Since she started at St Anne’s private prep school, Lexa has prided herself on her ability to fly below the radar, even if she sometimes is forced to waitress her classmates’ socialite events. That all changes the moment she comes to the attention of Clarke Griffin, the princess of the upper east side, as wealthy as she is beautiful and used to getting her own way.
Determined to shake off the hold of her over bearing mother, Clarke presents Lexa with a proposal that she can’t turn down: pretend to date her and she will make sure Lexa never has to waitress again.
–
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clexa high society au.
3/13
“So, when are you going to take our girl out on a real date Woods?”
Jasper Jordan is really fucking annoying and Clarke isn’t sure why they still hang out with him. He’s been their friend since kindergarten and she remembers him being kind of cute back then, shy and nerdy, always stuck to the side of his best friend Monty. The moment they started St. Anne’s, however, and Jasper joined the brother school that shared a courtyard- St. Andrew’s- he had become a swaggering, loud mouthed jerk who sprayed bagel crumbs across the bench when he spoke. Clarke grimaces and uses a napkin to push away a few of the crumbs close to her. No wonder Maya dumped him after only two months.
Lexa shifts uncomfortably on the bench next to her and Clarke’s eyes slide over to her. Lexa’s hair is back up in a halo braid and they’re sat in the courtyard eating, taking advantage of the rare warm weather. The sun shines on strands of chestnut woven into otherwise dark braids and her eyelashes bat against her cheeks like butterfly’s wings as she stares down at the textbook open before her.
To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.
32/33
clexa game of thrones au
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Book Three: Chapter 11
Lord Pike’s eyes are as cold and merciless as the ice of The Wall, and there is not a flicker to them as his hands tighten around her neck, an iron band cutting into her skin. He does not seem to hear her gasping cries, or feel the prying of her fingers, her nails digging so deep that warm, sticky blood spills across their skin. She tries to feel around behind her, but there is nothing she can use as a weapon, and his weight is so heavy on her chest that she can scarcely breathe. When she opens her mouth to scream again, no sound comes out and his eyes glint, his fingers tighten. Her head spins, and she reaches up to claw at his face, his eyes, her nails scouring through his skin until it looks as though he has been mauled by a wild beast. Beneath her fingers, his skin begins to crumble, and she watches in horror as it peels away in long, bloody strips, falling away to reveal an empty face behind it.
The touch to her shoulder jars her so violent that she startles awake with a gasp, jerking away from the touch. Through the dim light she makes out Harper’s figure, holding out a candle and hesitating over her.
Her eyes are creased with concern, one tendril of curled hair falling out from her braid as she takes a slight step back. “I’m sorry, your majesty, you wanted to be woken before the dawn?”
Her breath seems to return to her in staggered stages, and she pulls air back into her lungs. Her voice is weak and broken when she answers. “Yes, yes I’m sorry Harper. I was just startled.”
Concern still lingers at the corners of Harper’s gaze, but she gives a nod and turns away to light the tapers around the room and stir the fire into life.
Clarke pulls in a slow, unsteady breath, watching her with vacant eyes. Her fingers ease up to touch softly at her neck, the ghost of a bruise tingling beneath her fingertips. It seems impossible that her nails are not caked in blood, and her throat not hoarse with screaming, and bile rises in her throat when she thinks of Pike’s skin falling away into her hands.
Harper must sense her disquiet, because she breaks the silence with mindless words as she draws the water and warms it over the fire. “The weather should be fair today, your majesty. The sky was as pink as a peach last night. Summer will be here before we know it.”
“Yes,” Clarke eases herself slowly from the bed, wriggling her toes against the cold slabbed floor. “I do so long for it.”
“We all do,” Harper smiles, and steps behind her when she settles into the chair in front her looking glass. “Will you wear your crown today, your majesty?”
“No,” Clarke shakes her head, reaching out to run the pad of her thumb over a rose petal in the vase before her. “For today, I think I would like to forget I am the queen.”
The sun has risen by the time she descends the final sandy steps onto the private docks behind the castle. It is already a warm day, and she is glad of the hazy, light fabric of her dress, baring her back and her arms just as she used to when she was young and care free in Highgarden. Her hair is pulled back into soft golden braids, a golden, rose shaped clasp keeping them together, and a light stole is draped over her arms, in case the weather turns. The dock is quiet in the morning sunshine, but for Lexa, Anya and Lincoln, waiting patiently beside the low, bobbing pleasure barge. Lexa is dressed more lightly than Clarke has ever seen her before, with britches and a white linen shirt, pulled with a honeycomb stitch at the top of her arm. Her tunic bares her arms and is fastened down its front with silver direwolf pins, her hair pulled back in a simple braid.
As she approaches Lexa turns and offers a smile so wide she is caught off guard for a moment. Gone are their secret smiles of the past, shared glances hidden in the embers of their forbidden love, and in its place is something that seems to have risen from the spring itself, its head turning to the new sunlight. Her heart stutters, as it hasn’t since those fateful days in Winterfell so very long ago, and she feels a flush rising to her cheeks as Lexa nods her greeting.
“Clarke.”
“Lexa.” She returns, as she crosses the final few steps that separate them. She has to dig her nails into her hand to keep from reaching out and touching Lexa, so great is the depth of her feeling. Though they cannot be heard here, there may still be eyes watching, and it wouldn’t do to stir any unrest in the people. “Have you been waiting long? I apologise, I slept poorly.”
“No,” Lexa’s brows twitch with concern at her words, but she doesn’t comment. “No, not long at all.”
“Your wolves are not with you,” Clarke observes, as they fall into step walking down the dock together towards the pleasure barge. When Lexa shakes her head, Clarke cannot help but press, eager and curious. “I have never seen you without them.”
They come to a stop beside the barge and Lexa turns to look at her with eyes that see straight to the deepest parts of herself. “Perhaps,” She muses, softly, “they know that I don’t need them, not here and now.”
The words catch at her tender heart more acutely than she expects, and when Lexa offers her hand out to help her down the gangplank onto the barge, she finds that she is trembling at the touch. They board one after the other, their guards accompanying them. The pleasure barge is a long, shallow vessel, towards the front of which a low bench is hidden from the sun by a canopy of hazy curtains. Clarke sinks into the cushions there, and after a moment of hesitation Lexa joins her. The curtains swing about them, and though they are not alone, the illusion is almost as good.
Behind them, Clarke’s most trusted and expert oarsmen push away from the dock so silently and smoothly that she barely realises they are moving until the dock begins to slip away and leave them with only a distant view of the city.
Lexa must notice her glancing over her shoulder, because she asks, quietly. “Are you worried about leaving it behind? If only for the day?”
Clarke pauses and considers her words, glancing back at the imposing towers of the Red Keep, reaching up into the blue sky as if they intend to pluck the sun from its perch themselves. Part of her worries, a part of her that she expects will never stop worrying, but it is not enough to draw her back. “No,” She answers honestly, and Lexa’s smile makes her eyes shine.
As they sail smoothly from the harbour, Clarke runs her hand over the embroidered cushions below them, trailing her fingers across the golden stitching.
“It’s beautiful,” Lexa comments, obviously watching her, and Clarke nods.
“It was made for King Thelonious and his wife, to allow them to leave the city in privacy and luxury.”
“I never met the king’s wife,” Lexa admits, “But I hear she was a beautiful and clever queen.”
“So do I,” Clarke offers her a small smile. “King Thelonious loved her very dearly. He was never the same after her death.”
Lexa’s gaze holds hers. “They were lucky to have each other, even for such a short time.”
Warmth and peace washes over her, as it always does when Lexa looks at her so deeply and truthfully, as if she is the thing she is most sure of in the whole world. Clarke has to glance away, to keep herself from flushing and stuttering like a fool, and after a moment she manages to find her words enough to speak.
“Aden once told me about your mother, he said that she was the only woman your father ever loved.”
“They were very devoted to one another,” Lexa admits, “Or so I have heard,” Her voice changes, catching and breaking over some unspoken emotion. “I never met her.”
Clarke reaches out and twines their fingers together, keeping her voice soft. “You must miss her.”
“No,”Lexa conjures up a smile which is as false as a mummer’s mask. “How could I miss something I never even knew?”
“A bird caged for all of its life will still miss the sky,” Clarke counters, and squeezes their fingers to ease her words. “You can admit it, I won’t think any differently of you.”
“I know you won’t,” Her thumb rubs a gentle circle over the smooth skin of Clarke’s palm.
They are disturbed by Octavia clearing her throat obnoxiously from beyond the hazy curtains. Clarke glowers at the hazy shadow of her shape and she catches Lexa biting back her smile as she calls out.
“Yes, Octavia?”
“Your majesty,” Octavia must take that as her cue, because she puts her head around the curtains and can’t look either of them in the eye when she says. “There are refreshments for you, would you like them brought in?”
Clarke purses her lips, annoyed despite herself, and then nods curtly. “Yes, that would be fine I suppose.”
“Thank you, Octavia,” Lexa puts in, still trying not to laugh at Clarke’s utter lack of manners. They settle back onto the bench as plates of dewy strawberries and goblets of cool, watered down wine are delivered by their guards and set upon the low table before them.
“The sea here is so beautiful,” Lexa comments, as Clarke picks up a strawberry. “So blue and clear and bright.”
“There are legends of mermaids in these parts,” Clarke tells her, offering out the plate of fruits. “Sirens who would steal away sailors’ hearts with their songs and seduce them with their beauty.”
Lexa’s eyes linger upon her face. “I think I understand their plight.”
—-
They finally slow when they reach a spit of land, barely big enough to call itself an island, with sandy shores and a few rolling hills on which long grass and a smattering of trees grow, some hanging heavy and colourful with their fruit. The island has no dock and so their shallow ship simply slows to a stop amongst the sandy shores, bobbing back and forth in the clear water.
Lexa gazes out onto the spit of land and her brows furrow, “Where are we?”
“This is royal land,” Clarke explains, as their guards busy themselves preparing to disembark. “Nobody comes here but the king or queen.” She cannot help but smile at the blush that dusts Lexa’s cheeks when she adds. “We will be completely alone.”
“I see,” Lexa tries to hide her smile, “Would you like me to carry you to shore, my lady?”
“Not at all,” Years of practice with Wells make it easy enough for her to follow Anya and Octavia into the water. Slipping her shoes from her feet, she gathers her skirts in one hand and holds the other out for balance as she slips from their vessel and into the warm, shallow waters. The sand shifts beneath her feet and for one horrifying moment she thinks she might fall, but rights herself just in time.
When she looks back to the boat, Lexa’s astonished expression draws a delighted laugh from her and everything feels light and delicious as she watches Lexa pull her shoes from her feet and follow her into the water. When she too stumbles, Clarke holds out her hand to steady her and Lexa laces their fingers together, holding tightly as they make their way together up to the beach. The sand is warm and soft beneath their feet, and their fingers stay laced together even as they find their feet.
“Ser Lincoln and Captain Snow will go on ahead with the servants, your majesty,” Anya says, once they have approached. “And ensure everything is safe and set up. We will follow,” She indicates to herself and Ser Roan. “Just in case.”
Clarke gives Lexa a wide smile and she feels filled with a childlike glee as she leads the way from the beach to the well trodden path through grass and trees.
“Where are we going?” Lexa looks to her, expression open and curious, and Clarke squeezes her fingers.
“You’ll see.”
They tread their way carefully through the undergrowth, their shoes still held in their hands. Beneath their feet, the grass is as soft as sheepskin, warm from the sun and sandy, and Clarke luxuriates in the feeling as she walks. Together, they make their way to the highest point on the island, their fingers never untangling from one another, exchanging soft conversation. Though the air is warm and the sun glows down upon them, it feels as if they are back at Winterfell again, sitting in the library or walking the battlements, so comfortable is their quiet conversation.
“This place is beautiful,” Lexa says, as they walk through a grove of orange trees. “So quiet and peaceful.”
“The best is yet to come,” Clarke promises, with a smile, and guides them into a clearing.
Still shaded by orange trees, before them the gentle rise they have been climbing falls away sharply into the sea, and the view it exposes is a breath taking expanse of crystal blue waters. In the distance, the mainland is visible: the tall towers of the Red Keep and gathered around it like sycophants the rusted tile roofs of the city. Upon the ground are spread rugs and cushions for them to lounge on, hazy strips and fabric hanging from the trees to keep the hot midday sun from their faces, and a spread of breads and cheese, meats and fruits, is awaiting them.
Lexa casts her a shy, surprised smile. “You planned this.”
“Of course,” Clarke fights against the beam that is threatening to spread across her features. “Won’t you sit, my lady?”
With a smile Lexa sinks onto the floor, settling upon the cushions. She turns back to their combined Queensguards as Clarke follows her, and waves her hand to them. “We are perfectly safe here for the moment, you may all go.”
Octavia and Anya exchange a disgruntled glance, but when Clarke nods her agreement they move away reluctantly, peeling back into the trees until you could almost forget they were there. They are suddenly as alone as they ever are, but there are no nerves now and when Clarke looks up into Lexa’s face she feels contentment shine through her, like the sun into a darkened room.
“I can understand why you missed your home when you were with us in Winterfell.” Lexa tells her, once they have both settled back into the cushions, so close that they are almost touching. “Truly, this place is beautiful.”
“Oh, Kings Landing is not my home,” Clarke shakes her head, and curls fall over her shoulders. “Even now, it is nothing compared to Highgarden.”
“We’ve never really spoken about Highgarden,” Lexa gazes down upon her, “You have seen every inch of my home and yet I know almost nothing about yours.”
Something pinches in her heart at the mention of home and she has to avert her gaze, running a stray thread of embroidery from one of the cushions between her fingers. “Highgarden is like… a dream compared to Kings Landing. The sun always shines and the sky seems to go on forever and ever.”
“Tell me about your favourite places to go, when you were growing up there?” When Clarke looks at her, surprised by her words, Lexa explains, with the most earnest tenderness. “I want to know you Clarke, all of you.”
The smile that has been tugging at her lips appears, unbidden and difficult to shake away. “Once I learned to ride I used to love setting out into the rose fields alone. Our lands went on for leagues, I could ride for a whole day and never meet anyone who bore me ill will.” She glances at Lexa from beneath her lashes and watches the queen’s face begin to colour under her hooded gaze as she continues. “When I became older and young lords began calling I would ride with them out to the orange grove or the orchards of peach trees, and we would find some shadowy place to hide away.” She has the distinct pleasure of watching the blush settle and darken upon Lexa’s cheeks, and laughs quietly at the sight.
Lexa makes a disgruntled little noise in the back of her throat, but leans in to accept the strawberry Clarke offers as a peace token. The juice spills over her fingers and across Lexa’s lips, and Clarke struggles to tear her gaze away as Lexa’s tongue darts out to catch the sweet droplets. Her breath comes out in a soft sigh, and Lexa’s eyes are dark, even as she draws herself reluctantly away. Clarke pours them both a goblet of wine, desperate to drown out the yearning hum that has settled in her breast, but when their fingers brush together, the touch of Lexa’s warm hands sends a shiver through her like she has never felt before and she feels like a young maid again.
Lexa’s eyes flicker to her, as green as the leaves that stretch for the sky around them, and Clarke feels almost breathless at the sight. Lexa finally tearing her eyes away only barely helps her claw back her sanity, and she takes a long draft of her wine to hide her flushed cheeks, though she is sure it barely works.
“I’m sure you charmed many young lordlings into giving away their heart to you.” Lexa finally jokes, her voice weak, but Clarke laughs obligingly anyway.
“There were several marriage proposals,” She admits, at last, sharing a teasing smile with Lexa. “But none who were remotely suitable.”
“It is a fair archer who could ever catch the heart of a Lady Clarke Tyrell,” Lexa’s voice is soft and her eyes glance away to the view, as if afraid of what she will see in Clarke’s expression.
Unable to help herself, and unsure why she should, Clarke reaches out and traces gentle fingers over the back of Lexa’s hand, easing it over until she can lace their fingers together and Lexa’s eyes are drawn back to hers again.
“It is a good thing that you shoot so well then,” She murmurs into the space between them. “I would not want to give my heart to any but you.”
Lexa’s breath escapes her in a stutter at her words and when her fingers tighten which affectionate tenderness, Clarke swears her heart stops in her chest.
“I once wondered what it would have been like if we had met before… everything.” Under Lexa’s curious gaze she is powerless but to continue, “If you had to come to Highgarden as a guest of my father and our eyes had met over feasts and dancing.”
“I know what would have happened,” Lexa remarks, her voice so low that Clarke’s eyes widen in surprise. “I would have been helpless before you, Clarke.” Lexa’s thumb tracks a warm stroke over her palm.
“And I you,” She admits, in a whisper. “Of all of the suitors, not one has ever compared to you, Lexa. Sometimes I-” She cuts herself off, suddenly shy and uncertain She has kept her heart so closely guarded for so long, the chains that protect it are stiff and old.
Familiar fingers, warm and rough from years of swinging swords and pulling back bowstrings, nudge at her chin and when she raises her gaze she finds Lexa looking back at her, eyes as soft as summer grass. “You can tell me anything, love.”
The name sounds so perfect falling from her lips and Clarke leans into her touch as Lexa cups her cheek.
“After all we have been through, all we have seen and survived, sometimes I still fear that my love for you will break my heart open.” The words leave her in a rush, and when she glances up at Lexa she worries what she will see in her eyes.
Despite her fears, there is nothing but love in Lexa’s gaze, and when she offers out her arms, Clarke falls into her embrace gratefully, allowing Lexa to wrap her arms around her and press them together so tightly that Clarke feels as if she is sinking into her. She is surrounded by Lexa’s warm scent, pinewood and something sweet and soft, a flora she cannot place, and when Clarke rubs her cheek against her shoulder, her lips skim the exposed skin above her shirt.
“My love,” She speaks with more tenderness and emotion than Clarke has ever heard in any two words. “Clarke, I promise to protect your heart, no matter what. I swear it, before the old gods and the new.”
Clarke’s breath hitches, and she blinks tears from her eyes as she places her hand very carefully over Lexa’s heart, spreading her fingers apart. Beneath her touch, she can feel the steady thrum of Lexa’s heartbeat, and it is like opium to her, spreading peace throughout her body so that her voice is calm and measured when she answers.
“And I promise to protect yours, always.”
Lexa’s hand still rests on her cheek, and when she guides Clarke’s face gently up to look at hers, it feels as natural as breathing to part her lips and breach the space between them, kissing her. Lexa’s lips are soft beneath hers, the fingers that thread into her hair and hold her close- as if she would ever wish to escape this blessed prison- are impossibly gentle. This must be the heaven her Septas told her about, Clarke thinks, absently, for how else could she explain the pure, unadulterated joy that spreads through her at Lexa’s touch. They break apart only when they have to gasp for breath, foreheads pressed together and lips still brushing. She feels as if she is addicted to Lexa and cannot bear to pull herself away, if even for a second. For her part, it seems that Lexa feels the same way, because she does not unwrap her embrace, keeping them so close together that they are sharing breath.
Still, Lexa’s eyes flicker open and find Clarke looking up at her, and her expression shifts with the slightest unease. “Is this alright?” She asks, in a whisper, and Clarke lets out a soft breath of laughter.
“Of course,” She answers, and cradles Lexa’s cheeks in her hands to bring their lips together again.
Lexa’s lips are like a tonic for an ailment she did not know she had. They taste like strawberries and wine, and her skin is soft as butter beneath Clarke’s touch. Their bodies seem to move as if they know exactly where they should be and when, like a dance that they never knew they had been learning, but in this moment Clarke cannot think of any reason she wouldn’t want to be as close to Lexa as possible. Her body shifts and she drops her hand to curl at Lexa’s waist, fingers tightening in the fabric of her linen shirt, until she is pressing Lexa back into the cushions, their kisses becoming hot and heavy and more desperate than Clarke knew love could be.
The brunette gasps for air again, and Clarke takes the momentary respite to continue pressing her lips to Lexa’s jaw bone, tracing its sharp ridge with her kisses, worshipping the valley of her neck until Lexa runs a tender thumb over her cheek and draws her up. She kisses her quickly, though there is nothing chaste about it, it is all fire and passion, as if she cannot help herself, and then says, her voice breaking over her ragged breaths.
“Clarke, I don’t- We have to stop now if-”
“I don’t want to stop.” Clarke insists, and presses back into her love like Lexa is air and she will suffocate without her. “Please, please Lexa.” When still the northerner hesitates, Clarke adds, a desperate yearning to her voice. “You are the only person I will ever love like this,” Her throat is tight and she brushes away the tears that slip down her cheeks impatiently. “Please, Lexa. Please let me love you and know what it is to be loved in return.”
