MWTW Baby!Lexa xmas fic bonus scene and update
I really really wanted to have this thing posted before Christmas and I thought it was going to get there, but it needs a few more hours work and I ended up taking advice from story’s moral to spend time with my baby nephews instead of hiding away to finish it. So sorry to disappoint but I also suspect you lovely readers will understand. Thank you for always being wonderful like that :-)
In humble apology, below is a rough draft of a scene that takes place a month or so before the Christmas fic—if I ever manage to finish it, the xmas fic will be part of a larger baby!Lexa multichapter, and the below scene comes sometime in the first chapter. It’s five-year-old Lexa’s first evening in the boarding house after her mother died the previous week.
An hour or so later, you hear the knock you definitely haven’t been listening out for. You grumble out something approximating permission to enter and return your eyes to the screen of your videogame—you’re so close to finally rescuing the princess and you refuse to give it up now.
“Anya?” Mrs. Daisy’s voice prods gently.
You groan—quietly, at least—and slide your hand down your face before switching off your game and sitting up. “Yep. I’m here.”
Matron pokes her head into your sheet fortress with a furrowed brow, her eyes crinkling at the sides once she sees you all curled up inside. She glances at the set-up with a half-exasperated expression but says nothing more about it; there’s no way she’d usually allow anyone to drape sheets over the edge of a top bunk, even for privacy; at least there’s some advantage to being forced to babysit a five-year-old all bloody year.
“Come on out and meet your new roommate,” Mrs. Daisy tells you, holding out her hand to help you off the bed. You refuse it, struggling to your feet by your own steed.
You look toward the open door and there she is.
She’s tiny.
It’s your first thought when you see her, still dressed in her plaid school smock. It’s far too large for her little shoulders, the skirt hemline almost past her knees. She looks like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s wardrobe, the row of form captain and other badges lining her pinafore like old tarnished grown-up jewelry. Her uniform is neat and tidy, though, the peter pan collar unwrinkled and her red knee socks immaculate, not drooping or uneven like yours tend to end up by the evening.
She’s dwarfed by the dress, she’s dwarfed by the doorframe she stands in, she’s dwarfed by the giant black bin bag, clutched at her side.
And somehow, she towers over them at the same time.
“Hey Lexa,” you say. Quietly, despite yourself. Delicately. As if the force of your voice might knock her over.
(Who are you right now?)
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Anya,” the little voice says back. Her Queen’s English is high-pitched and flawless, without even a childish lisp.
Soft, too. Exact. As if she’s rehearsed these lines in the mirror until they’re perfect.
You wet your lips, wavering between offering her a handshake and dropping to your knees so you can get your face level with hers. In the end, you do neither.
Besides, you’re not going to baby her.
That’s not your job.
You settle for arranging your face in a neutral expression rather than let your usual perma-scowl settle on your face. People have told you that you can come across as scary—intimidating as your father’s kind enough to argue—but you’re okay with that. Just…not right now.
(Because, oh god, she’s so tiny.)
“I’ve already put the sheets on your bed, Lexa,” Mrs. Daisy says. “You’ll share a wardrobe with Anya, and she’ll take you down to breakfast and then over to the nursery school in the morning. Is there anything else you need?”
Lexa promptly shakes her head, her two plaits swinging from side to side. “No; thank you Mrs. Daisy. You’ve already been so generous with your time.”
You blink at her. Once, twice.
“You have pajamas?” Matron confirms.
Lexa nods.
“Alright. I’ll leave you two to settle in.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?” Lexa asks, letting go of her bag and folding her hands in front of herself as if to prove she’s free and available.
“No, Lexa,” Mrs. Daisy laughs. “I promise. I told you, I’ll let you know if I think of anything.” You can tell Matron’s only humoring her and wonder if Lexa knows it. “Lights-Out is in half an hour,” Matron says, to both of you now. “If there’s anything else you need before then, come find me.”
“Yes ma’am, thank you.” Lexa glances around the room after answering for the both of you in her precise little voice and then drags her black bin bag to the empty bed.
Mrs. Daisy lingers, clearly wanting to say something else, to offer her assistance or even unpack for the little girl. Instead, you watch Matron take a deep breath and shake her head to herself. “Right. I’ll see you at your floor’s toothbrushing time.”
Lexa nods. “At 8:00, yes, thank you, Mrs. Daisy.”
You stare.
You’re pretty sure your five-year-old brother has never spontaneously said ‘thank you’ in his life, much less folded clothes as Lexa is doing right now. With the utmost care, she takes her straw school hat out first, smooths down the red ribbon and hangs it on a hook at the end of her bed. She has to stretch up on her tiptoes in order to reach. Next she takes tightly rolled clothes out of the plastic bag, shakes them out, and then re-folds them into neat little bundles.
Mrs. Daisy shakes her head with a final laugh, pats your shoulder and then leaves you alone with the little girl, closing the door behind her.
You continue to stare.
Lexa unpacks and then folds exactly one adult-sized white t-shirt, six pairs of what looks like cheap bulk underwear with some random cartoon character on them, a single dark-coloured dress, and one pair of too-large athletic socks before turning around to face you.
