leaving. Bellamy, especially, because a few days later Octavia left him too. It's been difficult for him, losing the two of you practically at the same time. And not knowing if you were even alive, for months... It was driving Raven crazy. She was finally mourning Finn, you know. It's hard to grieve when you're afraid someone else you love might be dead.”

She pauses, and Clarke nods, sniffling. “I get it, I do. But I just couldn't stay, after everything I did... I lost myself. I had to leave. I just wish they understood that.”

“And I'm sure they do, deep down”, Gina answers, gently. “But that's just how feelings work, sometimes. You know it might have been for the best, but you still get hurt. I'm glad they told you, at least. It's the only way you'll all move on.”

“I don't know how to fix this”, Clarke says, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “I don't know how to fix any of it.”

Gina hesitates, and then she puts her arm around Clarke's shoulders, and Clarke can't help but lean into the comfort she offers.

“There is nothing for you to fix.”

A week passes, and another one. Bellamy apologizes, once, and Clarke apologizes too – and then they stand, uneasy, in the courtyard, staring at their feet, like they both have no idea what they're even apologizing for. As for Raven, ever since the fight in the canteen, when she comes to the med bay for her appointments Clarke finds somewhere else to be. Raven, for once, doesn't seem in a hurry to confront her.

But before anything can get resolved, one mid-summer afternoon, Lexa comes back. And this time, she's in full Commander apparatus, with twin swords crossed at her back, red sash draped over her shoulder, and black paint dripping on her cheekbones ; the number of warriors following her has tripled, and three strangers are riding at her side.

Kane orders the guards to let them through the gates, but Clarke can tell he's not completely at ease with the sudden arrival of so many Grounders. And if Clarke is honest with herself, she's a little apprehensive too – despite the happiness and relief filling her chest.

“Chancellor Marcus Kane”, Lexa declares as she rides into Camp Jaha, her voice carrying loud and clear in the courtyard. “Traveling with me are three ambassadors from the western clans, who wish to discuss trade negotiations with the Sky Crew. Here is Ander, ambassador of the Shadow Valley clan.”

She gestures to the man at her right, who nods in greeting. He has long dark braids, tied together at the base of his skull, and a thick rope is coiled around his waist and up his chest - as protection or ornament, Clarke cannot tell.

“This is Chiga, of the Lake People”, Lexa continues, “and Marion, from the Blue Cliff clan.”

The first woman raises a hand in salute, sitting a bit slumped on her horse, and Clarke notices the pair of crutches fastened to her saddle. The third ambassador, Marion, is also the oldest, with grey hair cropped short and deep blue tattoos marking her hands, swirling up her forearms - she smiles easily at the crowd as she dismounts and pats her horse's flank.

“Commander, I..”, Kane stutters, wide-eyed, before straightening his shoulders. “It's an honor to welcome such distinguished guests. Please join me in the council room, and I will hear more about...”

“You misunderstand”, Lexa interrupts, calm and inflexible. “They're here to negotiate with wanheda.”

In the silence that follows, all eyes turn to Clarke. She opens her mouth to protest but Kane is faster. “Of course”, he says, without missing a beat. “Clarke, will you lead the way, please?”

There's a tight smile on his lips, and no way to mistake his words for anything but an order.

“Fine”, Clarke agrees, between gritted teeth. She glances at Lexa, trying to make apparent her displeasure at being ambushed like that. Lexa stares back, challenging. Clarke starts walking.

Once everybody is seated at the council room's table – everybody being the three ambassadors, Clarke, Lexa, Kane, and the three council members -, Lexa speaks, in a tone that brooks no argument.

“As the Commander, it is my duty to preside over any trade negotiations involving clans of the coalition. I won't, however, participate, and will only interfere if one of you is treated unfairly. Once you have reached an understanding“, and here she slowly stares at everyone in turn, sternly, “I will proclaim it to be true. The word of the Commander is law, and all parties will be bound by it to respect the deal.”

She pauses again, and leans back against her chair. “You may proceed.”

What follows is a complete and utter disaster, and Clarke's head is pounding painfully by the time Sinclair suggests they take a break for dinner and resume in the morning.

Marion, the Blue Cliff ambassador, seems genuinely interested in a trading agreement – her clan has goats that they would be willing to send to Camp Jaha, in exchange for wood - but the other two spend more time staring at Clarke with a mix of awe and disappointment than actually participating in the talks. The Arkers don't fare much better : Abby and Bellamy get frustrated too easily whereas Kane's exaggerated gentleness earns him quite a few suspicious glares ; Sinclair looks like he'd rather be in his workshop than stuck here.