Gentle fingers curl around hers, stilling her furious movements, and Lexa meets her eyes with green so deep Clarke thinks for a moment that she can smell clover fields and a fresh spring rain. Tenderly, she runs her thumbs over Clarke’s cheeks, catching her tears. “All I want is to love you,” She admits, in the quietest of whispers.
When their lips meet again, it is with the softest of whispers of a sigh, and it feels to Clarke more like a homecoming than any journey’s end she has experienced before. Lexa falls back against the cushions beneath her, hands around her hips urging her to follow, and when Clarke fumbles a little settling herself above her, they exchange a slight, nervous chuckle which brings them back together again.
The feeling of Lexa’s body beneath hers is like nothing she has ever known. She has ridden the finest stallions and sailed in the fastest ships, she has commanded her enemies to die and killed men with her bare hands, but that is nothing compared to the rush of adrenaline she feels with her legs on either side of Lexa’s body, her hands framing her face like some beautiful portrait.
For some time they are simply lost in one another, kissing and learning one another in a way they have never been afforded a moment to before. The lightest of touch appears at Clarke’s bare leg, where her skirt has ridden up, playing with the fine hairs there, and she reluctantly pulls her lips from Lexa’s to meet her questioning gaze. Lexa seems nervous beneath her, the touch of her fingers is so light that Clarke is sure she will pull them away in a moment if asked, so she reaches down and pulls Lexa’s hand further up her calf, hauling a strangled gasp from her lover.
As Lexa’s hand continues its steady, uncertain exploration of her body, Clarke fingers at the laces that pull the neck of Lexa’s shirt together, giving Lexa her own curious look. As if to answer her question, Lexa sits up a little, and with a moment of awkward struggling, pulls her shirt over her head. Clarke’s eyes widen at the sight of Lexa bared before her. Though she has seen the pale expanse of Lexa’s chest before, today her lover wears no bindings and her breasts stand tall in the center of her chest, nipples already pert and puckering.
The sight is enough to draw an audible gasp from Clarke, and Lexa laughs softly, even when Clarke tosses her a glare. With renewed vigour, Clarke falls upon her exposed skin like a woman possessed, kissing, sucking and nipping every inch, working her way steadily down towards Lexa’s breasts and beneath her the northern queen shivers and whimpers. When she reaches up to cup one, and runs her thumb over Lexa’s nipple, Lexa jolts beneath her, arching up into her touch and letting out a soft moan. It’s enough to heat the pool of desire between Clarke’s legs and she begins to feel herself become uncomfortably wet, shifting a little for fear that she will drip through her light chemise and onto Lexa.
She worships Lexa’s breasts as if they are the statues of the Seven themselves, and she a devoted Septa. Neither is left untended for long, and she delights in the strangled moans she tugs from Lexa’s body with every purposeful stroke of her tongue. Truly, she would have been content to spend the whole day learning how to make Lexa squirm and shiver beneath her, but soon her lover finds her strength again, and she finds herself gasping against Lexa’s skin as her hand travels up beneath her dress, circling the underside of her knee for a moment to give her the chance to stop if Clarke hesitated.
But Clarke is far from hesitating, in fact it feels as though every sensible thought from her mind has vanished other than wishing that Lexa would touch her harder and faster. Their eyes meet as Lexa’s hand continues its journey up her body, both shivering at the intensity of the feelings between them, until finally Lexa’s fingers brush against the hairs around her cunt, and they both still.
“I- I-” Lexa cannot seem to find her words, her eyes suddenly wide, and Clarke shakes her head, silencing her.
“I can show you.”
True to her word, she takes Lexa’s hand in hers and guides her to the touches that she has learnt make her quiver and scream into her bedclothes. Lexa’s fingers feel different to her own, and the touch makes her shiver like she has been trapped in the ice for years, but she encourages her concerned lover to continue. Where her fingers are soft and well practiced in this routine, Lexa’s fingers feel longer and warmer, and though she is still finding her footing she touches parts of Clarke that make her squirm and whimper. Lexa’s fingers run the line of her wet slit, eyes wide with amazement, and when they journey upwards to bump clumsily against her clit, Clarke spasms with desire, a high keening escaping between her lips. At that, Lexa’s eyes flash with hungry desire, and she nudges away Clarke’s guiding hand, her fingers running circles over the sensitive little bud.
She sits up, her free hand grasping at Clarke’s back to keep her steady and close against her. Her lips finding a path from Clarke’s earlobe down to her collarbones, cursing softly when she comes up against Clarke’s dress. For a moment her touches to her cunt hesitate, and Clarke whimpers, grinding her hips wantonly down onto her hand. She cannot bear to think that Lexa might pull away now, and instead she reaches up to pull at the laces and clasps of her own dress with frustration, until the flimsy sleeves fall down her arms and expose her heaving chest.
Lexa makes a delighted noise, falling upon her breasts like she has been fasting for days, and when her lips seal around Clarke’s nipple, she throws her head back and cries out, pressing only harder into Lexa’s touch. Her crest comes too quickly, she feels as if she is galloping towards it on a stallion that she cannot control, and when she falls over the edge it is with a high pitched cry, falling forwards into Lexa’s waiting body.
There are a few moments of uncertainty, as she reaches down to help Lexa work her through the aftershocks, but then Lexa’s arms are around her, easing her tired, sweaty body back into the cushions and holding her close. Lexa gazes down at her, awe shining in her eyes, even as she runs a hand through her hair, brushing the sticky tendrils away from her face.
“That was beautiful,” She breathes, and Clarke can’t help but laugh, even as Lexa continues earnestly. “Truly Clarke, I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. Thank you for letting me-”
“Thank you,” Clarke tells her, voice low and throaty, and the sound of it sends a shiver through Lexa. Just the sight reinvigorates her, and Clarke clambers back on top of her lover, her dress still tangled around her waist, to press her back into the cushions. Lexa’s widened eyes meet hers and she brushes the softest kiss to her lips, pouring every tender thought she has had into this touch.
“Can I return the favour?”
“I-” Lexa hesitates, staring at her, and her cheeks begin to pink as she says, quietly. “I do not know if I can… I have never…”
“Oh you can my love,” Clarke smiles, “I will show you that you can.”
With that, she begins to trail her way down Lexa’s body again, like an adventurer picking her way through unknown terrain, she takes her time to familiarise herself with every rise and fall of the body below her. Lexa is all muscle and sinew, her body built from years of training and leading an army. It is so different from Clarke’s own softness that she is fascinated by it, by the way Lexa’s breath shifts with she kisses the underside of her breast, by the way she keens and jerks when Clarke places a bite to her ribs. Lexa’s britches are little issue when she comes to them, she simply pulls at the laces and Lexa lifts her hips obligingly to tug them down and reveal dark, wiry, wet hair and the beautiful scent of her arousal.
Carefully, watching her lovers face, Clarke touches her gently, exploring her wetness and watching the way that Lexa’s eyes widen, her breath hitching at certain touches. When Clarke takes her finger, covered in the evidence of Lexa’s want, and sucks it clean, she fears the girl may pass out. Unable to help herself, she leans in and draws the flat of her tongue along Lexa’s slit. Beneath her, Lexa jolts at the touch, a strangled cry escaping her. Clarke looks up, concerned that she’s done something wrong, but then Lexa’s hand curls in her hair and tugs her unerringly back down again, and Clarke smiles into her wetness.
---
It is some time later when Lexa runs her hand through her lover’s golden locks, pushing them back to gaze upon her sleeping face. Clarke’s delicate braids have begun to unravel in their fervour, her hair sticky with sweat, and Lexa feels a twinge of satisfaction in knowing that her restless fingers contributed to such disorder. She knows that her own hair must be equally unkempt, but she cannot bring herself to care about that, or anything else, when Clarke’s sleeping body is resting upon hers.
With the sun dappling the ground through the leaves of the orange trees, everything feels calm and peaceful. This island is like a paradise that their real lives cannot touch, and in that moment she wishes so deeply that they could stay here forever and let the world find its own way. Perhaps Clarke feels her discontent through the beating of her heart, because in that moment she stirs, her eyelids flickering open to reveal blue like the summer sky looking up at her.
Lexa feels a tinge of regret to have disturbed her, but how can she truly be sad when greeted by the sight of Clarke’s beautiful eyes blinking up at her, clearing the sleep from her vision.
“I fell asleep?” The southern queen asks, her voice rough with fatigue. “I’m sorry, I-” She goes to move away, but Lexa tightens her arm around her just a little. Clarke relaxes back into her hold with a grateful sigh, and then offers a wicked smile that makes Lexa glad they had managed to redress after their ardour. “You exhausted me, my lady.”
Lexa flushes a little at her words, bashful despite their earlier intimacy. “You were tired,” She admits, and her expression softens with concern. “You said you slept poorly?”
A shadow passes across Clarke’s face at the reminder, and she half shrugs, as nonchalant as possible. “I had bad dreams, that’s all.”
“Bad dreams?” Lexa prompts, and runs a hand down her bare arm ever so gently.
Clarke hesitates, mulling over her words for a few quiet moments, before reluctantly admitting. “I dreamt about Pike, that he was in my rooms…”
The mention of the treacherous lord’s name makes Lexa bristle unhappily, her jaw clenching even at the thought of Pike so close to Clarke again. But the bags beneath Clarke’s eyes and the genuine exhaustion she sees in every inch of her body is enough to placate her, and she reassures her quietly.
“Pike is gone. We both watched as the executioner took his head.”
Beneath her, she feels Clarke shiver, and a bite of revulsion runs through her as well. As evil as Pike may have been, the sight of his head being cut from his body is not one she wants to see again.
“I know I just-“ She hesitates again, and when Clarke looks up to meet her gaze, there is something terribly sad in her eyes. “Sometimes it is as if… I have been so terrified for so long, my body has forgotten what it is to be safe.”
Lexa has to shut her eyes for a moment, to hide the pain she feels, and instead only tightens her arms around the girl in her embrace. She knows what it is to be scared, has faced down an army of thousands with the weight of a nation upon her shoulders, but always she has had a sword in her hand and her own army at her back. She can’t imagine how Clarke must have felt, alone and virtually defenceless in the capital.
Soft lips press against hers, drawing her from her thoughts and she opens her eyes to find Clarke looking back at her, a smile playing at the edge of her lips.
“Let’s not think of sad things,” She instructs, “Tell me something happy, please Lex.”
“Alright,” Lexa can’t help but steal another kiss, before allowing Clarke to settle back into her side easily.
“One of our horse boys disappeared while we were here,” She casts her companion an exasperated smile, “Surely seduced by the excitement of the capital. Anya managed to find a new boy within the day though- a lad called Peter who calmed her mount when he spooked in the street.”
“The boy just appeared from nowhere?” Clarke asks, ever so lightly, and Lexa hums her agreement, running an absent minded hand through her hair.
“As if he were sent by the Gods,” Lexa agrees, then smiles to herself. “Though I’m sure the gods have many more things to trouble themselves with.”
“Will you take him back to Winterfell with you?” The words are enough to give them both pause, and Lexa hesitates, contemplating the painful thump of her heart.
“Yes,” She murmurs, eventually, “He will work in the stables.”
“Aden will be glad to see you again,” The joviality in Clarke’s voice is as false as silk roses. “You must make him write to me and tell me how Rose is doing.”
“Stop, please,” She is surprised to find that her voice is breaking over her words. When Clarke meets her gaze, there are a sheen of tears to her eyes as Lexa begs, “I don’t want to think about leaving, or Winterfell, or any of it. I just want to think about you – and love you.”
“Lexa,” Clarke cradles her cheeks in her hands and leans forwards to capture her lips again. “I love you too.”
Their foreheads pressed together, their bones tired from making love, and the sweet smell of oranges in the air, Lexa could almost believe that this moment would never end.
Clarke is warm in her arms and when she twists to press a kiss to the side of her head, she hums happily. Lexa gives a soft sigh, following Clarke’s gaze out to the crystal waters and the bluest of skies. “Then that’s all we need.”
It’s a lie, but a beautiful one.
---
It is a warm, bright day, the first of many that the southern summer will bring, when a messenger girl, almost tripping over her own feet to give a deep bow of deference to her queen, tells her that a representative from the Iron Bank has arrived. Clarke’s brows furrow, and she thanks the girl before asking her to have both the guest and Queen Lexa sent to her private audience chamber, with the utmost discretion.
Harper watches from where she is checking Clarke’s new bed linens for poison, and asks, quietly. “Is there anything I can do, your majesty?”
“Have refreshments sent to us Harper, if you would. And when you’re done go to Grand Measter Orrin and ask him for the leather satchel from across the sea, and bring that to me.”
Harper nods, and bobs a curtsey, before hurrying from her solar. Clarke runs a hand over the skirt of her dress; her eyes linger on her crown, but when she looks in the mirror she sees a woman who could easily be underestimated and that is exactly what she wants.
Lexa has already arrived by the time she gets to her private chamber, and is pacing back and forth before the window like a caged animal. Soon, Clarke knows, she will have to return to the north. The life of a courtier in Kings Landing does not suit her, and besides she has her own country to rule.
“Your majesty,” Lexa turns at the sound of the door, catching sight of her. There are still servers arranging sweet wine, cheese and fruits along the table, and so all they can do is look at one another, their hearts pounding.
“Our friends from across the sea?” Lexa asks, pointedly.
“They will be here soon,” She reassures her. Unable to help herself, she crosses the room, breaching the space between them so that they can speak more privately. “I believe it is truly them this time.”
“As do I.” Lexa nods seriously. “We must present a united force, they must understand that we are not pawns to be played in their games.”
“We will,” Clarke assures her, and steps away as a knock comes to the door. Often, she feels as though she is the tide and Lexa the shore, and though they are forced to retreat from one another somehow they always come back together.
“Enter,” She calls, as she settles herself into the high backed chair at the head of the table, carved with elaborate roses and stags. Lexa steps up behind her, her hand upon the back of her chair, and Clarke thinks they must make a rather striking tableau because their guest’s eyes widen as he is shown inside.
Dante Wallace looks much the same as he had all those months ago, though his hair is more silver now and there is gauntness to his expression that wasn’t there when last they met. He bows, low and elegant, to them both, and offers a charming smile when he straightens up again.
“Your majesties, well met.”
“Well met Master Wallace,” Clarke answers, with a nod of her head. “I hope your journey was not too strenuous.”
“The crossing of the Narrow Sea is never easy on old bones, your majesty.” Dante gives a small smile. “But I had to come to meet the new queen of the south.”
“Please, sit,” Clarke gestures to the chair before her. As Dante sits, she pours him a goblet of wine, “We have met before.”
“Indeed, but I have not met the new queen,” Dante takes the goblet she offers with a nod of his head. He offers her a smile which is almost paternal, “I thought you would go far when last we met.”
“It is terrible circumstances,” Clarke glances down at her own goblet, “But I intend to do whatever it takes to keep my country safe.”
“It seems that you are keen to maintain the good relationships King Thelonious left behind,” Dante observes, and his eyes linger on Lexa long enough to make it clear what he is referring to. “I hope that that courtesy extends to us.”
“I hope so too, Master Wallace.” Clarke glances back at Lexa, as if she had forgotten she was there. “Have you met Queen Lexa of the Northern Kingdom?”
Master Wallace doesn’t flinch away from her expectant expression, a cordial smile on his face. “I have not yet had the pleasure, your majesty.” He nods to the northern queen, “Your majesty, we at the Iron Bank have written to you since your reign began.”
“I am aware,” Lexa answers, steadily, and only the slightest shift in Dante’s expression gives away his annoyance.
“The queen and I are keen to ensure that relationships between our nations are close.” Clarke informs him, a steely edge entering her tone.
Almost as if she were listening at the door, a knock comes and Harper is shown inside. Clarke waves a hand at her, motioning her closer without drawing her eyes away from Dante Wallace.
The foreigner watches the handmaiden’s approach, a flicker of hesitation in his voice before he says. “That is excellent news. All any of us want is peace.”
Harper deposits the leather pouch into Clarke’s hands and retreats without a word, closing the door softly behind her.
“I’m glad to hear that,” At his words, Clarke dips her hand into the pouch in her dress and pulls out the iron coin that has been beneath her pillow for so many nights. With careful precision, she places it onto the table between them and watches as his face turns grey. Into the silence that hangs between them all, she says. “There are others in Braavos who feel similarly.” She reaches into the pouch, her fingers closing around the cold, withered skin of Cage Wallace, and places the face onto the table between them.
Dante Wallace stares down at his son’s face, and his expression draws as if he is going to vomit. He recoils away from the sight, his chair legs scraping against the stone flag floor with a terrible squeal, but he doesn’t get very far before Lexa’s strong hand clamps around his shoulder, keeping him down.
The silver blade she presses against his throat shines in the candlelight and Clarke sees the master’s eyes bulging with fear.
She offers her prettiest, rosebud smile. “It wouldn’t do for people to find out that you once sought to undermine our close relationship. It would be terrible for the Iron Bank’s reputation.” With a sigh, she puts the face back into the bag and pockets her coin again, as Lexa slides away from the Braavosi banker.
Clarke is slightly impressed that Dante doesn’t flee in an instant. Instead, he takes a moment to straighten out his robes, and stands with all the grace a man just held out knifepoint can possibly have.
He clears his throat and speaks weakly. “As you say, your majesty,” he gives a nod of his head to them both, and turns for the door, but Clarke’s words pull him up short.
“And I’m sure you will be happy to erase all of the crown’s debts to you, won’t you Master Dante.”
---
The sun draws in, painting the sky with long strokes of apricot and rosebud pink. This is quickly becoming one of her favourite parts of the day: her petitioners have all gone home, and from her place on the balcony with Wells she can hear the sounds of people in the city downing tools and streaming into the inns and alehouses of the city.
This balcony is hers now, just as the castle behind it is, and the city sprawling out below, and while that weight has not become any lighter, she has learnt to bear it better in the weeks that have passed. Beside her, Wells seems more relaxed than he has in years, and she glances over at him curiously, taking a sip from her goblet before asking.
“You seem to be in good spirits, my friend?”
Wells considers her words for a moment, and then nods. “I am.” He answers, and he offers a smile that warms her to the bones. “I feel more content than I have done in some time.”
She eyes him with interest, “May I ask why?”
“You are the queen, you may ask whatever you wish.” He teases her, and she scowls at him over the rim of her goblet. “Truly though,” he continues more seriously. “For some time I have been wondering what I will do next… there is no place for a disgraced prince in your court.”
She cuts through him, abruptly alarmed by this line of talk. “There will always be a place for you here, Wells, you know that. This is your home as much as it is mine.”
“I know, but as long as I am around there will always be a challenge to your reign, whether I want to be or not.” He sets hardened eyes upon her, “I am done being a pawn in their games. I will not be used against you.”
“But where will you go?” Her wide eyes are set to him, her heart thrumming in her chest.
He takes a deep breath, “I know this sounds strange, but I would like to return to the Maesters in Oldtown.”
Her brows crease and her mouth drops open to protest, but he speaks over her.
“I have always wanted to learn more, and now that I am no longer a prince I am free to do so. Who better to learn from than some of the wisest men in Westeros?”
“Maester Wells,” She rolls the words across her tongue like a sugar coated almond, considering them. After a moment she admits, reluctantly. “It would suit you.”
He smiles, and reaches over to place a hand upon hers, squeezing gently. In the glowing evening light, she sees the lines that have been carves around his eyes and the heaviness that rests there, and wonders if he sees these confessions of age and weariness in her too.
“I will not go without your blessing, but I truly think it would be the best for your reign if I were to leave.”
“Of course you should go,” She frowns at him, “If it is what you want I will not stop you- though I will miss you dearly.”
“Thank you, my friend,” He smiles, and she is reminded of the youth they shared, of chasing one another through the castle gardens and stealing away from their Septa. Part of her aches for those times, but she knows now that they will never be what they were before. That innocence was stripped from them long ago and the best they can hope is to find some happiness in the world they have now.
“What about your son?” Her voice is pitched so softly that Wells can pretend not to hear her if he wishes. When his expression shifts to sadness, she presses a little further. “I don’t think that they allow babes in Oldtown.”
“You’re right,” He sighs, shaking his head. “I love my son, but I could never care for him as his mother did. Whenever I look upon him-” His voice breaks and she turns away, giving him a moment to gather his emotions.
“I think you would be a wonderful father,” She murmurs, to the warm evening air, and Wells squeezes her fingers.