Pulling her hands behind her back, she meets your eyes without flinching. She reminds you of island in the middle of an endless sea, small but forced to be strong as the waves bash against her shores.
“I can’t imagine I am your first choice for roommates,” Lexa starts, matter-of-factly.
You, on the other hand, definitely flinch.
And not just because of her words. In fact, you think your brain may have forgotten English altogether when her eyes found yours, deeper and more powerful than you were expecting. There’s something about them you don’t have words for, something ancient and new all at the same time.
“In any case, I am exceedingly grateful for your sacrifice,” she goes on, “and I will do my best not to bother you. If there is ever a way I can repay you, I will.”
It takes you far too long to clear your throat and respond to the tiny queen. She’s holding herself so stiffly, back straight and shoulders high, and she’s so bloody little. “Um, no, it’s cool. Just, um, let me know if you need anything.”
Another nod and Lexa turns back to what’s clearly the sum total of all her worldly possessions.
“Um, I can help you unpack?” you offer, at a loss for what to do with this child. You’d prepared yourself for tears, temper-tantrums, surliness—even mutely staring at the wall would be more understandable than this quietly self-contained child.
“You’re very kind but I can do it,” Lexa replies, a little too quickly. “Please, don’t let me intrude on whatever you were doing.”
And seriously, what kind of kid talks like this, much less a five-year-old?
“I don’t mind,” you insist and watch her eyes widen as you start walking over to her half of the room.
“No, really, I don’t need, I’m—” comes tumbling out her mouth, possibly the first words you’ve heard that aren’t pre-prepared. She recovers quickly, though, taking a deep breath and forcing a smile onto her lips. “It’s okay—see, this is the last of it.”
She pulls one final item out of her bin bag, something wrapped in brown parcel paper and tied together with string, and she places it with excruciating care under her bed. The empty bag floats to the floor but Lexa catches it and folds it until it’s the smallest possible size.
As you watch, she takes her short stack of clothes and bin bag and walks them over to the shared wardrobe. Inside, there are four drawers with space for hanging clothes on the other side. Lexa opens the lowest drawer and easily fits everything inside.
“All done. You can have the rest of the space in here—I don’t need it.”
“Don’t you want to hang up your dress?” you ask dumbly, and oh god is it a dumb question. Who are you, your mother? You haven’t hung up a dress in years—it’ll probably be days before you even bother scooping up your crumpled clothing items and shoving them in the bottom of the armoire. Why are you trying to make this little orphan girl do so?
Lexa pauses and then looks up at the rail where a couple of random and mismatched hangers dangle, leftover from whomever was in the room last. “Thank you, but I don’t plan on wearing it. I wouldn’t be able to reach, anyway.”
“You don’t have to keep saying thank you,” you half-snap and immediately regret it, even though you’re only frustrated because Lexa won’t let you help.
Lexa’s posture doesn’t change and her eyes don’t even look hurt. It’s worse.
It bounces right off her; she looks like she’s expected that reaction from you, like you haven’t been following whatever script’s in her head until now.
She almost looks…relieved.
And you need to get out of there. You slip out of the room without a backward glance, hiding away in a corner of the common room and playing your gameboy while the other girls watch some idiotic show on the decrepit old telly. You wonder where Matron is with her usual games and activities, but figure she must be busy.
The girls ask you about their precious fyuheda—something you think means baby Head Girl in that dumb language of theirs—and when you ignore them they chatter quietly about how sad it is about Lexa’s mother, and one of the younger girls even bursts into tears when she hears the whole story.
You roll your eyes over from your corner spot. What an attention-seeker.
When you creep back to your room later, Lexa’s already in bed. She’s curled up facing the wall, her eyes closed when you walk by. They’re closed a little too tight, perhaps, but who are you to intrude on her if she doesn’t want your help?
She clearly doesn’t want your help.
You scowl at your reflection in the communal bathroom mirror during the stupid toothbrushing ceremony Matron thinks is fun and wish you could get away with skipping it by faking sleep like Lexa clearly has. It’s all an excuse to make sure everyone’s brushing their teeth well at least once a day—you all have basins in your room for the morning—and it’s so dumb how Mrs. Daisy puts on a different song each night and expects you all to dance along while you scrub your teeth.
As if.
You’re ten years old—maybe the younger children in the boarding house are immature enough to enjoy the idiocy, but you don’t.
Your previous roommate knocks your hip with hers. “Come on, An!” she trills and you glower at her before closing your eyes and pretending you’re at home, all alone in your own private bathroom, soon to sleep in your very own room with only your cat breathing in the corner.
Back in your shared, drafty room you pull on your pajamas and, just like every night, you sniff the collar for any remaining traces of your mother’s laundry detergent. There’s a horrid itch, far underneath your skin, the kind that tells you that you need to do some important unknown thing, but you manage to ignore it.
You look over at the lump on the other bed and vaguely wonder if Lexa’s afraid of the dark like all your brothers were.
Whatever.
You’re sure you’ll find out sooner rather than later. Might as well sleep while you can.
God, you’re glad you’re a deep sleeper.