All in all, it's a waste of time. Clarke sits silently throughout the meeting, lips stubbornly pressed together, angry that she's being used as a political pawn by both Lexa and Kane, angry that this conversation is going nowhere while Camp Jaha suffers – and yes, angry at herself, for still refusing to do anything about it. Part of her wants nothing more than to stand up and leave, because she's been avoiding precisely that kind of responsibility since Mount Weather. Yet another part of her can't help but yearn to just take control.

Since she doesn't talk, she's free to observe, and there is plenty to notice: the way Ander keeps looking at their electrical lamp with utter fascination and something close to envy, Chiga's obvious discomfort, squirming on her metal chair - travelling must have been a painful affair – as she tries to deal with the pain by chewing leaves she has stored in a delicate little jar of painted clay.

Before she's even aware of it, Clarke is filing away all these details, making connections, planning her next moves – and that's when she knows, suddenly, that this is something she wants to do, as much as it terrifies her.

That night, at dinner, Clarke sits at the Chancellor's table. She still doesn't say a word, but this time it's on purpose. She sits straight and schools her features, jaw locked, mouth set in a stern line, and knows it's working when the three ambassadors fidget a little under the cold, cold eyes of wanheda.

(If she can't choose her reputation, might as well play the part and use it.)

After dinner, Lexa invites the Sky people to drink sweet peach wine and cold mead around the huge bonfire her warriors built outside of Camp Jaha, in return for their hospitality. Most of the Arkers go, curious, and Clarke corners Sinclair on his way out of the empty canteen. She doesn't let him go until he agrees to do what she asks.

Once she's at the bonfire, flames casting reddish shades on Arkers and Grounders alike, she spots Chiga leaning on her crutches, and casually goes to stand a dozen feet away from her, drink in hand, scanning the crowd. When she finds her, she signals for Raven to come and join her.

Raven stares at her from afar, the smoke making her face unreadable, before walking up to Clarke with quick, decisive steps. Clarke catches Chiga looking at Raven, and smiles to herself.

“What do you need?”, Raven asks when she's standing right next to Clarke, bare shoulders brushing together.

“Nothing, I just thought we could talk...”, Clarke starts, but Raven cuts her off, brisk and to the point.

“Oh, please. I know you, Clarke. What are you up to?”

Even when they're not on the best of terms, she can always count on Raven to get it. So she explains, while Raven listens with crossed arms and a focused expression. In the end, Raven agrees with a sharp nod, and Clarke leaves her to go talk with Marion – she has questions, and the old ambassador has proven herself to be the friendliest of the lot.

Later, when she makes her way through the Grounders campsite and back to Camp Jaha, she catches glimpses of a conversation between two warriors and stops abruptly when she hears the word azgeda hushed in the darkness. Her trigedasleng is rusty, and they talk in low careful voices, so she can't really make out what they are saying, but she does recognize the words survivors and soon.

She thinks briefly that she should let Lexa know, before anger flares up in her chest at the thought of the Commander. She doesn't join Lexa in her tent that night, and come morning, she has forgotten any whispers of the Ice Nation.

When they reconvene in the council room, Clarke is ready. Adrenaline is coursing steadily through her veins, electrifying, and yet she feels calm and clear-headed and in control – and there is no use denying how much she's missed it.

Before anybody can talk, she addresses the man sitting in front of her.

“Ander, of the Shadow Valley, we are ready to send two of our most capable engineers, to set up an electrical power system in your main city, as well as an irrigation system for your agriculture.”

Kane frowns, ready to protest, but Sinclair backs her up, as planned. “I have talked to Kyle Wick and Rosmerta Higgins, they are both willing to go.”

Ander smiles, baring his teeth. “Wanheda, this is a generous offer. What do you expect of my people in exchange?”

“I know you have sheep, and my people need wool for our clothing. I also know you have fields of cotton and whey – two things we cannot grow on our own. We will need two loads of each for every month our engineers work in your land – and then one load of each every two months, as long as our installations function. ”

He sucks in a breath. “This is a lot.”

“This is the price to pay if you want to be the first clan to enjoy our technology. Think about it, ambassador. Don't you want to be remembered as the one who brought modernity to his clan?”