“Thank you Clarke but… it would not be fair to raise my son when everytime I look at him I am reminded of everyone I lost.”
“I won’t argue with you,” Clarke assures him, after a moment, “Though I think you’re wrong. I will make sure Benam is protected and well cared for.”
“I meant what I said,” Wells fixes her with a firm gaze, suddenly more sure of himself than she has seen him in years. “I want you to raise him, acknowledge him as my son and your heir.”
She presses her lips together, considering. There is a part of her, she is ashamed to say, which sees the advantages Wells is offering her and wants to take them without hesitation. But there is another part of her, a larger part, who cannot help but think of Aden’s words to her in the Winterfell crypt what feels like a lifetime ago. “Are you sure you won’t regret it? Every son wants to know his father, and every father wants to know his son.”
“I am sure,” Wells looks at her with grave eyes, and she senses that he has given this great thought. He stands and takes a few steps to the balcony, looking out over the patchwork of red tiled roofs and snaking streets. “My father wanted the Baratheons to rule this land for all of eternity. He thought that we would always do what was right for our people. While watching him wage the war against the north I saw for the first time how difficult it was to be a ruler,” He shakes his head and glances back at her, a pitiful smile upon his lips. “My father was a stronger man than I, and I saw him be pulled in every different direction by advisers who sought to influence him. For some time he lost sight of his wisdom and his faith and all he was fighting for, and in that time so many men died in an unnecessary war.”
Clarke stands, her skirts swaying soundlessly around her legs, and moves to join him at the balcony. “Your father was a good man,” She tells him, softly. “Please don’t doubt that.”
“I don’t,” Wells assures her, “He had merits that I do not. He was certainly braver and more shrewd than I will ever be, he had more wisdom and ruthlessness. That is how I know I cannot be king… but that doesn’t mean my son might not be better than I am.”
Clarke’s brows crease and she glances to him, “Benam?”
He meets her gaze and speaks earnestly. “Raise him Clarke, and teach him to be the sort of king this land deserves. At least then the Baratheon name will live on and my father’s legacy will be satisfied.”
“After all you’ve seen, you still want Benam to be king?” Clarke shakes her head, astounded.
“He will have the best teacher there is,” Wells smiles at her, touching her hand very gently. “And besides, from what I understand you are unlikely to be making any heirs yourself.”
Her eyes widen and her head snaps to stare at him so violently that she feels her neck twinge. “What?” She demands, and her fingers tighten instinctively about his. “What have you heard?”
“Not heard,” He promises her, “Only seen with my own two eyes. You seem to be very attached to Her Majesty Queen Lexa.”
“I-” Clarke scrambles for words, like a fish out of water, and Wells laughs very softly at her floundering. “Are people talking?” Clarke demands, at last, “Do people know?”
“No one knows but I, and perhaps your Queensguard if they were not dropped atop their heads as infants,” Wells laughs, and then continues at her stricken expression. “Peace, friend. I only know because I have watched you fall in and out of love since we were babes.”
“And you still want your child to be raised by me?” Clarke asks at last, with a watery, derisive laugh. “Who makes such unwise decisions?”
“Oh Clarke,” For a second she thinks she sees pity in his eyes. “We don’t choose who we love. I know that, above anyone else.”
“Soon it will not matter,” She shakes her head, and forces her eyes out to the slowly darkening horizon. “She will return to Winterfell any day now.”
“And she will take your heart with her,” Wells observes, quietly. When her gaze turns to him, he offers a sad smiles. “The common people may think that we are blessed with all manners of riches, but content is a crown seldom enjoyed.”
At that, she can only nod, and they stand there together for some time, watching as the sun eases further and further through the sky, leaving trails of indigo in its wake. A knock comes to the door, startling them from their reverie, and when Harper steps in and introduces Queen Lexa, Clarke’s heart throbs.
“Your majesty,” Lexa hesitates at the doorway to the balcony, her gaze flickering uncertainly to Wells, “I apologise, I thought you would be alone at this hour.”
“That’s alright, your majesty,” Wells bows his head to them both. “I will take my leave, I have suddenly got a hankering for roast lamb and new potatoes.”
“Prince Wells, you really don’t have to-” Lexa protests lamely as he places down his goblet and inclines his head to Clarke.
“Nonsense,” Wells shakes his head, a smile playing upon his lips. “Thank you for your counsel, your majesty, as always.”
“Thank you, Prince Wells,” Clarke smiles, watching him leave, and when Harper closes the door behind them both she crosses the space between Lexa and herself and takes her love’s hands within hers. “I am glad to see you.”
“And I you,” Lexa confesses, and the stars dance within her eyes when she leans forward to steal a kiss from Clarke’s lips. It leaves Clarke breathless and smiling, and she can’t help but pull Lexa back to her by her hand, pressing their lips together again until they have to break away, laughing very softly.
“Would you like to sit?” Clarke gestures to the two chairs left empty on the balcony, but Lexa takes her hand, smiling a little sadly.
“No, I couldn’t bear to be that far away from you tonight,” Their hands still clasped, she pulls Clarke towards the low stone wall, and they lean against it together, so close that their shoulders brush, and look out onto the stars just beginning to show themselves in the darkening sky. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your time with your friend.”
“Don’t be,” Clarke runs her thumb over the smooth skin of Lexa’s palm. “We have said all there is to say tonight,” At Lexa’s curious glance she explains. “He tells me he wants to become a Maester.” Lexa makes a soft, interested noise, and she continues, a little hesitantly. “And that Benam should be my heir.”
“His son?” Lexa’s eyes widen, focusing with an intensity that Clarke has not seen in her before. “That is an interesting proposition- he does not want to raise the child himself?”
“He says he reminds him too much of Ivy, the boy’s mother,” Clarke meets her gaze and squeezes her fingers. “Wells loved her very much and she was killed by Pike’s men.”
“That is terrible,” Lexa’s expression is soft with sympathy and understanding. “Wells must miss her immensely.”
Clarke nods, and then asks quietly into the silence that settles about them. “What do you think I should do?”
Lexa sighs ever so softly and turns to look at her properly, her expression intense upon Clarke’s features. When she speaks, she is incredibly serious. “I cannot tell you what to do Clarke, but if you would like my advice… you are young yet and could easily bear many heirs of your own.”
Clarke’s eyes meet hers and her voice breaks over her words. “And if I do not want to bear many heirs of my own?”
Lexa’s breath catches in her throat, and she swallows. “I would… ask you to be sure when you make that decision. Life is long Clarke, and your reign is yet beginning. You may find it helpful… perhaps even desirable… to have a king by your side some day.”
“I am sure.”Clarke takes their clasped hands and presses them against her breast, above her heart. Her voice wells with emotion when she says. “I know what I want, I know who I want. You will live in my heart always Lexa, and I could never bring myself to try to replace you.”
“Oh Clarke,” There are tears sparkling in Lexa’s eyes. “You know I would never ask you…”
“You don’t have to ask,” Clarke shakes her head, “And you could go away and marry hundreds of other queens and kings, but I would still love you just as much as I love you today.”
“My heart beats only for you.” Lexa answers, without faltering. “I will never love another, not until my dying breath.”
At those words, Clarke can’t help but lean forward to capture her lips, kissing away the tears that fall down her cheeks and wishing that she can soothe the anguish that rages through them both. Lexa’s arms wind around her waist, holding her close, and when they break apart their foreheads touch, so that they are looking deeply into one another’s eyes.
“You understand that we can never be wed while we are queens?” Lexa murmurs, their lips almost brushing. “My people have fought hard for their independence, and while it may have been for the wrong reasons it’s my responsibility to help them find their way now.”
“And I cannot abandon the south without a leader,” Clarke lets out a very soft sigh, resting her head against Lexa’s shoulder and enjoying the feeling of being held, of strong arms clutching her close. “And so we are like the sun and the moon,” She muses quietly, her eyes fixed to the sky darkening to twilight. “Destined never to be together.”
“But when they meet, even if ever so briefly,” Lexa murmurs, brushing her hair back from her forehead and pressing a soft kiss close to her ear. “The sky is filled with the most beautiful colours. We will be that way Clarke, I could not live without you for very long.”
Slowly, Clarke peels herself away from her lover’s arms as she thinks about what Lexa means. “So we shall meet in secret?”
“Until all is settled and we can be together as we should be,” When their eyes meet Lexa is soft, but determined. “As I say, I can no longer live without you.”
“Nor I you.” Clarke breathes, enraptured by the sight before her.
“And we cannot leave two great nations within sovereigns,” Lexa brushes softly along her cheek. “So we must meet, for the good of our people.”
Clarke’s lips quirk, and she echoes. “Our people.”
“And one day, when all is said and done,” Lexa cradles her very close, as if afraid she will vanish. “I should like to marry you, Clarke Tyrell, if you would be obliged.”
“I think I should like that more than anything else,” Clarke catches her lips again and when they kiss it tastes of roses and cold winters nights and promises to be kept.
I adapted your prompt a little anon, but I’m such a sucker for high school aus. plus it’s clexa con and ed sheeran’s new album is so romantic.
Clarke and Lexa steal kisses from one another without their friends realising, or so they think anyway.
listen to how would you feel
“You have paint on your fingers.”
Clarke pulls away and Lexa watches as her nose crinkles, eyes narrowing even as a smile plays at the corners of her swollen lips. Her gaze is soft with affection and the ends of one of her braids tickles Lexa’s cheek when she leans back.
“Is that really what you want to say to the girl who’s making out with you?”
“It’s distracting,” Lexa draws up their hands from where they are tangled together at their sides and brushes her thumb tenderly over the flaking blue paint covering her girlfriend’s index finger.
“Distracting enough to stop me from doing this?” Clarke crowds against her again and Lexa’s eyes widen, darting up when Clarke presses her back into the bookshelf, their bodies close. Her lips skate over Lexa’s jawline, a ghosting touch and Lexa’s head falls back, barely catching the groan that trips out of her throat.
Clarke’s laugh is soft and husky in her ear and she feels the flush climbing up her neck and settling in her cheeks.
“No,” Her voice is strangled, “no, I guess not.”
“Didn’t think so,” Clarke presses a kiss to the spot beneath her ear and Lexa’s legs tremble when they are interrupted by the warning bell sounding through the library.
This time she can’t catch her groan and Clarke is grinning when she pulls away to meet Lexa’s eyes again.
“Why do you look so happy?” Lexa grouches, scowling as Clarke pushes away and bends to collect her backpack, discarded on the floor beside them.
“I have algebra,” Clarke shrugs and Lexa feels her lips tilt up into an unwilling smile as her girlfriend blushes, suddenly shy.
She crosses her arms, letting her eyes lazily track Clarke’s movements. “And?”
“I like algebra, okay?” Clarke is still blushing, flustered as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She catches sight of Lexa’s grin and huffs, “What? Don’t laugh at me!”
“I’m not,” Lexa hooks her fingers into the belt loops on Clarke’s jeans and the blonde allows herself to be pulled closer again, her hands resting on Lexa’s shoulders. “You’re adorable.”
Clarke fights her smile, ducking her head and grumbling, “I like algebra, leave me alone.”
Lexa’s fingers fit beneath her chin and Clarke looks up willingly. “I like you.”
She rolls her eyes, hitting gently at Lexa’s shoulder, but there is a heat to her cheeks that makes Lexa smile. “You’re a sap.” She reels in, presses a chaste kiss to Lexa’s lips and then inches out of her grasp. Lexa watches, reluctant to leave their dark corner, as Clarke hitches her backpack more firmly onto her shoulders. When Clarke catches her staring, she doesn’t look away and Clarke bites back her smile. “Come on, we should get to class.”
“You just don’t want to be late to algebra,” Lexa jibes, playfully and Clarke watches her with a raised eyebrow as she grabs her backpack.
“Of course I don’t,” She hesitates, looking suddenly shy again and Lexa waits patiently as she gathers the courage to speak. “Hey, I was wondering…” Her eyes flicker up and Lexa gives her a small, reassuring smile, reaching out to tangle their fingers together and squeeze softly. “I have a chess tournament this weekend. It’s the regional championships… I know it’s kind of nerdy but I was wondering…”
“I’d love to come,” Lexa leans in and places a quick kiss to her cheek, squeezing her fingers again.
“Really?” Clarke’s eyes light up and Lexa feels as if she could be swallowed by them. “Thank you!” She throws her arms around Lexa’s neck and Lexa curls her arms around her waist, nose pressing into her neck to breathe in the soft, candied scent she knows so well.
They step out of the library together and when their fingers separate Lexa’s heart chills slightly.
“So,” Clarke glances over to where Wells and Raven stand, fiercely debating quantum mechanics. “I’m going… that way.”
“And I’m going that way,” Lexa cocks her head to where she knows Anya, Lincoln and Octavia will be waiting, letterman jackets tossed over their shoulders or tied around their waists and lounging against their lockers.
“Call me later?” Clarke eyes her hopefully and when Lexa nods she beams, disappearing into the crowd. Lexa watches her weave her way through the students until she’s gone.
Her friends smile, pat her on the back and toss the football her way when she joins them and she gives them a grin back, still glowing from her time with Clarke. Lincoln gives her an odd smile, his gaze searching, but it’s Anya who claps her on the back and says, readily.
“Finish your assignment, nerd?”
“Assignment?” She’s still distracted by the knowing look that Lincoln is giving her and barely catches herself from spilling out the truth. “Oh, shit yeah. Yeah I did.”
“You fall over a hurdle during practice?” Octavia tilts her head. “Got concussion?”
Lexa rolls her eyes, holding out her hands for Octavia to throw the ball her way. “And leave a space on the track team open for you, rookie? You wish.”
---
“Okay, okay we have to stop,” Clarke pushes against her chest, still gasping for breath and Lexa’s laugh is hoarse. She rests her head against Clarke’s shoulder, grateful for the shade of the bleachers in the blistering sun. She’s sweating in her football uniform, her skin slick and Clarke’s hot breath against her neck is not helping, but she can’t bring herself to pull away.
“Why?” She chases Clarke’s lips, but the blonde only allows her one quick kiss before she pulls away again. “Clarke.”
Her girlfriend laughs at her whine, pressing back on her shoulder to ease them away from each other. Expression serious, she explains, “We have to get back, or we’ll be caught. Your team aren’t going to believe you were in the bathroom much longer.”
“My team will live,” Lexa protests, leaning in, but her lips meet Clarke’s upturned palm and she glances away, cringing.
“My decathlon team won’t,” Clarke laughs and pushes her reading glasses up her nose, the pale, heavy frames circling her eyes.
“Tell Wells that you were otherwise engaged,” Lexa’s fingers circle around her waist, but Clarke isn’t as easily distracted.
“We have to practice, and so do you,” Clarke glances back through the slits in the bleachers, her eyes nervously finding the green and yellow clad track team milling around.
“Come round tonight?” Lexa pleads and Clarke eyes her, her expression soft.
“I have a quiz to study for,” She says, uncertainly and Lexa hurries to answer.
“I’ll help you study,” At Clarke’s arched eyebrows, she insists, “No really, it’s for Archer’s history class isn’t it?” Clarke nods reluctantly and her eyes light up. “I’ve already done it.”
“I don’t want you to tell me the questions Lex!” Clarke looks affronted at the suggestion, “That would be cheating.”
“What if,” Lexa’s hands snake around her waist again, drawing her close and Clarke settles happily into her embrace, despite her earlier protests. “I just point you in the right direction? Tell you what to study?”
Clarke lets out a rueful breath, smiling slightly, “Fine.” She leans in and brushes Lexa’s lips with a soft kiss, but the moment Lexa relaxes she slips from her arms, breaking away.
“Hey!” Lexa pouts, eyes snapping open and Clarke laughs, tossing her braids over her shoulder.
“Later, Woods.”
---
“Hey, Lexa!”
“Shit,” She tears herself away from Clarke’s lips, pulling away so violently that her head collides with the cubicle door, sending a throbbing, spiralling pain across her skull. She clenches her teeth against a groan, doubling over and pressing her hands against her skull. Clarke’s hands run soothingly over her shoulder and she presses Lexa into her stomach, half to comfort her, half to muffle the noise of her pained grunts.
“Lexa! I know you’re in here!” Anya’s voice comes again.
“Lex,” Clarke whispers and when she manages to drag her head up the girl is chewing anxiously on her lip, glancing at the door.
“Yeah!” Lexa’s voice is strangled when she calls out, “I’ll be there in a sec.”
“Hurry up,” Anya grouches, “I want to get home and you’re taking forever in here.”
“Sorry," With Clarke’s help, she clambers to her feet. Her voice drops to a whisper and she gestures Clarke behind the stall door. “Hide there.”
She inches out of the cubicle, trying not to rub at her head and studiously ignores Anya’s gaze as she washes her hands.
“What were you doing in there?” Anya pushes away from where she’s lounging against the hand dryers which have been broken for months.
“Sorry, got distracted on Instagram,” Lexa shrugs, her eyes fixed to her hands and there is a beat of silence, fraught with tension, before Anya says.
“Okay, let’s go,” She pauses at the door, looking back at where Lexa is wiping her hands against her jeans. “By the way, you have lipstick on your cheek.”
Lexa’s eyes dart up to the mirror and she blushes brightly when she spies Clarke’s candy pink lipstick smeared against her skin.
---
16:02
you could have told me about the lipstick
16:03
But the colour suited you so well ;)
---
“Ah Clarke,” Lexa’s mom stops in the doorway, smiling widely at where Clarke is sat up in Lexa’s bed, her textbooks in her lap. Her daughter lounges beside her, flicking through some brightly annotated notes, but her eyes dart up when her mother appears at the door and Clarke watches on in amusement as Lexa colours brightly. “It’s so nice to see you dear.”
She steps inside to place the laundry basket on Lexa’s desk chair, folding up clothes to slide into drawers.
“Hi Mrs Woods,” Clarke smiles angelically, ignoring the way that Lexa rolls her eyes. “Nice to see you too.”
“How have you been? We haven’t seen you for at least a few days,” Lexa’s mom gives them both a slightly sardonic smile and it’s Clarke’s turn to flush.
“Fine, thank you. How about you?”
“Just fine, dear,” Her mom piles a few towels on top of each other and turns to look at them properly. “Are you staying for dinner?”
“I don’t think so,” She grimaces apologetically, “I promised my mom I’d be home to eat with her tonight.”
“That’s okay,” Mrs Woods shakes her head, gathering the empty laundry basket in her arms, “But I have some chocolate chip cookies downstairs, I’ll box some up for you. How are your parents?”
“Mom’s fine, dad’s doing a bit better,” Clarke gives a half-hearted shrug and feels Lexa’s fingers squeeze softly at her knee.
“Yes,” Lexa’s mom’s expression softens, “I’m so glad to hear that the tumour is in recession. Please let us know if you need anything, shall I get Lexa to drop by another casserole?”
“Mom,” Lexa arches an eyebrow, “Mr Griffin has been in the hospital for months, they’re not suffering some sort of crisis.”
Clarke nudges her so hard that it takes Lexa’s elbow out from where she’s leaning on it and she faceplants the pillow with an annoyed oomph.
“Another casserole would be wonderful, thank you Mrs. Woods.”
“Clarke,” The older woman pauses in the doorway, her voice mock stern when she reprimands, “I’ve told you to call me Evalyn before.”
“I know,” Clarke gives a sheepish smile, “Sorry, I’ll try to remember.”
“It’s okay dear, I’ll box up those cookies.” She disappears behind the door, swinging it shut behind her and Lexa lifts her face from the pillow, glowering at Clarke resentfully.
“It’s annoying how much she adores you.”
Clarke laughs, preening a little, “what can I say, I’m the perfect girlfriend material.”
“Be careful,” Lexa grumbles, “She’s already picking out china patterns.”
There is a moment of silence as her words sink in and Clarke watches as horror flashes across her face and she scrambled for something to say.
Clarke swoops in before she can manage it, dipping down to kiss her quickly. “I wouldn’t mind that.” She promises, softly and Lexa’s smile is enough to light up the whole street.
---
Clarke drops a note on her lunch tray as she walks past. She grabs it before anyone can see, folding it up in her palm and when everyone is distracted by the guy across the cafeteria trying start a dance off, she unfolds it under the table to read.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
Her smile is so wide that Anya asks her if she’s high.
---
The grass of the football field is prickly beneath them, but the summer air is so warm and the soft lips above hers are enough to make her forget the uncomfortable ground. Lexa smells like sunshine and pinewood and vanilla, addictive, and her skin is so soft and sunkissed that Clarke can’t stop herself from pressing soft kisses to her neck, even when Lexa gently rolls away. Clarke follows her, pressing frantic kisses. She feels as if she may explode if she can’t be close to Lexa, feel her body and her warmth, but Lexa is laughing softly beneath her, pushing her gently away and she finally blinks upon her eyes to see that Lexa’s hair is rumpled, her dungarees skewed.
“What?” She asks breathily, her eyes fixed on Lexa’s swollen lips.
“Nothing, I just,” Lexa is still breathing heavily, “if we don’t stop now… this isn’t where I wanted to do this for the first time.”
Clarke blinks, slowly coming back to herself, and the ground feels abruptly rocky beneath her, and she’s aware of the deserted stands and faraway, darkened school building.
Her cheeks heat, “Oh yeah, I guess not.”
“Soon,” Lexa promises, inching closer to kiss her with a soft sort of desperation that makes Clarke ache.
“Soon,” She echoes, when Lexa finally breaks away. Their faces are so close, bodies mirroring each other and Clarke is caught by the sight of Lexa’s eyes, dark emeralds shining out at her. “I love you.”
Lexa blinks at her, eyes widening with surprise and Clarke feels her stomach sink. Several sickening seconds pass before she scrambles away, sitting suddenly up to wrap her arms around her knees, breathing heavy and tears springing to her eyes.
“Clarke,” Lexa sounds lost behind her and Clarke scrubs at her eyes with the heels of her hands, shuddering with the effort of suppressing her tears.
“I’m sorry, shit,” Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I shouldn’t have said anything, you don’t have to-”
“No,” Lexa’s arms wrap firmly around her shoulders, pressing against her back and side. “I love you. Clarke, of course I love you, I sort of thought… we knew we loved each other.”
“You… you did?” Her eyes are glassy with tears when she turns to peer at her through the dark. “But… we’ve never said it.”
“I didn’t think we needed to,” Lexa grimaces, “That sounds so shit, I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I hesitated, I was just surprised. I love you.”
“You do?” She feels helplessly happy, utterly elated and overwhelmed with joy. “Are you sure?”
“Sure?” Lexa lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head and reeling forward to press a kiss to her cheek. “Of course I am, don’t be silly.”
A spot of rain comes from above them and their eyes are drawn up just as the heavens open and rain begins to pour down on them. She lets out a soft squeal as it starts to soak through the light summer dress and Lexa laughs, startled, before clambering to her feet and holding her hand out to help Clarke up.
---
Octavia catches them sat together at the back of an empty classroom and startles to a stop, looking between them. Lexa tells her that they’re working on a project for their shared French class and when Clark readily agrees, Octavia nods and leaves them to it.
She thinks that’s the end of it.
“Hi Lexa.”
Her eyes dart up when she hears Clarke’s voice in the cafeteria. The blonde is stood beside her, dressed in washed out jeans and a striped shirt, her hair half falling from the braid Lexa had put it in when she met her at home before class, her reading glasses on the end of her nose. She’s holding a pile of books and folders in her hands, her lunch in another and is looking at the table nervously.
“Hi Clarke,” Lexa’s eyes fall on Clarke’s friends, who are sliding into the empty spaces made for them at their lunch table.
“I thought they could eat with us, as you and Clarke are doing a project together.” Octavia shrugs from her place at Lincoln’s side. “Raven and I were tight in elementary school, y’know.”
“Oh yeah?” Lexa glances up at where the dark haired girl has sunk into the seat next to Anya.
“Is it okay if I sit here?” Clarke gestures at the spare seat next to her and Lexa nods just a little too enthusiastically.
She places her books and folders on the table between them, unwrapping her bologna sandwiches that Lexa always wrinkles her nose at and takes a big bite. Lexa tries not to cringe.
---
“Hey Lexa,” Anya barges into her room without so much of a knock and Lexa glares up at her from her place in bed.
“Anya, what are you doing in here?” She tugs at her hair, straightening it out and smooths down the bed covers self consciously. “I’m not even dressed.”
“Your mom let me in,” Anya rolls her eyes, “we’ve known each other since we were six, you’re suddenly worried about me seeing your Spongebob pyjamas?”
“No I-” Lexa huffs irritably, crossing her arms and glowering at the girl. “I just would like some privacy.”
“What, were you…” Anya’s eyes widen and a gleeful smile lights up her face, “Oh my god, were you masturbating?”
“What?” Lexa sits straight up in bed, her cheeks a bright red, spluttering, “no! No! Anya, what the fuck?”
“You should just ask Clarke Griffin to the Homecoming dance y’know, rather than getting all flustered about her.”
There’s a grunting noise and Lexa coughs loudly, trying to ignore the searching gaze Anya fixes her with. “I’m not hung up on Clarke Griffin.”
“Sure,” Anya flops down on the desk chair and makes a face, twisting around to pull out a blue lacey bra. “Lexa what the hell is this?”
Lexa is still flushing darkly, “What does it look like?”
“Yeah… this cannot be yours.”
“It’s my mom’s,” Lexa snaps, pulling the covers further up under her arms. “She put it with my stuff by accident, okay?”
“Damn,” Anya holds up the lacey bra, whistling appreciatively, “your mom has good taste.”
“Anya! Get the hell out!”
“Okay well be quick, we have to be at a track meeting in half an hour,” Anya rolls her eyes, dropping the bra and letting the door bang shut behind her.
There is a tense moment of silence as Lexa listens to her pound down the stairs and then she lets out a long breath. “You can come out.”
Clarke’s smirking face appears from underneath the bed and she clambers out to flop back into bed and watch as Lexa gathers up her track gear.
“So you’re hung up on me, huh?” She is far too smug and Lexa rolls her eyes, groaning.
“No, I’m not.”
“What would make Anya think that?”
She looks anywhere but Clarke, “I may have been caught staring at you a few times.”
Clarke almost laughs her out of the room.
---
“You know, I have a door.” Clarke smiles at her from her place in front of her easel. Her hair is pushed behind her head, tied in a messy bun at the nape of her neck, one headphone dangling down her front. The sun shines in through the wide window of her bedroom and Lexa’s eyes take in the bed pushed against the wall, piled with clothing and the books fanned across her desk. Her glasses are perched in her hair and long legs are exposed by her shorts. She looks sun bathed and beautiful and Lexa is momentarily breathless.
“Hey, Lex?” Clarke waves a hand in her direction and Lexa blinks, coming back to herself.
“Sorry, I tried the door but no one answered.”
“So you decided to climb the tree outside my window, like the biggest high school cliché ever?” Clarke rolls her eyes, standing to hold out a hand and help her into her room. “You could have called me.”
“Wow,” Lexa hauls herself through the window, stumbling to get her footing beneath her and brushing the stray leaves off her shirt. “That’s the last time you get a big romantic gesture.”
Clarke laughs, leaning in to kiss her softly and Lexa happily wraps her in her arms, cradling her close. Her hands find soft curves and warm skin and Clarke’s kiss is tender and loving. Their lips make a funny noise as they move against each other and she feels Clarke giggle under her, feels her lips turn up into a smile against hers and can’t resist pulling away to giggle. They are still pressed together, foreheads touching and Clarke’s eyes flicker open to find Lexa watching her.
“You’re a huge dork.” Clarke informs her softly and Lexa beams.
They settle onto the bed together, exchanging homework tips and giggling kisses until, in a moment of quiet, Clarke asks, softly.
“What are you going to do about Homecoming?”
“Um,” Lexa stares down at where their hands are intertwined, sitting on the bed between them. “I guess I just wasn’t going to go.”
“Oh,” Clarke visibly deflates, “okay.”
“I mean,” Lexa swallows against her suddenly dry throat. “I don’t want to go without you.”
“I don’t want to go without you either,” Clarke smiles softly, tightening her fingers slightly. “Is there… I mean could we go as friends?”
“Clarke,” Lexa eyes her sadly, “I don’t want to do that.”
“Okay,” She deflates again and Lexa feels her gut twist with regret.
“I’m sorry I just… I don’t like lying as it is and it just seems like… too much.”
“No it’s okay, I understand.” Clarke’s gaze stays fixed to the white comforter beneath them and her voice cracks when she continues, “Do you think… we’ll ever be able to tell everyone?”
“I thought…” Lexa eyes her anxiously, “I thought we agreed to just wait. I mean, I know we’re both out but there’s a difference between telling friends and family and letting the whole school know.”
“I know, I know,” Clarke sighs softly and her head comes to rest against Lexa’s shoulders. “I just… I hate hiding how much I love you.”
“We can wait as long as you need,” Lexa pulls an arm around her, her heart aching and her eyes narrow when she feels Clarke tense under her touch. The blonde pulls away, frowning at her in confusion.
“It wasn’t me who wanted to wait, it was you.”
“What?” Lexa blinks at her, “no, it was you.”
“Lexa it was you! You told me when we made out in the bathrooms in sophomore year!”
“No it wasn’t!” She can feel herself becoming agitated. “It was you in freshman year, when we were in that home ec class together!”
Clarke stares at her, eyes wide with disbelief, “So you’re telling me… we’ve both been waiting for the other… for two years.”
“For fucks sake.”
---
They go to Homecoming together and it really isn’t a big deal. A few people look at them in surprise, but there’s no real shock at the sight of the debate team captain and the track champion going to Homecoming arm in arm. They walk in with the stream of other kids, Lexa in green and Clarke in blue and make their way across the gymnasium to where their friends wait.
Octavia lays eyes on them first and turns to smack at Raven’s arm, drawing her away from her conversation with Anya.
Clarke Griffin has been forced to abandon her name and her family. She is desperately hiding in her new role as lady’s maid to Lady Lexa, fumbling through her duties and hoping to become invisible, when she realises that her heiress mistress is caught firmly under the thumb of her overbearing uncle. As Lexa suffocates under the expectations of her remaining family, she and Clarke slowly realise that they may be each other’s safe haven.
or: Clarke is hiding a secret while struggling to seem like an experienced lady’s maid for Lexa, who is painfully glad for a friend.
2/6, 5.4k words
Read on ao3
Lady Alexandria’s cousin does not appear until Clarke’s third day of work for the Woodward family. Her uncle Clarke has spotted, stalking through the halls in a smart suit, swinging a cane from his hand and speaking with Lexa in serious tones when they take tea together in the drawing room. He is a frequent visitor, often bringing with him a trail of others, members of large families determined to make Lexa’s acquaintance, particularly the stream of young men in tails and top hats.
It’s because Lexa is the sole heiress to the family fortune, Octavia had told her on her first evening, when she was warming her feet close to the fire in the small apartment that the Blake siblings share.
“Her uncle is determined that she will make a good match,” Octavia’s eyes gleamed with interest over the stocking she is patching.
“Her ladyship seems less keen,” her brother had commented darkly from across the room, where he is carefully filling in their personal accounts book.
Octavia had huffed at him, pursing her lips and shaking her head, “Bellamy is upset because Lady Alexandria is inheriting as a woman,” she told Clarke loudly, “and up until now she seems to be certain not to take a husband. A woman managing all of that land, can you ever imagine.” She had rolled her eyes so hard that Clarke that expected them to roll out of her head.
“Maybe she will be like her cousin and become a spinster,” Bellamy had shut the accounts book with a snap that made the candle beside him quiver.
“Please Bellamy, you could hardly call Lady Anya a spinster.”
Now, teetering on a stepladder as she attempts to rehang the drapes in the library, after giving them a thorough beating, Clarke finally sees what Octavia is talking about. Lady Anya arrives on horseback, galloping through the gates to pull her steed to a stop outside the house. There are people watching over the fence from the street, but Lady Anya gives no sign that she sees their enquiring stares. Instead, she slides off her horse as easily as standing from a chair and straightens the top hat perched atop her head, running a hand down her skirt and riding jacket.
Raven steps out from the side of the house, where the stables are situated, and takes the reins from the lady’s outstretched hands. They speak for a moment and Clarke watches as Raven throws back her head to laugh raucously at something Lady Anya has said. There are footsteps in the entranceway and Clarke turns in time to see Lexa rush past the ajar door. The front door opens and then Lexa is hurrying out into the open air to pull Lady Anya into a hug.
“That’s her cousin, Lady Anya.” Octavia supplies as she heaves a basket of fresh candlesticks into the room. She comes to join Clarke at the window, on the pretence of holding her ladder, and peers out of the window at where the two cousins are speaking animatedly.
“She seems nice,” Clarke observes, “a little unusual.”
“She’s amazing, Clarke,” Octavia promises her, eyes starry, “she’s so modern and forward thinking. Do you know she’s 26 and has yet to marry? And not for lack of offers!”
“Really?” Clarke can’t help but smirk a little, “Lord Titus must love that.”
“They clash heads constantly,” Octavia laughs, holding the ladder as Clarke climbs down. “But I think Lady Anya really cares for her, and she needs that in her life. Especially with her uncle sniffing around every bachelor in London.”
“Octavia,” Mrs Myborn appears at the door as if by magic and they snap away from their gossiping, folding their hands behind their backs to face her guiltily. “Back to work girl, or you’ll be thrown out on your ear.”
“Yes Mrs Myborn,” Octavia hitches her basket up from its place on the floor.
“And you,” she indicates to Clarke with an imperious wave of her hand, “go down to the kitchen and fetch hot tea for Lady Alexandria, wine for Lady Anya and take it to them in the sunroom.”
“Yes ma’am,” Clarke waits until the woman has cast her eyes suspiciously between the two of them and turned on her heel to leave before catching Octavia’s eye and bursting into a fit of giggles.
Lady Anya and Lexa are sat together on settee in the sunroom, which is coloured in gold and yellow and soft green, with sunlight streaming in through every large window and warming them. They are laughing together and Lexa is looking through a book in her lap with glee when Clarke knocks softly on the door and lets herself in.
Lexa smiles at the sight of her, a soft, warm smile that seems to fit with the room and the laughter Clarke can still see in her eyes.
“Thank you Clarke,” she gestures to the low table in front of them and Clarke obligingly sets down the tea tray. She pours out the tea into Lexa’s china cup, sneaking glances at Lady Anya, who is observing her with interest, as Lexa turns to her cousin. “This is my new lady’s maid, Clarke.”
“Nice to meet you,” Anya inclines her head, caramel coloured curls bouncing errantly as she does and watches with interested eyes as Clarke bobs a slight curtsy.
“How do you do, my lady.”
“Clarke, this is Lady Anya, my dear cousin.” Lexa tells her, taking the offered teacup with a small smile.
“How long have you worked here?” Lady Anya asks her as she unstoppers the wine decanter and pours her a healthy glass of ruby coloured liquid.
“Only a few days, my lady,” She offers out the glass and watches as Lady Anya takes a sip and hums in appreciation.
“Oh yes, Lexa you have the most wonderful collection of vintages hidden away here. I shall come more often if only to drink through your stash.”
Clarke is momentarily wrongfooted and for a second she thinks that Lexa might take offence, but the girl only laughs again.
“You say that every time, Anya.”
“That’s because I mean it,” her cousin replies, snarkily and Clarke bites back a smile. “Won’t you try some?”
“Oh no,” Lexa holds out a hand before Clarke can run to fetch another glass from the kitchen. “Uncle Titus does not like me to drink before an evening meal.”
“Is Titus the head of your household?” Anya cocks a challenging eyebrow and Lexa heaves a long suffering sigh, as if this is an argument she has faced too many times.
“It is not worth the argument, Anya.” Her gaze drifts back to Clarke, “thank you, Clarke, you are dismissed. I shall ring if we require anything more.”
Though she is burning to hear the disagreement brewing between them, Clarke obediently nods. “Yes my lady.”
She hesitates outside the sunroom door, however, and listens as they begin to speak freely again.
“Is Titus paying her?” Anya demands, darkly and Clarke feels her stomach sink when there is a moment of silence.
“No,” Lexa responds, at last, “not as far as I know. She seems genuine Anya.”
“Be careful,” Anya warns, “Titus has his spies everywhere.”
“I know,” Lexa’s voice is sad and quiet, “don’t worry, I won’t let my guard down. She’s only a servant, after all.”
Clarke turns to flee, her stomach like lead and prays not to hear the bell until she will be able to look Lexa in the eye.
---
She learns the truth of Lady Anya’s suggestions almost a fortnight later. She pins back the final curl of Lexa’s unruly hair into the elegant twist and presses a few diamond pins into the mass of dark hair as Lexa sits patiently in front of her dressing table. She is wearing a long, forest green gown, dark gloves rising up to her elbows and when Clarke steps back to admire her own work, Lexa smiles at her in the mirror.
“Are you satisfied?” She asks, gently teasing and Clarke flushes even as she grins in return.
“I should think so, my lady.”
“You have done quite lovely work,” Lexa admires herself in the mirror and Clarke speaks before she can stop herself.
“I have a lovely subject.”
Lexa’s eyes meet hers in the mirror, wide with surprise and startled pleasure and Clarke steps so quickly away from her chair that she almost collides with the end of the bed, stumbling back a few steps before she is finally able to right herself. When she dares to look again Lexa has averted her eyes, but there is a secret smile hidden at the corners of her lips and a blush creeping high up into her cheeks. She stands, far more gracefully than Clarke, and Clarke hurries to give her the fan sat ready on the bed and drape the soft pashmina shawl around her bare shoulders.
“Thank you, Clarke.” She meets Clarke’s eyes again and her gaze is so tender that Clarke can barely stand to reply against the butterflies crowding into her stomach.
“You’re welcome, your lady- I mean, my lady.” She stutters and bumbles over her words and forces herself to look away, afraid that Lexa will think her a fool but instead the girl only smiles again, the sort of smile that glows from inside her chest. “Have a nice night, my lady.” Clarke manages to say at last and Lexa inclines her head. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No,” Lexa adjusts the shawl around her shoulders as a ringing comes from the front door and she sighs, quietly. “That will be my uncle and his guests, I should greet them before we leave. Don’t wait for me Clarke, I can manage out of my dress. You should get some sleep.”
“Thank you my lady,” Clarke gathers the dress they had discarded earlier into her arms. “But please ring if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Lexa pauses in her door to glance back, struggling for the words for a second before finally settling, “have a good night, Clarke.”
“And you, my lady.”
Clarke watches until the door has fallen shut and then collapses onto the chaise with a staggered breath, crushing the muslin dress close to her chest. Her fingers tangle in the material as she tries to gather herself, but her thoughts are stuck on the soft upturn of Lexa’s lips and the stray curls that will surely have fallen about her arched cheeks by the time she returns from her party. Lexa is most desperately beautiful, in a painful way that suggests she knows or thinks nothing of it.
The door swings open and Clarke is on her feet in a second, busying herself with folding the soiled dress, swinging her eyes up.
“Is there a problem- oh.” It is not Lexa stood at the door, as she expected, but instead it is Lord Titus, watching her with eagle eyes. She pauses in her fumbling and frowns, “my lord? How can I help you?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Titus responds and steps far enough into the room that he can push the door shut behind him with a menacing click.
“Her ladyship is expecting you downstairs,” Clarke speaks into the silence that rests between them.
“I know, I shall join them in a moment I just wanted to ask after you.” Titus folds his hands in front of himself, watching her with interest. “How are you settling in here at Bechan House?”
“Well, thank you my lord,” Lady Anya’s words echo through her head like a ghost and she swallows, tightening her grip on Lexa’s dress.
“Oh yes? I suppose that having a place to stay here helps for someone of your standing.” He meanders across the room to lean against the mantlepiece and Clarke feels herself bristle when he continues, carelessly, “free up some extra money for you.”
“I guess so sir,” she sidesteps away from the bed and towards the door, “if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on with my duties-”
“Hang on,” Titus holds out a hand, brows tightening for just a moment before his face relaxes back into a mask of serene calm. “Would you like to make some more money, I wonder?”
“More money, sir?” She hesitates, shifting uncomfortably, “it’s never a harm.”
“No,” his smile is predatory, like a cat stalking a mouse and Clarke feels a shiver run down her spine at the sight of it.
“What would I have to do?”
“Nothing nefarious,” he insists, still smiling and pushes himself away from the mantlepiece to tilt his head in her direction thoughtfully, “I just want to make sure a close eye is kept on my niece. So if you could report to me any worrying habits or correspondents she may adopt I would be very grateful-”
“Spy?” Clarke splutters, her expression twisting as Lord Titus’s lips tighten. “I couldn’t my lord! Not on her ladyship!”
“It’s for her own good,” he assures her calmly and Clarke backs away another few steps towards the door, knuckles whitening over the dress, “I know what’s best for her you see, and I would make it worth your time.”