She stares at him, watching hesitation dance in his eyes, and lets out a satisfied sigh when he finally agrees. Lexa stays silent, but there's a small smile at the corner of her lips, which Clarke pretends she cannot see.

“What do you have to offer the Lake People, if you're giving away your technology to Shadow Valley?” Chiga asks, a little sarcastic.

“How is your leg, ambassador?” Clarke retorts instead, resting both elbows on the table, confident. People whisper, taken aback – Abby even lets out a feeble “Clarke”. But Chiga just stares at her, with dark eyes.

“The whims of nature do not bring shame onto those who endure them”, Chiga declares eventually, proud.

“And I agree, you have nothing to be ashamed of”, Clarke replies. “The most brilliant person I know has a similar problem with her leg, and I think I speak for all of us when I say we wouldn't be alive without her. Perhaps you've seen her at the bonfire last night – a girl my age, brunette, with a leg-brace?”

Chiga frowns and avoids Clarke's eyes for a second.

“You saw how she walks without crutches”, Clarke says softly.

“What is your point, wanheda?” Chiga snaps, impatient.

“I've been told”, and here Marion squirms a bit when Clarke glances at her, “that these types of injuries are common for your people – it is said that the Lake People are more touched by mutations than any other clan, and that contrary to them you do not banish those with mutations to the wastelands.”

She can see a glint of understanding in her mother's eyes, as she keeps talking. “We can help you with that. Raven, the one I was telling you about, she built a brace for herself – she can do the same for you, and any of your people who need it, if you agree to our deal. You can even send healers to our camp, and we'll be happy to share our medical knowledge.”

Chiga looks pensive for a minute. “What do you need from us?”

“Clay”, Clarke says immediately. “And what your people make of it: plates and bowls, tiles for our roofs and our floors.”

When the ambassador nods her agreement, Clarke turns to Marion, the last of the three. The old woman smiles. “The rumors don't lie about you, child. As I have stated before, Blue Cliff will gladly offer some of our goats at the end of every summer, for a load of wood to build our houses and warm us through winter.”

“Thank you”, Clarke says, smiling too. “We accept.”

When it's all over, Abby and Kane look at Clarke with wonder and something like pride.

Bellamy slides in next to her, as the ambassadors and the council members and the Chancellor file out of the room, chatting agreeably. “See?”, he mutters, voice gruff. “I told you we needed you. You're good at this stuff.”

Clarke doesn't answer, and he shrugs. “Welcome to the council”, he says, echoing what he told her almost two months ago. The door closes behind him with a metallic click, and suddenly Clarke is alone with Lexa, who is quietly studying one of the whiteboards, fingers linked behind her back. Clarke locks the door, not wanting to be disturbed, and turns around, arms crossed against her chest.

“You used me”, she says, her tone accusatory.

“No, I didn't”, Lexa replies without turning to face her. “I found a way to make the trading agreements happen, which is what you wanted.”

“But you knew I didn't want to get involved. You knew I wanted to stay away from leadership, and yet you dangled me in front of them like a worm on a hook.”

Lexa sighs. “You can't escape who you are, Clarke.”

Clarke's throat tightens, and she snaps, loud and frustrated. “What am I, then? Since you seem to know better than me?”

“You are powerful”, Lexa says, finally looking at her. The pride and admiration in Lexa's eyes make Clarke's knees tremble. “And dangerous”, Lexa continues, “and smart, and strong, and compassionate. And maybe your fate isn't written in your blood like mine is, but it only means you get to choose to be a leader, Clarke.”

Lexa pauses, and Clarke lets out the breath she was holding, shakily. “I know you had to do terrible things”, Lexa whispers, as she takes hesitant steps towards Clarke, her voice softer now. “But this was war. Now that we have peace, think of all you can accomplish to build a better future for all of us. And you won't be alone : your people already have many good leaders. The Chancellor, your mother, your friend Bellamy. You are only one voice, Clarke, and as much as you are needed, not everything depends on you.”

Another pause, and Lexa repeats, solemn and genuine. “ And you won't be alone. You have me.”

Her promise, bordering on devotion, has Clarke's heart aching, and she closes the distance between them and kisses her – Lexa is still for a brief moment before her mouth opens and she kisses back, teeth closing gently onto Clarke's lower lip.