“No! No, thank you.” Before she can say anything that will likely get her cast out of the house she turns on her heel and races out of the room, taking the steps downstairs so quickly that she almost runs straight into Lexa, leaving the parlour. Her mistress reaches out a hand to stop her, concerned, but Clarke dodges her and slips down the kitchen stairs as quickly as she can, heart thudding in her chest.
She still feels as if Titus’s eyes are fixed to her.
---
Clarke still sits awake in her small attic room when she hears the front door open and close. She is dressed for bed, in her nightgown with her hair braided down her back and tied with rag, a woolen blanket pulled up to cover her shoulders and keep her warm. Her candle had long since burned down, but the moon shines in through her thin curtains to illuminate the room in watery light, casting towering shadows in the corners. She is consumed by Lord Titus’s words, they seem to eat away at her until there is nothing left but his voice, bouncing around her bones and inscribing themselves into her skin. In the dark her mind runs rampant and she imagines that the words lie beneath her skin and pulse with light, clear as day for Lexa to see.
She listens closely to the footsteps as they make their way to the first floor. James had opened the door for Lady Alexandria but she soon hears him tramp up to the men’s quarters in the attic. All is quiet and Clarke has almost drifted to sleep when she hears the click of a door opening and the pad of feet descending down first the main staircase and then the second to the kitchens. Nobody else stirs, not even Mrs Myborn and Clarke lies awake, staring at the ceiling for a few moments as she considers what to do.
Titus’s words continue to stir under her skin, like bad spirits trapped within her and finally she pushes herself from her narrow bed before she has a chance to reconsider and slips downstairs, the blanket still clung like a cape around her shoulders to ward off the evening chill. She intends to tell her lady, intends for her uncle’s traitorous words to be the first thing that leaves her mouth when she sees Lexa, but when the kitchen door opens to reveal her ladyship in a similar state of undress, only a white nightgown and robe, hair loose and spilling over her shoulders, Clarke’s words disappear from her tongue. Lexa turns guiltily to look at her, like a child caught thieving from the larder rather than the mistress of her own home.
“Oh Clarke,” the relief on Lexa’s face is palpable as she turns back to attempting to fill the kettle from the tap. “I am sorry to disturb you, please return to bed.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?” Clarke can’t suppress her giggle when Lexa turns the tap too rapidly and a tide of water overspills, splashing against her robe. “Please, let me do that.”
“No,” Lexa protests, but she readily steps away from her post when Clarke approaches. “I’m sorry,” she hovers uncertainly behind her, looking awkwardly out of place in the earthy kitchen. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I simply wanted some tea.”
“I can make that for you,” It is only in the light from the streetlamp shining in through the kitchen window that Clarke sees the red that rims Lexa’s eyes or the tears that stain her cheeks. “My lady, whatever is wrong?”
“Nothing at all,” Lexa gives her a bright smile, false and sickly sweet and Clarke watches her skeptically for a moment before finally acquiescing.
“Go to bed, my lady, I’ll bring up your tea.”
“Clarke, I can’t let you,” Lexa reaches out, entreating her, but Clarke is firm.
“You’ll freeze down here without slippers, my lady, we can’t have you taking ill. It’s no trouble.”
Lexa watches her for a long moment, her lips pursed in thought before she finally relents. She makes her way to the doorway, but her voice pulls Clarke’s attention back when she says. “Bring a cup up for yourself,” The blonde hesitates, brows pulling together in confusion and Lexa’s expression slips and softens. “If you want to.”
Clarke ducks her head in a nod and hopes it hides her smile.
When she arrives upstairs it is with a tray laden with teacups and a plate of sweetmeats stolen from the pantry she finds Lexa sat at a chair beside the fireplace, burning low with embers, a blanket pulled over her knees. She looks up at Clarke’s entrance, smiling at her through the soft light of the gaslamp on the mantlepiece and gesturing her closer.
“Thank you Clarke,” she says, earnestly, taking a cup of sweet tea from the tray and cradling it between her hands to inhale the steam gratefully. “You are much better at this than me.”
“I am paid to be, my lady,” Clarke quirks a smile in her direction, slipping hesitantly onto the rug in front of the fireplace to take her teacup in her hands. She takes a sip, glad of the hot liquid as it warms her throat and coils sleepily in her belly. “But I am glad to help you.”
“I told you I would not disturb you when I came in,” Lexa insists, pursing her lips worriedly.
“And you have not,” Clarke shrugs off her concern as easily as an old coat, letting it slide from her shoulders, “did you have a pleasant time, my lady?”
“Quite pleasant, thank you,” she seems distant, so very far away in that moment that Clarke feels as if they separated by more than just class and wealth.
She takes another sip of her drink and considers her words for a moment before she speaks, hesitantly, “if there is anything you want to talk about my lady… you have my confidence.”
“Nothing,” Lexa’s eyes fall to her tea as she sips quietly and Clarke cannot help but press her.
“You’re sure?”
“Clarke,” her eyes snap up from her teacup and her voice is suddenly severe and stern, sending a shiver down Clarke’s spine, “mind your tongue.”
“Of course, my lady,” she glances away, biting at her cheek to stop any further remarks.
“But thank you for your concern,” Lexa has softened again and when Clarke looks back to her she is smiling, “and the tea, I appreciate it.”
“Was there dancing?” She chances, looking up from beneath her lashes when Lexa gives her a rueful smile, but answers gracefully.
“Yes, there was.”
“Did you dance with many bachelors?” Clarke grins impishly when Lexa lets out a long suffering sigh, but feels a rush of affection when Lexa tucks her feet up beneath the blanket and pulls her hair over one shoulder, looking suddenly young.
“A few.”
“Any to your liking?”
Lexa’s face falls and she bites her lip, eyes dancing away nervously when she answers, quiet again. “No, though my uncle is sure I should marry.”
“That’s no more your uncle's business than mine.” Clarke answers and this time she meets Lexa’s gaze challengingly when the girl quirks an eyebrow. They watch each other for a few long moments, but before Clarke can become distracted by the golden veins running through Lexa’s eyes, illuminated in the lamp light, Lexa turns away, blushing prettily.
When she speaks it is so nervous that Clarke is endeared to her. “What were you doing awake when I came home? It’s late.”
For a moment Clarke considers Lord Titus’s words, feels them sitting on her tongue like a lead weight, but in the face of Lexa’s shy enjoyment she cannot bring herself to shatter the mood between them. Her silence is clearly enough to worry Lexa, who reaches out a hand to touch hers, fingers skating across her skin and catching Clarke’s breath in her throat.
“Do you miss home terribly?” Lexa’s brows crease worriedly and she slowly sets the tea cup on the table beside her.
Clarke swallows, unable to look the girl in the eye as the butterflies in her gut turn to thick, choking ash. “No,” she manages, at last, “I am happy here, working for you.”
“Clarke,” Lexa gives her a rueful smile, “you cannot be happy working for me. Do you not want a home? A husband?”
“No,” she replies, honestly, “that’s not- I’m not- that’s not my place for now. And besides,” she replaces her mug onto the tea tray and stands, clasping it close to her chest. “Who would fetch you tea if I were off starting a family?”
Lexa watches her for a few moments, clearly unconvinced, but does her the respect of smiling thinly and nodding. “That’s true.” She places her cup on Clarke’s tray and stand turning the gas lamp down to a low burn and sliding her robe off to leave it cast over the chaise at the end of the bed. “Thank you, Clarke.”
“Is there anything I can do for your ladyship before bed?” Clarke watches as she slips into bed, curling her fingers more tightly around the tea tray in an attempt not to reach forwards and brush back a curl falling in front of Lexa’s eyes.
“No, thank you Clarke.” Lexa settles into the bed and watches Clarke through the dim light. “Sleep well,” she tells her quietly and Clarke smiles, unable to help herself.
“You too, my lady.”
----
They fall into a comfortable rhythm. Lexa is not often away at parties and gatherings, as much as her uncle may want her to be, but when she is Clarke will force herself to stay awake until the moon is high in the sky above them, awaiting the tired footsteps of James opening the door. When is all quiet and settled again she slips downstairs and collects hot tea and sweetmeats- shortbreads, candied fruit, anything to hand- to take up to Lexa’s bedroom. Lexa is always awake, always waiting with a blanket tucked around her bare feet and if Clarke notices the way her eyes light up upon seeing her, she doesn’t say anything.
She sinks to the floor, bringing her knees to her chest and talking quietly with Lexa until the clock strikes the hour and Lexa, inevitably, apologises for keeping her and rushes her back to bed. The girl has a startling wit, her mind is quick and she is easy to laugh when she relaxes enough to allow herself to. Despite the veneer of severity, she is soft and funny and so remarkably gentle that sometimes it makes Clarke’s heart ache.
On her fourth visit she stops short in the doorway at the sight of the new armchair, facing Lexa’s.
The girl looks at her anxiously, and explains, “I had it brought up for you, so you wouldn’t have to sit on the floor.”
Clarke is sure that her heart grows at the words.
----
“Clarke!”
She startles back a pace at the sound of her name, turning to scan the entrance hall until she sees Lexa, a smile on her face as she beckons her over. Mrs Myborn is with her, a disapproving frown on her face and Clarke forces her eyes away from the older woman to land on her mistress.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Thank goodness you’re here, you could be the answer to our problems.” Lexa turns back to Mrs Myborn, who quickly schools her features into an expression of vague interest, “Mrs Myborn, surely Clarke could wait at the table tonight?”
Myborn’s expression turns to one of horrified shock and she gapes from Lexa to Clarke and back again as if she can’t quite believe what she’s just heard. “My lady,” she splutters at last, “there is no way- it is not proper for a maid to wait at the table! What will people say?”
“They won’t care,” Lexa waves away her concern with a flutter of her hand and Clarke recognises her expression as one of complete certainty, “and with James taken ill and Octavia and the other girls required in the kitchen there is no one else to take his place. Mr Darby can’t serve alone.”
“Do you have any experience?” Myborn demands of her, eyes widening in triumph when Clarke replies.
“No, but I can learn,” she hurries to add, turning to Lexa, “I won’t let you down, I promise.”
“Of course you won’t,” Lexa’s smile grows and she reaches out to brush Clarke’s elbow so softly that Clarke should think she imagined it if it were not for the darkening of Mrs Myborn’s eyes. “I have every faith in you, thank you Clarke.” She turns back to Mrs Myborn with a pleased smile, “there we have it, Mrs Myborn, the dinner party can go on as planned.”
Clarke quietly wonders if she should be expected to make it through the night, with the housemistress’ expression so murderous.
---
“Always serve from the left, hold the tray close to their plate and allow them to serve themselves. Serve the most honoured guest first and work backwards from there.”
Octavia’s words of advice, tossed her way in between stirring sauces and chopping vegetables, ring in her head as Clarke dips slightly to offer the heavy bowl of potatoes to Lord Titus. He takes his time collecting them and spooning them onto his plate before Clarke is finally able to relieve her aching back and seizing knees and move on to the next guest.
Lexa catches her eyes from across the table and smiles slightly, before reluctantly turning back to the man beside her, nodding wanly as he continues his story.
Mr Darby is watching her and she can feel the eyes of Mrs Myborn on her from the small antechamber off the dining room. The conversation ebbs and flows in gentle chatter and she tries to concentrate on doing everything right. It is not a large party, only Lexa, Lord Titus, Lady Anya and a few friends, but Clarke knows that the people who matter are watching her carefully and she had assured Lexa she would not embarrass her.
The potatoes successfully served, she catches Mr Darby’s eye and he quirks his head as they settle into their meal. She joins him at the sideboard and he speaks in a soft murmur.
“Serve the wine, I have to consult Mrs Myborn and Mrs Bustle on the next course. Be invisible until you are needed, then be prompt.” He nods to the crystal decanters lining the sideboard and at Clarke’s mute nod, disappears into the antechamber.
Her gloved hands are slippery against the glass, but she takes the wine in hand and turns to watch the conversation, which is broken only by the tap of silver on china.
“I say, did you hear about what happened to the Griffins?” The man at Lexa’s side leans over to address the table, eagerly and Clarke feels her whole body go rigid.
“Oh yes, the scandal? Terrible thing that, I hear they’re all wanted by the police. Now they’ve been flung to the corners of the country in hiding.” Lady Anya chews through her chicken, answering with lazy disinterest but Clarke can barely hear her over the sound of her own heartbeat. She’s sure she must have turned pale as a sheet and she can feel the cold sweat beading on her neck and soaking her skin in dread.
She sucks in a shaky breath in time to hear the end of Titus’s spiel, “-whatever happens the family are sure to be found.”
“It’s awful, do you think the father really killed that politician?” The third lady at the table fans her face with a jewel laden wrist and when Titus gestures for more wine it takes Clarke several seconds to gather herself enough to shakily serve him.
“Surely not,” Lexa muses, taking a sip from her glass, “my father had had business with the Griffins before he died, they weren’t friends but he always said Lord Jacob was a nice enough fellow.”
“Looks can be decieving,” Titus warns and then brushes Clarke abruptly away, “that’s enough girl! You’ll spill!”
“Sorry sir-” Clarke takes a stumbling step away, blinking when she realises how full the glass is.
“Apparently,” the first gentleman continues, eager to regain centre stage, "they are hiding out, pretending to be middle class even. Lord Everton told me at a dinner last week that the cousin is even acting as a governess somewhere up in the north! Can you believe it?"
"Disgraceful," Lord Titus grumbles, spearing a green bean aggressively, "if they are innocent they should own up and step forwards, this will never do."
Clarke wonders if it is too late to pour the wine decanter over his head.
"But it's not only the police they're frightened of uncle," Lady Anya retorts, "Mr Johnson, the politician, had friends in high places. Apparently they have half of the gangs in London after them and the police won't do much to protect the family."
"They were new money," Titus disagrees as Lexa catches Clarke's eye and discreetly touches her empty glass. "And they had radical liberal tendencies, you know that. They were probably socialists."
Clarke leans over to carefully fill Lexa's glass, trying to calm her shaking hands and desperately frayed nerves.
"You can't say that, uncle!"
"The police will soon find them and they'll all be put in the tower if there's any justice."
"Clarke," Lexa touches gently at Clarke's hand, pulling her to a halt as she murmurs, worriedly, "are you alright? You look as if you've seen a ghost."
Though she was trying to be discrete, all eyes at the table turn to them and Clarke feels herself flush brightly as she rushes back a step from the table. Casting her eyes down and clutching the decanter she gives a false, quavering response.
"Quite alright, my lady."
"You're sure?" Lexa watches her, even as she retreats rapidly to the sideboard and Clarke gives a hurried nod as they lose interest in her. When they are again engaged in their own conversation she lets out a soft, shaky breath and forces their words out of her head. It's too much for the moment, scraping at a wound too raw to even be considered, so she forces herself to watch the rise and fall of the wine glasses and forget all consideration of the Griffin family.
---
Octavia holds her while she cries later that night, hidden away in the cold, musky stables. The girl cradles her close, running soothing fingers through her tangled hair and offering empty reassurances until Clarke has finally sobbed every tear.
"I'm sorry," she mutters as she brushes hair back from her face, cheeks flushing when she spots Octavia's sympathy through the moonlight. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, you've done me a great kindness by allowing me to stay with you and getting me work here."
"You were in danger, Clarke." Octavia's hands grasp hers and she forces her eyes up. "There was no way we could turn you away when Lincoln brought you to us."
"I owe you my life," she tells her, simply and Octavia just tightens her grip.
"You're safe here, they won't find you. I promise."
Forced from her home in the east into the slave markets of the Sky People, Lexa fights to hide her true identity and plots her people's vengence even as she becomes increasingly tangled in the rebellious plans of Clarke Griffin.
or
Lexa is a dragon rider who thirsts for fire and blood until she meets the cool blue eyes of her mistress's daughter.
5k words, 15/16
read on ao3
15. charcoal ghosts
Her dreams are nothing more than sounds, the flash of colour and faces that she barely recognises shifting and fading in and out of the shadows that surround her. Octavia's eyes, her hand reaching out to grab her. The cold touch of Jaha's fingers against her jaw as the life was snatched so violently from him, his eyes wide as if surprised. Her mother's mouth, twisted with pain and the thump of her body as it hit the floor.
But mostly she sees Lexa. Lexa's eyes, as hard as steel and dark as the night. Her lips, pressed into a stoic, unforgiving line and her fingers curling around Clarke's waist and holding her back, her touch never more unwelcome than in that second.
When she wakes, it is suddenly and with a heaving, gasping breath, as if she has been drowning in the dreams that plague her mind. She is stiff, her neck taut with the pain of being hunched over herself and when she blinks her eyes open they sting with salt, her eyelashes sticky and uncooperative. Her cheeks feel as if they are creasing and cracking, like heavy parchment being torn by a strong winter wind and a throb of pain runs through her head when her eyes finally focus and she notices the embers burning low in the grate.
She is alone in her small cell. Her eyes dart to the fireplace and she flinches at the sight of the poker, lying discarded and unwanted beside the hearth. Clarke can still hear the crack of metal against bone, feel the pain in her shoulder where she lifted the poker high and swung it at Lexa, the startled exclamation and thud as the girl clattered to the floor like an unwanted chess piece.
She had thrown their queen to the ground.
But at what cost?
There's an ache in her chest, as if a piece of shrapnel has made its purchase there and she shifts a little in her seat, fighting against the churn of her stomach and the creak of her weakening heart. Finally, when it becomes too much, she pulls her eyes away from where Lexa's body had lain, sprawled against the floor and dips her head back, stretching out her neck and squeezing her eyes shut.
Her mother lies dying, somewhere so close that it's painful to think about though the images flicker behind her closed lids like lightning flashing through a dark night. And though she has hated her mother many a time, the idea of losing her makes her eyes sparkle impossibly with more tears and the hammer of her heart feel like a physical blow, shuddering her apart.
A creak and sudden light makes her dart up, straightening in her seat to glare through the torch light at the intruders. A man, taller than any she has ever known, with paint smeared across his cheeks and skin like the night sky, holds the torch high enough that it illuminates the rest of the room and though his mouth is pressed into a thin, serious line, his eyes are gentle and kind. The figure beside him steps into the light and Clarke feels her lips curl back in an instinctive snarl, brows furrowing as she attempts to shift backwards against her seat.
"Stay quiet," Lexa instructs her simply and the shawl thrown about her hair and shoulders casts her face into shadow as she approaches swiftly.
"What are you doing?" She means to shout, means to yell and scream and wake the whole village if she has to, but her voice is cracked and thin and it comes out as a slightly shrill demand.
"Cutting you loose," true to her words, Clarke feels the ropes that bind her wrists fall away under the sharp blade of Lexa's dagger. She stands so quickly that her legs shake and her knees buckle, unaccustomed to holding her weight and Lexa's hand curls around her elbow to steady her.
"What's going on here?" She yanks herself from the touch, though Lexa's fingers seem to burn where they touched her skin and she wonders whether she will ever be able to soothe away to ghost of Lexa's touch or whether she will be cursed to carry around the caress of a palm, the smear of a thumb print.
"Quiet," Lexa tells her again, stepping away to join the man holding the torch and it is only when she can see her more clearly that Clarke realises she is hunched, curled over the place where Clarke's weapon had struck her only a few candle marks before. A flash of regret runs through her, climbing high and strong before she stifles it, tackling it back down again. "This is Lincoln," she nods to the man, "he will accompany you back to your people and make sure that you stay hidden. I will go with you as far as I can to ensure that no harm befalls either of you."
The words make her pause, blinking owlishly at the woman and she feels the exhaustion and weariness seeping through her bones as she shakes her head sluggishly, expression twisting with confusion. "I don't understand... you're letting me go?"
Lexa swallows so heavily that Clarke is able to track the bob of her throat, the faded bruises that settle there like shadows under the light of the torch. "Yes," she speaks at last, "you are free to go. Save your mother, Clarke."
For a moment she almost breaks, almost runs to her and throws her arms around the brunette, clings gratefully to her and pleads into the faint bruises on her neck for Lexa to join her, abandon her people here. But instead she clenches her fingers into fists, pulls them behind her back as if to restrain herself and manages to nod, just once.
Lexa's jaw tightens and she thinks she sees the woman swallow again, but Lexa is turning away quickly, nodding for Lincoln to drop the torch into a bucket of cold water by the door, letting it spit and hiss as smoke rises up around them and they are pulled into dimmer light. The men who have been guarding her don't bat an eyelash as Lexa hurries her out of the hut and a shawl is pushed into her hands, dark and thick so that she can wrap it around her hair and face.
They walk quickly, Lexa leading while Lincoln follows on behind Clarke, keeping her hidden between them and Clare can feel her heartbeat thudding, the heavy rap of it in her chest like the flap of a caged bird. There are people everywhere, strange and foreign to her and she startles when she sees faces she recognises, carpenters and farmers and labourers all rammed together around burning fires, eating plentifully and holding one another close, as if they could lose their loved ones if they let go. The only thing one seems to have in common with the next is the tight ring of iron around their necks.
"So many people..." she doesn't even realise she is speaking until the words leave her mouth, barely louder than a breath and yet Lexa hears her and hesitates in the shadow of a building to let some of her own warriors pass.
"Over two thousand," her eyes dart to meet Clarke's wide, startled gaze and when she does Clarke sees that they are deep and sorrowful. "They are grateful to be together once more, to feel free of their chains."
She swallows and her gaze moves to the floor, unable to look at Lexa any longer. An uncomfortable silence settles between the three of them before Lexa clears her throat and gestures out into the alleyway. "We keep moving, stick to the shadows Clarke, you must not be recognised."
She follows in Lexa's footsteps once again, slipping through the alleyways and ruins of buildings she once knew as well as her own home but Clarke is unable to raise her eyes and each time they pass a fire she turns her head, withdraws herself even further from the light that is cast upon her guilt.
At the chatter of young voices and sudden brightness that reaches them when they pass silently through the alleyways, only steps from the old well square, Clarke can't help but raise her eyes to peer curiously at the large, canvas tent heaved up. Guards mill around, none stationed and stiff as the ones at Clarke's makeshift cell had been, but instead easy and relaxed, talking and sharing flagons of mead and water around the many fires build around the tent which glows with light. Her eyes turn to Lexa curiously and see the woman hesitating, her own gaze caught by the sight. When she notices Clarke's curiosity she averts her eyes and says, stiffly.
"A make shift orphanage, until we are able to depart."
Clarke's throat tightens at the words and she wraps her arms around her waist, holding herself close as she says. "Wars create orphans."
"So does slavery, Clarke." There is no blame in Lexa's voice, it carries free from accusation but Clarke still flinches at the weighty sadness that sits like dew on the morning grasslands on Lexa's words.
"We should keep going."
Lexa only bows her head in agreement.
It is clear when they pass the temporary borders drawn out between the two camps. Guards stand along each alleyway and it is only a sharp few words in Lexa's mystifying language that keep the ones they pass from saying anything. Lexa and Lincoln are both suddenly more cautious, their hands shifting to their weapons as the three of them slide between the stacks of rubble like ghosts through the ruins.
A sudden arrow released from bows close to the hill sends them scattering and when the second comes Clarke is not prepared to feel Lexa's hands wrap around her waist and swing her body away, throwing herself into the arrow's path. A soft grunt escapes the woman and she staggers as Clarke's arms turn to supports, hauling her back a few steps until they can shelter in the empty shell of the old tanner's home. Gently, she sets Lexa down on a flat slab of stone, speaking urgently.
"Lexa! Lexa, are you okay?"
"Fine," Lexa shakes away her concern, reaching out to brush at the gash the arrow had made across her thigh. "Just a graze."
"Sit down," Clarke pushes her back when she tries to rise, shoving at her shoulder a little roughly and falling to her knees next to her to press her own hand against the wound. Her fingers come away sticky and red with blood, but Lexa is right, it's only a scratch and Clarke knows she has survived worse than this before. Uncertain eyes dart up to look at the brunette again and she swallows hesitantly for a second before raising a hand to touch gently at the side Lexa is favouring. "I'm sorry that I hit you."
Lexa's eyes dart open, widening in surprise to look at her but she says nothing, blinking through the moonlight at her and Clarke looks down at where her hand rests against Lexa's skin, unable to face her.
"Did I hurt you?"
"Just a broken rib," Lexa smiles, a strange, twisted version that is weak and wry. "Nothing too bad."
Her eyes flicker shut for a moment and when she heaves in a breath she can feel it shuddering against her lungs. "I'm sorry."
"Why?" A hesitant touch comes to rest on her shoulder, thumb curling unthinkably into small, soothing circles. "Surely, Clarke, I have done enough that you should never feel sorry." Lexa's voice cracks over the words, but Clarke still doesn't raise her eyes, doesn't think she could bear to see the tears that are sure to spill over harsh, hollow cheeks.
"You were saving your people." It falls from her lips like a confession, reverent as a prayer whispered fruitlessly into hot furs and hotter skin and yet she feels so very cold in this moment.
"As were you."
She smiles just slightly, a staggered, bitter thing that stretches across her lips despite the tears in her eyes. "When did this become so complicated?"
Lexa's hand shifts hesitantly from its place on her shoulder and when she touches at her cheek Clarke doesn't flinch away. The sadness in Lexa's eyes seems to weigh just as heavily in her heart when she says. "When indeed?"
"I don't think I can forgive you," the words are choked and cracked, they seem to fall so heavily around them as if everything she has ever known with Lexa is crumbling and when Lexa bows her head, shoulders tight and tense with the effort of holding back her tears, Clarke blinks away the few that still linger in her eyes.
"My actions are unforgiveable Clarke, but please know that I wish this could have happened to anyone but-"
"Heda!" Lincoln's heavy frame staggering into view tears them both apart, sending them reeling back from one another and when Lexa raises her head, Clarke sees that she tightens her jaw and presses her lips together to listen to what Lincoln is saying. "You shouldn't be out this far!"
"I am fine, Lincoln," she heaves herself up, pushing with pained, gasping breaths to stagger to her feet.
"When the scouts see you returning..." Lincoln trails off, eyes flickering hesitantly between them, "they will know."
"Know what?" Clarke's gaze darts from Lincoln to Lexa, "what is he talking about, Lexa?"
"Nothing," she shoots a hard glance at Lincoln, but the man ignores it, brows furrowed stubbornly.
"They will know that she has helped in your escape."
"And they'll be angry?" Her eyes widen furiously, shaking her head. "Lexa, they could kill you! You can't take a risk like that!"
"Clarke," her voice is sharp and curt, cutting through Clarke's worried ramblings like a jackhammer. "All will be well, I am the faya kom keyron they will not hurt me."
"The Skaikru will not feel the same way Heda," Lincoln glances back up the hill, at where the longhouses sit lit by torches and the shadowy figures of patrolling guards. "You can come no further or they will string you up."
Lexa swallows, following his gaze before nodding gravely. "I fear you're right, Lincoln. You must accompany Clarke to the Skaikru, the two of you will take them our terms."
"Will you be safe returning alone?" A shiver runs down her spine when she hears the echo of shouting from the longhouses above them, but at Lexa's firm nod she continues. "What are your terms, then?"
"Negotiation." Lexa seems abruptly weary and heavy, her shoulders hunching and her eyes sorrowful when she says, quietly, "I have no more desire for war, Clarke, our peoples have suffered enough for one life time, let alone a day."
"So we'll meet, try to negotiate a peaceful solution?" At Lexa's nod she breathes out a slow sigh of relief, glancing uncertainly back at where Lexa's camp sprawls out among the houses. "Midday tomorrow, in the market square."
"I will be there." Lexa's promise is soft in a quietly exhausted sort fo way and Clarke wonders, abruptly, how long Lexa has been fighting this war, whether she ever really stopped from the moment she stepped foot onto these shores.
"Good," it feels awkward and stilted when she takes a step away and so she turns, hesitating to watch the woman as she straightens, clenching her jaw against her injuries. The shawl has fallen from about her head and the golden strands woven into her braids gleam in the moonlight, her eyes still darkened with faded, smudged kohl. She seems so abruptly young under all of these vestments and Clarke remembers the soft touch of work worn, charcoal stained fingers beneath her hands, wiping gently with a damp rag. Lexa had been so incredibly fragile and yet really she had never known her, not truly. The thought sends a spike of anguish running through her and she swallows against the lump forming in her throat. "Be safe, okay?"
"You too," Lexa bows her head and Clarke turns before she can change her mind, setting a hurried pace darting through the buildings towards the base of the hill, where she can see the archers are stationed on the bank watching them, arrows trained on her.
"Don't shoot!" She throws her hands up, waving them madly, but still only just manages to jump away from the arrow that flies in her direction, stumbling against the small stone wall to her side and clinging to the chalky brick as raised voices sound again, close enough that she can hear the rough tones.
"Wait! Don't shoot her!"
Peeling herself away from the wall, she staggers a few more steps forward until she can make out the figure tearing himself away from the guard and hurrying through the darkness towards her. Her shoulders slacken and she thinks she can feel her knees shaking against her steps, but by the time she stumbles the warm, familiar arms of Bellamy Blake wrap around her, pulling her up and keeping her steady even as he clings to her.
"Clarke," hot, heaving breaths flutter out across the skin of her neck and she barely recognises the sob that is torn from her throat. His fingers curl into the thin fabric of her shirt, hands contracting into fists as if he can barely believe she is real and the hints of wetness against her bare flesh and the shudder of his shoulders tell her that he is sobbing into her. "I thought you were dead," the words are choked and less than a whisper when they come again, "I thought you were dead."
"I'm not," a shaking palm comes to rest at his back, rubbing gently for a few moments before she shakily begins to untangle herself from him, "Bell, I'm fine."
"Where have you been?" He pulls away only to keep her within arms' reach, frantic eyes searching her face for any sign of injury, "what happened to you? Everyone said the Dragon Riders had you but we thought, with Lexa..."
"They did have me but Lexa," the name comes out stumbling and strangled, "she let me go because..." her eyes widen, blinking at him suddenly in the torchlight, "my mother!" She tears herself from his grip, staggering a few steps past him up the hill, "take me to her!"
"Clarke." The voice makes her jump and they both spin around, Bellamy's hand darting down to the sword at his hip when his eyes finally focus on the towering man before him.
"Lincoln," in her rush she had forgotten Lexa's instructions for the man to accompany her and she reaches out to touch at Bellamy's shoulder carefully. "Bell wait, he's a friend."
"You know this guy?" Bellamy's shoulders remain tense, his fingers still curled around his sword and she tightens her grip just slightly, yanking at his shoulder.
"Yeah, sort of, he busted me out and Lexa asked him to look after me, I saw her do it myself."
"So you don't even know who he is?" Bellamy casts an outraged look over his shoulder and goes to draw his sword, "he could be anyone, he could want to kill us all while we sleep!"
"He won't!" Her eyes dart back to the longhouse on the hill where she knows her mother lies waiting and her voice spikes with agitation, "come on Bellamy, we don't have time for this!"
"I would never break a promise to my Heda," Lincoln's quiet, solemn intonation allows Bellamy to relax, just slightly and Clarke's shoulders slump in relief at the sight, tugging on Bellamy's shoulder again.
"Great, so come on Bell! I have to get to my mother!"
"Alright," his eyes dart uncertainly to Lincoln, though he takes a faltering step away from the man. "But I'll be keeping an eye on this guy. Give me your weapons." With reluctance, Lincoln drags his sword out to place it in Bellamy's outstretched hand and slides two daggers to join it before Clarke's patience wears too thin and she spins around to take off in a sprint up the hill.
The guards jolt, surprised at the sight of her but most know her well enough to allow her to pass and she can't allow herself to worry about Lincoln and Bellamy for any longer because in moments she is lost inside the small camp her people have constructed around the few remaining longhouses on the hill. Most of the people camping outside, around high burning bonfires, seem to be guards or hardy, strong men with pitchforks and axes and stony expressions. She doesn't bother to stop and inspect them, but instead keeps running through the campfires and the plumes of smoke. Her mother is somewhere close, she's sure and with a jolt she realises that her old home is still standing, though the walls and roof are slightly charred.
Turning, she begins to make a beeline for the doors when her feet grind to a halt and she stalls, staring at the line of people being pushed and prodded into the dirt near the crown of the hill. Guards shove them down by their shoulders or hair and some struggle, ripping against the rope that binds their hands to snarl and snap at the guards, earning a slap or a smack with the hilt of the guards' swords.
"Clarke," Bellamy arrives close at her side, but when he goes to touch at her arm and lead her away she shrugs off his grip as if it's nothing, eyes still glued to the prisoners as a little boy is shoved, crying, into the mud beside his young mother. They lean together, he tries to press up into her side for warmth and comfort but the guards tear them quickly apart, tugging coarse hoods over their heads. "Come on," Bellamy urges gently again, but it is the soft growl she hears from Lincoln that finally snaps her from her reverie.
"What's going on here?" Her voice is sharp as an arrow head and Bellamy swallows a little nervously.
"Prisoners," he explains at last, "to show them that we mean business."
"This is disgusting," she turns to cast him a sneering glance, "who's responsible for this?"
"Kane." His gaze flickers over to the longhouse, "he's just trying to keep us afloat here Clarke, you know that we're-" Bellamy stops himself abruptly, narrowed eyes darting suspiciously to Lincoln before shifting closer and saying, lowly, "you know that we're outnumbered."
"I was a prisoner in their camp Bellamy, remember?" She tears herself away from him, sparing one final glance for the shivering captives before stamping towards the longhouse, "I was treated far better than any of them."
His reply is lost to her as she pushes past the guards stationed at the longhouse door and barges her way inside only to stop in the doorway, blinking against the heavy smoke that fills the crowded room. It is hot, despite the high rafters, and filled to the brim with people. Mostly they are fighters, men who have volunteered their services, boys too young to be wielding heavy longswords, though some families gather like flocks of crows around piles of hay and ragged furs. A hot fire burns in the grate and she balks when she sees the captive slave chained nearby, poked and prodded by people into keeping it stocked and blazing.
Stepping further into the house, she dodges around rushing bodies, brows creasing at the sight of the wounded who lie ailing on makeshift pallets and she falls to her knees at the first bedside she comes across. A girl is curled around herself on the mound of furs now matted with her blood and when the person next to her looks up at Clarke she recognises the man as Archer, the tanner, and the girl as his young daughter. His eyes widen at the sight of her and he goes to stand, though his daughter's frail grip on his hand keeps him seated.
"Clarke!" His voice is rough and scratched, but no less awed. "You're alive!"
"I am," she pushes her sleeves up to her elbows, pressing the girl gently around the see to the wound at her stomach. "How is she?"
"Stable now," his blinks at her anxiously, "with your mother gone there was no one else left to help except for Erin, the midwife's apprentice- here she is, see."
A warm body drops down beside hers and when she turns, two sombre blue eyes stare out of a rounded face, frizzy hair curling around her forehead and ears from the heat and the stress of the work. A sheen of sweat sits over Erin's tired face, but she is robust and sensible to a fault so Clarke is unsurprised when she takes a brisk look over Archer's daughter and says, matter-of-factly, "I told you Archer, there's nothing to be done now. If she's in good health she should pull through to the morning and we'll see where we can go from there," her fingers at Clarke's arm urge the blonde upwards again even as Archer's features twist in anguish.
"Please," he half rises once more, too reluctant to leave his daughter's touch but unable to let them go. "Can you not give her anything for the pain?"
"I'm afraid not," Erin replies in clipped tones and before she can argue Clarke is dragged away, pulled a few steps through the milling crowd.
"Wait," she looks back to Archer, now leaning over his daughter in despair. "There's plenty of supplies in my mother's longhouse, if we could just-"
"Most of your home was destroyed in the fire," Erin replies, curtly, before lowering her voice slightly. "And what little we have are being used to save your mother. We need her."
"My mother..." she feels almost dazed, turning to peer through the dim longhouse, "where is she?"
"There," Erin nods to a dark corner, where a cloth partition is swung up to create a separate room and Clarke manages one stumbling step forward before her eyes are caught by something else and she comes to an abrupt halt, turning to grab Erin before she can move away.
"What's that?"
Erin follows her gaze, looking to where the figures are huddled together in a dark corner and her eyes crease, lip curling in disgust. "Some of the rebels they managed to catch. Taking up space so they can make sure none of them make a run for it."
She's hurrying towards the group before the woman has even finished, ignoring her protests as she pushes through the crowds to stare at the men, women and children who shiver despite the heat. They kneel together, hands and ankles bound, many of them bleeding sluggishly from injuries that have gone hours without medical attention and yet still they scowl and mutter insults in alien tongues at the guards stationed around them.
"Sky girl!" The words, yelled out in hoarse, guttural sounds sends her reeling around until she spots the dark, familiar figure struggling against guards to stand. Anya is bedraggled, her hair matted with blood and her face pale, but the fire in her eyes, the strength in her shoulders and back as she fights against the hands trying to keep her down is almost frightening.
"Anya," Clarke elbows her way past the guards until she is closer to the woman, surrounded by the resentful stares of Lexa's people, "What are you doing here?" She drops down to one knee to touch carefully at the jagged wound that runs across Anya's hairline. "Are you alright?"
Anya ignores her questions, ripping herself away from Clarke's touch to glower at her, loathing written into every line of her features. "Where is Lexa?" She growls out, tugging against the guard's firm grip, "how did you come to be here?"
"Lexa... let me go," her words are soft, muttered so that the surrounding slaves can't hear her and Anya's lip curls with disgust and she turns to spit harshly at the floor. Clarke's stomach rolls at the action and she hurries to defend the woman, despite herself. "She's only doing what she thinks is right; she doesn't want to fight any more, she wants to negotiate for peace."
"Negotiate what?" Anya snaps, "these people have nothing for us, why does she not burn them all to the ground?"
"For you," Clarke's murmur only makes Anya's brows furrow further, but she ploughs on, "for all of you. She won't see any more of her people hurt."
“Foolishness! Her sacrifices will kill her!” Anya grinds her teeth, eyes flashing dangerously. "This is all your fault sky girl."
"Clarke!" When she turns Erin is beckoning her from safely behind the line of guards and she stands, looking out at where the injured, weakened slaves struggle to huddle together under the close scrutiny of the warriors and feels the hair on the back of her neck lift and stiffen.
"I will make sure you are all released to be with your people," she promises Anya quietly, though the woman shows no sign of hearing her, and starts a hurried pace back through the longhouse towards her mother's private quarters.
The space behind the curtain is dim and crowded with figures. Octavia is the first person she sees and though the girl is across the room her eyes widen at the sight of Clarke and she pushes her way past the others to throw her arms around her and pull her in close.
"Clarke," the word is breathed into her ear, staggered and almost lost in her hair. "God Clarke I thought you were-" her breath catches and she has to swallow heavily, blinking away the tears in her eyes before she can continue, "I thought you were dead you asshole."
"Clarke?" Kane's voice pulls her head from the crook of her friend's neck and she reluctantly plies herself away from Octavia, though the girl stays glued to her side. Kane seems older than before, his face pale and his eyes haunted and she feels suddenly tired just looking at him. "We're so glad to see you alive and well. How did you escape?"
"It doesn't matter now," she pushes past him and the other, half familiar faces that seem to shift in and out of the shadow cast by the few meagre candles scattered around the room to come to her mother's bedside. "How is she?"
Fingers stretch out to brush against the cold, tight skin of Abby's cheek, pushing a strand of hair back from her face. She is breathing, steady but shallow and when she peers down she can see that the wound seems to be well enough bandaged and cared for. A sigh of relief escapes her at the sight, there will be little chance of an infection, fortunate as she doesn't have the herbs required to soothe away a fever. There is a pallor to her skin, a sheen of sweat across it, but there is little she can do about the blood loss and her mother seems to be keeping steady.
"She was bad but Erin patched her up rather well with Octavia's help," Kane comes to stand at her side, "she's been like this for most of the night with little change."
She nods, throat choking a little and when she speaks her voice is cracked and hoarse, "could you just... give me a minute?"
They all nod obediently, filing from the room and it's only when the curtain falls shut behind them that Clarke lowers herself shakily into the stool beside the bed, hands resting limply on the sheets beside her mother's body. Abby looks so strange this way, more of a ghost than a person and as her eyes track her mother's body, taking in every inch for a sign of further injury, she tries to think back to a time when her mother was this still, this quiet and peaceful and weak.
"You haven't stayed still this long since dad died," her quiet words rumble from her chest, bitter laughter twisting at the edges of her speech.
She can see it still, her mother like a charcoal ghost floating through her memories, flitting from one task to the next without really settling. Most of the time she would wander through the otherwise empty house, pick things up and turning them over in her hands, examining things she brought in her bridal chest as if she’d never seen them before and placing them down again like they meant nothing to her.
Sometimes it was as if she had lost both parents.
She doesn't even realise she's crying until the first tears hits her outstretched hands, and Clarke has to blink to clear her blurry vision, sniffling and swallowing against a suddenly dry throat.
"Don't do that to me, okay?" She reaches out to touch her mother's hand but it is strange, cold and limp and heavy in her grasp and she lets it drop once more, stomach curling. "Don't you dare die. You aren't allowed to, not yet. I have so much more left to say to you, so much more you have to know and see. This isn't fair."