Clarke sets both hands on Lexa's waist and pushes her backward until her hips hit the edge of the council table. Lexa gasps into her mouth, and she raises a hand to cup the back of Clarke's neck. All the tension weighting Clarke down is evaporating like water left too long on the fire – her limbs loosen, her ribcage expands, the knots in her stomach unravel – and she lets herself drown in the safety and comfort of Lexa's hands, Lexa's tongue, Lexa.

When Clarke starts to pull at her belt, Lexa's breath hitches and she stops her eager hand. “Clarke. My warriors are waiting for me outside. I should be on my way to Polis right now.”

“I don't care. They can wait. Polis can wait. I want you”, Clarke says, but she takes a step back, giving Lexa some space.

Lexa looks conflicted for a second, eyes fleeting down to Clarke's lips, her chest, her hips. Desire pulses between Clarke's legs, pooling in her lower stomach, at the base of her spine, warm and insistent.

“Are you still mad at me?”, Lexa asks, eventually, her face open and a little wary.

“No”, Clarke says, truthfully. When Lexa raises an eyebrow, she elaborates. “I don't like how you did it, but I appreciate that you made it happen. And Lexa...”

Clarke inhales sharply. “What you said, about me... I... it means a lot.”

Lexa nods, and Clarke presses herself against her again, burying her nose in the crook of Lexa's neck.

“I want you”, she repeats, a whisper against Lexa's skin. Lexa shivers and slips warm hands under Clarke's shirt.

“You have me”, Lexa murmurs in her ear, fingers resting softly on her lower back. Clarke's chest is on fire, lungs flooded by a wave of something scary and exhilarating all at once, and she kisses Lexa's neck, hungrily, fingers grazing the waistband of Lexa's pants. This time, Lexa doesn't stop her.

Clarke undoes Lexa's belt, quick and efficient, kissing Lexa's pale throat, sucking at her pulse point, biting and licking, greedy. Lexa groans, hips still firmly pushed against the council table, her hands sliding down to cup Clarke's ass, squeezing when one of Clarke's hands disappear into her pants.

Lexa's underwear is wet, and Clarke muffles a moan against Lexa's jaw. “Can you lower your pants for me?”, she asks, voice husky. Lexa hums and pulls her pants and underwear down her thighs. Clarke looks at her then, notices the red tainting her cheeks, the bite marks turning purple on her neck, the hunger in her eyes.

“You are so beautiful”, Clarke says, stunned. Lexa closes her fingers around Clarke's wrist and brings it to her lips, presses a kiss to her frenetic pulse, soft like a thank you.

Then she guides Clarke's fingers between her legs, and Clarke bites her lip. The skin of Lexa's inner thighs is soft, velvety – and so very warm. Clarke traces light circles, higher and higher, until her fingertips find wetness, and Lexa's body arches against hers.

Clarke kisses Lexa right as her fingers dip inside her, sucking the air out of her lungs. Lexa clutches at her shoulders, tensing, gasping, growling wet needy little noises that turn Clarke's spine into molten lava.

They fall in a rhythm, Clarke fucking her deep and slow, pressing her thumb on Lexa's clit with every movement of her wrist, Lexa raising her hips, hands flat on the table behind her. They don't stop kissing, until Lexa's head falls back, suddenly, mouth open and eyes shut tight, and she comes, silent and trembling, around Clarke's fingers.

Clarke rests her forehead against Lexa's and closes her eyes, her fingers still deep inside her, waiting for the tremors to subside. She kisses Lexa's nose, gently, then the top of her left cheekbone, her jaw, lets her tongue follow the shell of her ear. Lexa squirms and sighs, her breath cool on Clarke's burning skin.

At last, she slides her fingers out, carefully, and stumbles back. Lexa is still leaning against the table, pants down to her knees, thighs glistening, lips parted and shiny. Clarke can't tear her eyes off her, fascinated and possessive, itching for her charcoals and her journal.

But time stops for no one, not even the Commander, and too soon Lexa pulls her pants back up and wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand. “My people are waiting for me, Clarke. I need to go.” Her voice sounds a mix of determination and regret.

“I know”, Clarke answers, resigned, before snorting. “God, I'm never gonna be able to sit at the council table without thinking of you, now.”

Lexa contemplates her, thoughtful. “So it is decided? You will take your place among your people's leaders?”

Clarke's chest feels lighter, somehow. She nods.

“Yes. Yes, I will. I'm ready now. I'm back.”