"Clarke?" The voice makes her startle and she turns, brushing hurriedly at her cheeks to see Kane's hesitant face peering in from behind the curtain. "Is everything okay?"
"Um, yeah," she stands quickly, hovering at her mother's head as Kane and Octavia slip back in, Octavia immediately returning to stand by her side. "There's not much more I can do, so long as it didn't hit anything major," Octavia shakes her head, "she's lucky," she casts a more practiced hand over her mother's forehead and cheeks. "Keep her hydrated. If she wakes give her water, or better still sweet tea, make her drink it all. Food as well if she can handle it, red meats and dark vegetables."
Octavia nods, hesitantly, but it is Kane who voices his query, "and where are you going?"
Squaring her shoulders, she raises her chin to look him in the eye as she says, succinctly. "You and I have to sort out our terms of negotiation."
Lexa, the country’s most sought after young dancer, keeps away from the cameras, focussing on her art form. She is single minded in her determination to be the best, until a clumsy, out of place girl wanders into her dance class and shatters her perfectly ordered life with snarky remarks and sloppy insteps. Unfortunately, Clarke is not all she seems and everything she knows could come crumbling down around her thanks to hot hands guiding positions and lies whispered between cotton sheets.
or
Ballet dancer Lexa meets young journalist Clarke Griffin and everything starts spinning faster.
6k words, 3/13, NSFW. Read on AO3.
Her anger pushes her down the corridors, further than she has ever been before and it takes ten minutes before she realises, with an abrupt and horrific sense of dread, that she is lost. She keeps going regardless; her only other options are asking some passerby, who will surely raise an eyebrow and look her up and down or returning to the dance studio with Lexa and she is sure as hell not doing that. She can still feel the heat of Lexa's hand pressing up against her chin and her words, demanding respect for authority, ring around Clarke's head like a vulture circling a kill, waiting for scraps.
Her feet pound onwards, slippery in the ballet slippers but it's only when she sees the approach of several girls from her class and is suddenly aware of her flushed cheeks and exposed skin and tangled hair- half pulled from a bun- that she veers off course, barging through the first door she sees.
She comes to a sudden halt as she enters, turning to peer at the cavernous auditorium she now finds herself in. It's large, with a balcony high above the circle and plush red velvet seats making up long lines as she starts down the steps. The stage lights are on, but the auditorium is dim and she deposits her bags in a seat near the front of the room, intending to sit and wallow in her own self pity for a while, but the stage is too alluring. If Lexa throws her off the course she might never get a chance to dance on a stage like this and as much as she hates to admit it, the past week has ignited something deep within her she thought long dimmed.
Careful, wary steps bring her closer to the stage, until she reaches the stairs and her hand reaches out to tentatively touch the metal railing, fingers curling around it. A few steps more and she is on the stage, hot under the lights and staring out into blinding darkness. There's a strange anonymity that comes with the feeling, even though she knows very well that she is clearly visible to anyone in the audience. Her feet tap along the stage and she hesitates again, eyes darting from side to side as she looks for possible intruders, before slipping into a tentative pirouette.
Her foot hasn't even touched the stage again before a voice calls out, startling her so much that she almost falls.
"Hey, twinkle toes, this space isn't open for rehearsal."
Clarke squints out past the blinding lights, looking for a figure, but when the voice comes again, it's from behind her.
"Over here."
She spins, tense and on edge and a woman emerges from the curtains, raising an eyebrow in her direction. She's wearing tight, dark pants and a loose shirt and there's a tool belt fastened around her waist, dark hair secured in a sensible ponytail at the back of her head. Clarke's hand flashes up to touch her own hair, suddenly self conscious. It's strange to see someone who looks so jarringly normal in this weird, warped ballet world and it makes her feel even more absurd in her pink tights.
"Sorry," she apologises hurriedly, taking a faltering step away. "Sorry I was just..." she gestures uselessly to the stage, struggling for words for a moment before her shoulder slump and she shakes her head."Yeah, I guess I don't really know what I was doing."
"It's okay," the girl frowns at her, eye creasing at the corners and Clarke swears she can see concern peeking at the edge of her gaze. "If you need somewhere to just... chill, for a minute, you can do it here."
"Really?" The hope in her eyes must be obvious because the girl gives her a sympathetic smile.
"Of course," she holds out a hand, moving slowly closer and Clarke suddenly spies the brace wrapped around her left leg. "I'm Raven, by the way. I'm the main technician here in the auditorium, that's why the lights are on," she nods upwards, "just giving them a test run."
"Cool," the blonde holds out a hand, "I'm Clarke Griffin. I'm a student at the uh, the summer programme."
"Oh," Raven's eyes light up a little, "thought I didn't recognise you." Her eyes scan over Clarke, shifting up and down blatantly and she says, a touch of pity in her voice. "Bad session?"
"You could say that," she laughs weakly, pulling the hair band completely from her hair and letting it fall around her shoulders. "I kind of... screamed at my mentor."
"Ouch," Raven winces just slightly, but there's a smile on her lips and when she speaks she sounds amused. "I'm sure it's not too bad, your mentor will get over it."
"My mentor is Lexa Woods." Clarke tells her, simply and watches with a slightly pang of satisfaction as Raven's mouth drops open and she lets out a shocked burst of laughter.
"Holy shit! Oh god, okay now you have to tell me everything."
----
She finds that Raven is a good listener. They sit at the edge of the stage, feet dangling over into the orchestra pit- "careful not to lose a slipper, Jaha's the conductor and he'll kill you,"- and Raven listens as Clarke recalls Lexa and her irritating quirks and harsh methods.
"She's just so hot and cold, you know?" Clarke flops back onto the stage, staring up at the rafters where the lights and curtains are suspended. "I can't figure her out; one minute she's being pretty cool, I mean cool for Lexa, but the next she's snapping at me like I just ran over her puppy."
"In fairness," Raven is chewing her way through a sandwich as they speak, "you don't really know her Griffin, she's one of the most dedicated dancers I've ever met."
"Yeah, that doesn't mean she has to treat me like shit," Clarke grumbles, softly.
"I don't know, you're her student I guess, you could reflect badly on her. You have to understand that there's maybe a job for every fifty dancers here, the competition is steep."
"Yeah, but Lexa is one of the best dancers in the country. She doesn't need to bust my balls about stupid pointe shoes or whatever."
"You could reflect badly on her though. Surely a dancer who can't train an amateur won't be able to dance well herself." Raven puts, reasonably and Clarke sucks on her bottom lip, glowering resentfully up into the rafters until Raven leans over, her face coming into view. "Listen, I know she's not the easiest person to get on with, trust me. But in all the years I've known her, she's never once wavered. She is so set on this I think she would do anything to achieve her dream."
"All the years?" Clarke echoes, a frown drawing her brows together as she shifts up onto one elbow, watching Raven with curious eyes. "How long have you worked here?"
Raven smiles a little dryly, sending her a look before turning her eyes back to the bright stage lights. "You don't miss much, do you?" Clarke remains silent, waiting for her to expand. "I was a dancer here, before I hurt myself," her hand gestures to her leg, needlessly.
"Oh, I'm sorry." She pushes herself up, sitting beside the girl but Raven shakes her head, her ponytail whipping at the sides of her neck.
"Don't be, I had surgery on my back, it's kind of a miracle I can even walk," she casts a slight grin at Clarke, "anyway, I wasn't built for ballet. Not enough respect for authority, too many PB&Js." She waves the remains of her sandwich at the blonde and Clarke laughs softly.
"Yeah, that's kind of my problem too."
"The PB&Js?"
"Little bit," she grins, but then shakes her head, letting her head fall forward and her hair cover her eyes, just slightly. "Authority... I'm not the best with it."
"Just got to suck it up, little ballerina." Raven raises an eyebrow, "or don't give a shit, like me."
"It's... actually really hard not to want to impress her." The words are torn from her, resisting and irritable, but true. "I want to do this, y'know? I kind of have to."
"Well then," Raven pats her leg, offering her a smile. "Don't let some ballerina chase you away."
"Thanks Raven," she stands slowly. "You've been great." She hesitates for a moment, observing the girl for a long second before she speaks a little more slowly. "You should come out with me and some of my friends, some time, I think you'd like them. We're going to a concert in a few weeks if you want to join?"
The smile that touches Raven's lips is the most genuine one she's seen from the girl. "Yeah, that would be good thanks Griffin. Hey, make sure you swing by here if you need any more rallying speeches."
"You'll be my first stop," Clarke assures her.
----
Communal showers are a downside of academy life. However, in her short amount of time here she's found a method which involves impeccable timing, positioning herself directly beside the entrance and showers of no longer than five minutes. It's late in the day and she's managed a solid four minutes with no interruptions, so Clarke is feeling suitably accomplished, pouring a dollop of conditioner into her hand and running it through her hair, leaning back for a moment.
Her bare skin touches the hot pipes that run along the walls and she yelps, jolting forward out the water with conditioner still running down her face and into her eyes and she stumbles, sliding on the slippery floor until she is stopped by something warm and wet and moving.
"Oh my god!" She jerks back, pushing conditioner from her eyes to peer blearily through the room and oh god.
Lexa.
Of course she just had a naked collision with her mentor. Because the universe is cruel. Lexa is purposefully looking anywhere but her and Clarke realises abruptly that she is naked and Lexa is almost naked, just a small towel covering her, revealing only tanned skin and high collar bones and she is caught for a second by the water rivulets running off long, dark hair and down over her collarbone to where the towel hides her modesty.
Fuck.
She reaches for her towel, pulling it about her wet body despite the fact that her water is still on and it is getting soaked under the stream.
"Clarke," her strange, formal lexicon sounds even more stilted than usual, "I'm very sorry, that was inappropriate."
"Uh yeah," she's staring at Lexa's neck, she can feel it, but at least it's halfway better than staring at her collar bones and the dip of her cleavage. "Shit, I'm sorry I didn't mean to-"
In her hands the towel, now heavy with water, slips and she grasps for it but the material fall away before she can grab it and she lets out a startled gasp, chasing the towel and pulling it closer to herself, her cheek flaming with embarrassment and she looks up just in time to see Lexa tearing her eyes up to the ceiling, staring at it very determinedly.
"Shit, sorry sorry," she apologises again and Lexa nods stiffly, neck taut with tension. "You... can you maybe..." she gesture to the exit, her sweet escape that Lexa is currently blocking and the taller girl steps away quickly, murmuring apologies.
"You, uh, you've still got stuff in your hair."
"Oh," she almost reaches for her hair, but her towel shifts threateningly. "I know I just... it doesn't matter."
"Clarke," there's something about Lexa's voice, an edge of pleading, that makes her stop a second time, turning reluctantly in the doorway to look at the girl, all long legs and wet skin, staring at her with light, unreadable eyes. "I wanted to apologise for earlier, in the studio. I overreacted, it was unfair of me."
"Yeah, no, it's fine." She's finding it ridiculously hard to concentrate, her eyes unable to stay still for more than a second. "Bye Lexa! Nice, uh, nice to see you."
Far more of you than initially expected.
----
She falls out of her turn, grappling with the music to make some sort of landing, find some sort of rhythm, but it is too changeable and she comes to a halt, grinding her teeth angrily as the orchestra continue to play. There are a few other dancers in the audience, watching her practice and waiting for their own turn and they look up with interest as she marches across the stage to peer down into the orchestra pit, glowering.
"Jaha!"
The conductor brings his musicians to a stop, looking up at her with an infuriatingly calm expression, eye brow raised questioningly. "What, Lexa?"
"You're all over the place! Keep time, for god's sake!"
Jaha puffs up like an angry bird, glaring at her, "I can't be controlled by numbers on a page, I go wherever the music takes me."
"While I'm sure that's wonderful for you, I can't keep to my counts if you're switching metres every ten seconds." Lexa snaps.
"Maybe you should calm down and feel the music." He retorts, pursing his lips in a vaguely superior expression. "That's the problem with you ballerinas, you're all far too concerned with counts and beats and you forget about the purpose of the music."
"Do you know anything about ballet?" Lexa can feel herself beginning to rile up, readying for an argument when a voice cuts through her words.
"Lexa."
She turns, catching sight of Indra stood waiting in the wings, her arms crossed, but her eyes are drawn back to Jaha when he laughs nastily.
"Run along to your teacher little girl, let the grown ups do their jobs."
"Lexa."
Frustration burning in her stomach, she turns to toss hurried words to Jaha, "this isn't over sraka." The Russian insult throws him off, a scowl crumpling his smug face and she smiles vindictively, turning on her heel to march across the stage to where Indra is waiting impatiently in the wings.
"Come," the woman says nothing more, indicating with a nod of her head that Lexa she follow as she turns away, immersing them quickly in the intricate, small hallways that run in a never ending maze through the back passages of the auditorium and the academy.
"Indra," Lexa hurries to keep pace with her long strides, skipping every few steps so she can speak hurried, apologetic words at Indra's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I know I was unprofessional. But I swear Jaha has had it in for me since I started at this school, he never counts my beats correctly when I practice and it's the most irritating thing-"
"Hush," Indra holds up a hand to quiet her, shaking her head as she pauses to hold open a door into one of the larger corridors, ushering her through. "I did not come to talk about your petty squabble with Thelonious Jaha."
"It isn't petty," Lexa mutters, following her down the larger corridors at a slightly slower speed.
"I don't care." Indra tells her, bluntly, "there is something more serious I must tell you."
"What?" Lexa's eyes dart up to Indra's face, surprised to see that it is sombre and regretful and she feels her stomach jump with concern. "What's wrong, has something happened? Is it Anya?"
"No," Indra comes to a stop again, pulling a key from the bunch attached at her hip and unlocking her office door with quick, certain movements, gesturing again for Lexa to enter before her.
Indra's office is smaller than Anya's, though there is still an air of age to it and a bar and mirror stand in one corner. Bookshelves line the far wall, covered with pictures of Indra's former students and heavy tomes on the art of dance, all dusted pristinely. Lexa can't peel her eyes away from Indra however and she stays, stood stiffly in the middle of the room. Bad news has a way of creeping up on her, but in her many years receiving it she has developed something of a thick skin and she uses it now, hands clenching into fists at her sides as she waits for Indra's voice.
She's grateful that the woman doesn't insult her by insisting she sit, putting the buffer of a desk between them and instead stands before her, hands clasped behind her back and dark eyes catching Lexa's and keeping hold of them as she speaks.
"There's has been a problem with the showcase."
"What?" Lexa breathes out the word, disbelieve colouring it, making it fade into the dusky afternoon sun that streams in through the window. "The Joffrey showcase? The one in two days?"
"Yes, I'm afraid it's been cancelled."
"But... why?"
Indra sighs softly, "an illness has hit most of the company, a stomach flu. They can't possibly perform."
"Do they not have switches? Understudies?" Lexa is aware that her voice is reaching frantically higher, bordering on hysteria and Indra shoots her a warning look.
"It has hit everyone in the company, Lexa, both teams of dancers. It's just an unfortunate accident."
Her voice feels as if it has been ripped from her and she turns away, unable to let Indra see the devastation that surely shines through her eyes because a pain so real can't just be hidden away. She draws a few, staggering breaths into her lungs, but when she finally speaks she is pleased that her voice doesn't shake and she sounds reasonably calm. "I've been practicing for months."
"The routine need not go to waste," Indra reassures her, evenly, "keep it fresh in your mind and it can be used for another performance."
"Of course," Lexa bites her lip, tries not to think of the thrill she felt at to be dancing under the Joffrey name, the excitement of working with real, trained ballerinas rather than the amateurs she has been saddled with her whole life. "The opportunity will come again."
"It will. You will be alright?" It's phrased as a statement but there is a twinge of uncertainty at the end that creates a tentative query and she pulls in another breath before turning, expression calm.
"Yes," she nods and glances at the clock on Indra's shelf. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to be late for a session with Clarke."
"Of course."
Lexa can feel Indra's eyes on her as she walks away.
----
"I am not running a kindergarten class here, Clarke, I shouldn't have to correct you on this!"
Clarke falls to the balls of her feet, letting out an angry huff of breath and turns to glare over her shoulder at where Lexa stands, just behind her, an equally irritated scowl painting her beautiful features.
"Well sorry, some of us haven't had training our whole lives." She snaps back and Lexa scowls at her, shaking her head.
"It doesn't take years of training know this, you just have to listen to me." She paces closer across the studio and Clarke almost shrinks back as two hands curl around her waist, fingers splaying across her ribs and hips. "The pas de deux is your final piece of work, it stands for everything you have learnt in this year and determines whether you can have a place at the academy."
"Yes, I knew that, thank you."
Lexa tightens her grip just slightly, fingers biting into Clarke's skin through her leotard and she feels a shiver run through her, a slight tremble. Lexa is close and Clarke can feel the anger rolling off her in waves, crashing down around them. She has been like this since Clarke stepped into the studio to find her aggressively running through piece after piece, her motions sharp and stark with her fury and she had stared, taken aback by the strangeness of such elegance against such fury.
"Again." Is all Lexa demands and begins to count as Clarke pushes herself up onto pointe again, bending her body gracefully to the side and bringing her leg up until it is almost directly above the one holding her up. She can feel her legs begin to shake, muscles trembling before a hand move to grab her inner thigh, warm fingers spreading and grasping and Clarke lets out a harsh gasp, head shooting up to stare at Lexa in the mirror.
"What are you-"
"Up." Lexa pushes against her leg, "bring it straight." Her hand slips, sliding down her thigh just slightly and Clarke feels herself jolt in response, her breath coming heavily.
"Lexa stop."
"This must be done right," the girl insists but when her eyes rise to meet Clarke's in the mirror there is no denying the flush of her cheek and the darkness in her eyes, hungry and primal. "Alright, now down and do the same, but off pointe, keep your leg lower remember."
She does as instructed, bringing her foot down gratefully from pointe and raising her hands in the air to fan them around her face and suddenly she is hit with a waft of Lexa's scent by the shifting air around them, like pine and mint and the cool air of a mountain side, filled with lingering morning fog. She leans forward again, dropping her upper body further towards the floor as she brings her leg up again, letting it bend and curl back around Lexa.
Fingers catch her ankle and she suppresses a shiver at the touch as they manipulate her like a marionette, fingertips brushing a burning path over her knee and down her thigh until Lexa is sure she's positioned correctly. She can't miss the slight breath that escapes the woman behind her, shaky and harsh.
"Now step and step across the stage, together," their feet move in unison, two long paces across the studio and she slips into the next movement automatically, up onto her toes again to move her leg parallel to the floor. Her strength is beginning to waver again, sweat dripping off her as she trembles to stay still.
"Trust your partner," Lexa instructs her, firmly and her eyes flicker up to meet stony green, as pale as woodland water and she feels herself shift and fall, toppling from her pointe to the floor.
Lexa is caught off guard and just manages to catch her, softening her blow to the floor as she is brought to her knees, hands curling around her waist tightly as Clarke's slippery shoes slide her between Lexa's legs and to the floor with a deafening crash. Lexa is jerked by the movement, knees colliding with a harsh smack and legs spread across Clarke's hips, arms automatically going to the side to catch herself and when Clarke's eyes focus, stunned by the fall, soft pink lips, agape in shock, are only inches away. They breathe heavily for a moment and Clarke can feel the warmth of Lexa's breath dancing across her neck and exposed collarbones.
Lexa jolts away as if burned, tearing herself up and stalking across the studio before Clarke can even lever herself up from her place on the floor, watching her go.
"For god's sake, can you do nothing right?" Lexa is raging, pacing around the perimeter of the room in angry, hastened steps and Clarke rolls her eyes, pushing herself up to her feet.
"Yeah, it was an accident. And I'm fine, by the way."
"This is no joke Clarke!" Lexa sounds strangely frantic, flustered. "We could have been seriously hurt, do you know what that means for a ballerina?"
"Well we weren't." Clarke shakes her head, raising her eyes to the heavens for a second before making her way to the bar to stretch away the cramping in her legs and feet.
"I could have lost everything."
"That's a risk you run every day just by dancing and you know it." She snaps, glaring at her fingers tight on the bar.
"Yes, but normally I'm not dancing around someone who is so phenomenally incompetent that they could cause me such harm."
"I've learnt the first forty counts of the pas de deux in two days!" Clarke turns, preparing to round on her but she is startled to see Lexa only steps away, glaring at her. "And I haven't danced in years. Doesn't that deserve at least a little bit of praise?"
"Praise?" Lexa scoffs at the idea, "you're barely able to call yourself a dancer, Clarke. Your positions are sloppy, your feet are a mess and your hips refuse to turn out."
"Well apologies if I'm not little miss perfect," her rage pushes her onwards, clouding her head with heavy, angry fog. "Not all of us can have everything handed to us on a platter. Some of us have actually struggled."
"Don't you dare presume anything about me." Lexa's voice drops suddenly and she advances a step, as soft and predatory as a lioness stalking her prey. "You know nothing, Clarke Griffin."
"I know that someone who demands so much from other people can never have had to work for something," she retorts, challengingly and feels a tingle run through her when Lexa takes another step forward. She stumbles back on her feet, but her back is straight and her eyes are hard as ice as she stares down the dancer.
"As if you could understand the way I have worked and strived for what I have," Lexa spits, furiously, "you, who have surely been spoon fed everything. Let me guess, you grew up in the suburbs, with your perfect mother and your perfect father, maybe a sibling and your parents cooked you dinner and sent you off to prom with your lack lustre boyfriend. And you thought that escaping away to the city would make you edgy and cool, but actually you're living off a trust fund, in an apartment with a doorman." She scoffs and her eyes bore into Clarke's with the kind of raging fury that Clarke has never seen before. "Guess what princess, life isn't all rainbows and ponies for some of us."
"Shut up." She feels as if she is trembling, every bone in her body being shaken apart by the force of her anger and she grits her teeth, hands clenching into fists so tight that she can feel the half moons of her short nails pressing into her palms. "Just shut up."
"Have I hit a nerve?" Lexa hisses and she steps closer still, so that their bodies are pressed close and Clarke can feel lithe muscles and soft curves through her leotard, her breathing making her breasts heave angrily. She's sure she doesn't miss the way Lexa's eyes flicker down. "Have I revealed a damning truth?"
"Lexa, I swear to god if you don't shut the fuck up-"
"You'll what, go running to daddy?" Lexa raises a challenging eyebrow and Clarke can't help herself, her hand rises up to slap hard against Lexa's cheek, the sound ringing through the studio and Lexa gapes at her for just a second until Clarke rises up on her toes, hands tangling in dark hair to crash their lips together.
The force of it sends Lexa staggering backwards and she only just manages to stay on her feel, hands rising to Clarke's back to claw at her leotard with hard, unforgiving fingers. She grunts softly below Clarke, lips struggling for control and there is a need, dark and unseen, in the way that she grabs at Clarke, the movement of her lips. Beneath her, Lexa's mouth opens to gasp for air and Clarke takes the chance to press her teeth into her lower lip, biting firmly and her body sings at the soft grunt Lexa lets out. One of Lexa's hands tracks the length of her spine to tangle in her hair and tug angrily in return and Clarke is pulled away by the motion, hesitating for just a second, inches away from the flushed girl, green eyes almost black with the size of her pupils.
She steps away, pushing a little at Lexa's chest to disentangle herself and turns on her heel, stomping across the studio to grab her bag.
----
Only under the heat of the shower does she allow herself to reflect on those moments. The room is foggy, but she is alone and the hour is late, so she doesn't expect to be disturbed. Her face is turned into the shower, long blonde hair darkened by the water and she lets the pounding spray batter against tender cheeks and swollen lips, as if it can wash away the memory of Lexa's touch.
But her head is filled, consumed by the thought of their encounter and she can feel her pulse still hammering in her chest, the tingle running over her skin and the all too familiar twist of desire deep in her stomach. It's only natural, she argues to herself, Lexa is a beautiful girl and Clarke is attracted to beautiful girls. Plus the heat of their shared rage, of their building irritation is enough to make anyone flustered and that is how she finds herself falling back against the tiled wall, her hand sliding slowly down her body to slip through wet heat and arch her back.
Lexa had tasted like steel and mint and lust and it lingers in Clarke's mouth, as phantom fingers roam her back and she feels her eyes flicker shut as her fingers speed.
Footsteps startle her from her haze and she feels a whine of irritation escape her as she tears her own hand away, but it is too late as the figure emerges from the steam and she feels her stomach sink.
She would recognise that long dark hair and smooth skin anywhere.
This time, however, Lexa is naked. Clarke's eyes roam freely, unable to stop herself from drinking the girl in. Her hungry gaze ravages down the slope of two pert breasts, a flat stomach and the juncture of her legs, where a small patch of sparse dark hair grows and when Lexa turns to start to shower directly beside her own she traces the curve of her ass.
"I would ask you to try not to stare, but it seems a fruitless request." Lexa's voice is low, dark and Clarke feels her jaw stiffen.
"You were out of line today."
"As were you," Lexa turns to look at her and takes a slight step closer. "You need to learn to respect me."
"You need to give me a reason to." She tilts up her chin, defiantly and suddenly hands are back in her hair and they are staggering backwards, skin pressing against skin, the curve and dip of their bodies moulding against other.
Clarke's lips are caught in a terrifying kiss and her feet stumble, desperately trying to grab a support until her back slams into the wall and hot, angry lips tear at each other.
Their hands wander freely and they seem to have given each other a free pass to explore as they will because a hand slides down from her hair to skate over her collarbones and curve over the arc of her breast. Clarke has to gasp, has to pull away from their kiss to arch her back and press herself up against the touch as a thumb brushes across the nipple, watching it harden and pebble.
Teeth nip and lips suck against fragile skin as her own hands drop to grasp Lexa's ass, pulling her forward with a jolt until a taut thigh is pressed between her legs.
"I'm not sorry," she mutters against Lexa's hairline as the girl descends down her body and hisses when sharp teeth bite at the tender skin over her collarbone.
"Neither am I." She can feel the brush of lips as Lexa speaks, but before she can process it a hand is sinking down, travelling along her stomach to curl briefly in short pubic hair and tug, making her gasp out as the pads of fingers brush against her.
There is a moment of exploration, of uncertainty as Clarke arches and fights for breath and expert fingers take a moment to learn her body, before lips attach themselves to her nipple and bite and she feels herself cant her hips into Lexa's waiting hand.
"Clarke," teeth brush against her and the smile can be heard in the words, "you were waiting for this."
A thumb brushes against her clit, just once and a strangled, angry noise escapes her as she bucks, chasing the feeling.
Lexa grunts in irritation and a strong forearm appears, slamming her hips back into the wall and pinning them there, keeping her still as fingers continue their idle journey through her folds and she struggles, hands knotting in Lexa's hair to pull, forcing her upwards so that she can press their lips together.
For a moment she is strong, for a moment she is in control, but then fingers glance over the bundled nerves again and she crumbles, gasping, small whimpering noises escaping her as she yearns for the return of Lexa's touch.
"For fucks sake," the words choke her, "get on with it."
She feels Lexa laugh once, feels the shake of her wet body and the soft expulsion of air against her cheek, before a long finger does as she says and slips inside of her.
Her back arches so much that only her head, thrown back against the tile, keeps her standing and her whole body shivers, trembling fingers grasping to find some sort of anchor on Lexa's slick skin as she pushes and her thumb continues to brush Clarke's clit.
Fingers curl and she bursts with expletives and Lexa Lexa Lexa.
It takes only a few minutes before she comes apart, embarrassingly quickly, a high, strangled cry escaping her and her nails digging into Lexa's back, marking her as she slowly coaxes Clarke down from her plateau, holding her wavering body up for support for a moment, before she slowly pulls away.
Cobalt blue meets green so soft it could be grey and Clarke sees only a hint of regret in Lexa's eyes before the girl turns and marches out of the room.
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Hartbig Superhero AU. Grace thinks Hannah might be the most irritating superhero she’s ever encountered, which is unfortunate because now she’s stuck with her. SFW, SFF. 2.5k words.
3
The only sound is Hannah's heel tapping nervously against the clean white tile of the waiting room floor. It's dull and quiet, but regular nonetheless and when paired with the jiggle of Hannah's knee up and down and the anxious way that she's wringing her fingers together in her lap, turns out to be really, really irritating to Grace. It's late, past midnight and Hannah is clearly tired, her blinks long and weary but Grace is wide awake beside her, lips pressed firmly together and her legs crossed as she sits back in the comfortable chair to wait.
"What's taking so long?" Hannah asks her, in a slight hiss that carries across the room to the receptionist, whose eyes shoot up to rise a finely plucked eyebrow in their direction.
"They're busy people," she replies easily, not removing her gaze from the magazine in her lap. "We didn't make an appointment."
"We've been here over an hour." Hannah slumps against the back of the seat, but Grace knows that it won't last long and sure enough moments later she is sat up again, peering at the clock on the wall with an impatient little huff. "What are they doing in there?"
"Dealing with more important things." She reaches out without looking to grab a paper from the table beside her, depositing it unceremoniously in her neighbour's lap.
"Why are they even still functioning at this time of night?"
With a long sigh, Grace draws her eyes reluctantly up to look at the blonde, eyes flickering to where the paper lies untouched in her lap. It takes the patience of a saint to slowly close her magazine and give Hannah her full attention. "Well, like me most heroes have full time jobs, if they need to visit the Association they have to do it at night to avoid work. Just be glad you're not up at six tomorrow like some of us."
"True," Hannah admits reluctantly, shifting a little in her seat so she can turn to look straight at Grace. "What do you think they'll ask me?"
"I've already told you I don't know," at Hannah's pleading eyes, however, she relents and says, unwillingly. "They'll probably ask you to explain how you came about your powers, explain some of your circumstances, the scope of what you can do. It'll be simple." Hannah turns away to chew on her lip anxiously and Grace's mind jerks back to some of her first meetings with the council, a child barely entering puberty, swinging her legs and brushing scuffed shoes against the floor quietly, butterflies making her stomach roll, and her heart softens a little. "Hey," Hannah's gaze moves up to hers again, "you'll be fine, I promise. They aren't trying to trip you up, they're the good guys. And, uh, I'll be there."
"Yeah?" Hope sparks in Hannah's eyes and she can only nod.
"Yeah."
"Hannah Hart?"
They both jolt, turning to see a tall, thin man that Grace recognises as Chief Councillor Roberts' assistant, stood looking at them expectantly. He gestures and Hannah scrambles to her feet, hurrying across the waiting room towards him as Grace follows at a more leisurely pace.
"You're Miss Hart?" Jones peers down at the clipboard in his hand and Grace can see the way that Hannah nods tightly, clasping her hands tightly behind her back.
"Yes sir, that's me."
Jones raises his eyes slowly, eyes her condescendingly over his beak-like nose and says, his voice crawling agonisingly over the words. "Call me Jones, Miss Hart. Ah," his eyes fall to Grace and she sees the small twitch in the corner of his right eye that always seems to accompany her presence. "Miss Helbig, will you be joining Miss Hart?"
"Yes." Grace comes to a halt beside the smaller girl, placing herself firmly next to her.
"I suppose that will be okay," he sneers at her slightly and ushers them to follow him down the long, white corridor. Stark, bright lights run down the wall every few metres, casting long, eerie looking shadows and Grace sees Hannah's eyes venture upwards to stare at the high ceiling. This place is disorientating, it's designed to be. All of the proportions seem wrong, long thin doors; ceilings that are impossibly tall; plain, undistinguishable rooms.
Jones reaches a silver door at the end of the corridor and steps forward to press a button that opens an electronic board, pinning in a code and scanning his thumb print over the device. Grace watches Hannah from the corner of her eyes, observing the orbs of her eyes, the amazement with which she takes in everything around her. The door opens with a familiar snap of thousands of locks opening and the hiss of a magnetic field dropping and Hannah jumps beside her, jerking in surprise at the noise. Grace catches her arm, keeping her steady and Hannah looks up at her with wide, anxious eyes.
"It'll be fine," she murmurs as Jones starts on through the door again and propels her forward slightly, pushing her through into the board room.
She's seen this room a hundred times before, but Hannah has not and as she follows the smaller girl inside she can see how the grandeur of such a place might come as a surprise to someone who has never seen it before. In reality she knows that it is all just for show, the severe metal panelled walls hide a ton of concrete and carbon, making the room almost impossible to access. There're a few steps up towards a platform where a long table stands and opposite them sit the four council members, lit by the bright lights that hang around them.
Each member is old, worn from a lifetime of hero service. Caped in the ceremonial uniform that they always wear while in session, they look like something from another century, the long white robes, trimmed with gold, drowning most of their aging bodies. Councillor Roberts sits in the centre, dark eyes staring out of a face drawn by age and wisdom. He smiles very slowly when he sees her, eyebrows rising up in surprise.
"Miss Helbig, this is a surprise. You don't usually take an interest in our new arrivals."
"No," Grace comes to a halt behind a chair, reaching out without looking to touch Hannah's arm, stopping her from taking a seat. "But Hannah is an acquaintance."
"I see," he cocks his head, clearly interested, but to Grace's relief says little else, inclining his head towards their seats. "Please, be seated."
"Thank you Councillor." Grace watches from the corner of her eye as Hannah sinks into her seat, clutching her hands together beneath the table.
"Miss Hart, is it?" Councillor Roberts peers at them over his half moon spectacles, his gaze flickering down to the file in front of him.
"Hannah," she corrects automatically and the Councillor's eyes shoot upwards in surprise. Hannah stumbles over her words, obviously uncertain and says, stammering, "I- I mean, um, you can call me Hannah. I don't mind."
Councillor Roberts nods once and then indicates to the man beside him with a nod of his head. "This is Councillor Marcus, our oldest member. He has a particular expertise in attack and defensive of oneself during combat." Though old, the man's eyes are sharp and he inclines his head towards them both in a sharp nod. Grace knows he's sharp as a dagger and quick off the mark, she's been burnt one too many times by his scalding remarks on her performances. "To my right is Councillor Adams, our strategist. She can assist you in area disputes and security." Grace has only ever seen Councillor Adam's hair as it was now, it a long, silvery sheet down her back and her eyes stare out at them, emotionless and unblinking. Beside her, Hannah shifts anxiously. "And finally Councillor Everman, our resident healer. He has great knowledge of the healing properties different heroes posses, being the strongest healer the Association has ever had on record." Councillor Everman peers at them through his round glasses, offering them a slight nod of greeting. His eyes, old as they are, fall on Grace and she sees a twitch in his lips, the slightest crack betraying a smile. She struggles to maintain her own poker face. Everman has always been her favourite.
"So," Roberts is talking again, peering down at Hannah's file with interest. "I understand you are a new superhero, one we have not yet documented."
"That's right, Councillor."
"And why is that?" He looks up from the paper again to stare down at her, perplexed. "You are definitely old enough to have been categorised by us. We require, as I'm sure you know, all children with heroic ancestors to be documented before they turn 16. How old are you, Miss Hart?"
"I'm twenty, sir." Hannah is still worrying her hands under the table.
"And your parents are?"
"Not important."
Her response catches their attention, drawing the eyes of every council member up to look at her in surprise. A smile slips onto Grace's face and she feels a flush of pride run through her when Hannah straightens, placing her hands, now still, on the table in front of her and tightens her jaw, meeting their gazes straight on.
"Excuse me?" Roberts pushes his glasses down his nose to frown at her.
"My family have no gifts, Councillor."
A beat of silence follows her answer.
"Miss Hart, if this is meant to be some kind of joke..." Roberts looks thunderous, slowly rising from his chair and Grace stands hurriedly, holding out her hands.
"No! Please listen, she's telling the truth."
"I am!" Hannah insists, leaning across the table."I can explain, please!"
Roberts' eyes flash between them warily for a moment before he says cautiously. "You will vouch for her Miss Helbig?"
"On my honour," she replies sombrely. "She's telling the truth, I swear it."
"Very well then," he sinks slowly back into his chair and Hannah begins her tale as Grace moves back to her own seat.
Hannah is brief, summing up her experiences quickly and Grace tries to focus, tries to concentrate on what she's saying to refresh her memory on the details; however her attention is caught by Councillor Everman. His eyes stay locked on her throughout Hannah's story, unnoticed by anyone else in the room, in their fascination. She meets his gaze for a second and furrows her brows in confusion, but the man only stares at her, worry written into the lines contouring his cheeks and eyes.
"-Grace said that it wasn't normal for heroes to come from non-hero families." Her eyes slip back to Hannah again, nodding in agreement. "I mean, I know what happened to me wasn't normal," she continues, eyes darting between them nervously. "But I don't see why I shouldn't use the gifts I was given."
"It is indeed unorthodox." Roberts is gazing at her in amazement. "Investigations will have to be done into what the chemical was that the truck was carrying. If you would oblige to agree to some medical testing, we can find out exactly what is happening to you."
"Yeah, sure." Hannah shrugs, "but what about getting some, uh, turf? Like what Grace has?"
There's another pause and Grace watches, her stomach sinking, as they exchange frowns, glancing from one to the other.
"I don't think we can allow that," Roberts says, finally, shaking his head gravely. "We can't give you license to be a superhero."
"What?" Hannah stands, her chair scraping out noisily behind her. "Why?"
"You have no training," Councillor Marcus shrugs, as if the whole affair bores him. "No real experience."
"Well... I'll get experience!"
"While risking people's lives?" Roberts raises a sceptical eyebrow. "I don't think so, Miss Hart."
"But this is ridiculous!" Hannah slams her hands down hard on the table. "I have these powers, just like anyone who was born with them! Let me use them! Or I won't be doing any testing for you."
A tense silence follows her ultimatum and Grace sees Roberts' jaw clench tightly, gazing at her with hard eyes.
"You must understand," his voice is carefully measured, "I can't risk people's lives."
"Well find a way around it. Train me up." Hannah snaps instantly, grinding her teeth angrily.
"With Helbig," Everman's voice is scratchy and rough from down the table, almost trembling and they all turn to look at him in surprise. He clears his throat and sits up a little further, "let her train with Miss Helbig. She is an experienced hero and can take the girl under her wing. Let her shadow Miss Helbig and we will review their missions. If after two months she has improved, we can allow her to become a fully fledged hero."
Roberts purses his lips, looking between them for a moment before saying, slowly. "That could work."
"Wait, hang on," Grace feels a flare of panic in her stomach. "I'm not sure how well that will work."
"You said you vouched for her, didn't you Miss Helbig?" Roberts turns steady, unerring eyes in her.
"Well, yes of course-"
"Then you can be the one to take on the responsibility of training her." He looks over to where Hannah still stands, leaning over the table and breathing heavily. "The terms of agreement stand then, Miss Hart? We will allow you to shadow Miss Helbig and shadow her work, if after two months you have improved you will be given hero status. In return, we may carry out medical exams to find out how you came about your gifts. Do you agree to these terms?"
"Yes." Hannah nods once and Roberts slams shut the file, nodding once.
"Case dismissed. Oh, and Miss Hart?" Hannah looks up from where she's sliding out from behind the table. "Be sure to go and get a new suit fitted."
"Yes sir," Hannah nods once and practically skips from the room, the spring in her step nearly sending her through the roof.
Grace, however, follows with a slowly sinking heart.
This is going to be a lot of work.
Hi! I’m back! General apologies, university became very overwhelming. Leave me your thoughts, feelings and general ideas about this fic in my ask box. I like to talk about it. Also maybe like or reblog, if you want? I’m rusty at this. Thank you for reading, cupcakes! More fic coming soon!
Hartbig Superhero AU. Grace thinks Hannah might be the most irritating superhero she’s ever encountered, which is unfortunate because now she’s stuck with her. SFW, SFF. 3,879 words.
I’m indebted to dontlovemelikexo for her constant beta’ing, especially because most of my stuff is written at 2am, so it really needs it.
2
Grace flinches when Mamrie slams the cupboard door particularly hard, watching with trepidation as she stomps across the kitchen and sets her mug down heavily on the counter. With intense, harsh movements, she pours the boiling water from the kettle into her cup, stirring it as the liquid mixes with the coffee granules, sending an intoxicating scent floating through the room.
Grace could kill for a coffee but Mamrie looks like she's passed angry and is settling in on furious and the kitchen feels a little like her domain as Grace lingers by the counter, watching her.
Mamrie is very intensely not making eye contact with her.
Grace shuffles uncomfortably. Ironically enough, she isn't very good with conflict. Not like this anyway, not as Grace. Invisible Woman is much better at facing things head on, Grace is a lot more likely to skirt around issues, making mountains out of molehills until the whole thing explodes in her face. Somehow, she thinks Mamrie won't appreciate her running off to slip into her supersuit right now.
Mamrie picks up her coffee and takes a loud sip and her eyes finally meet Grace's over the edge of her coffee cup. Grace tries to look encouraging but the slowly raised eyebrow she gets in return seems to indicate that it isn't working as well as she'd hoped. Mamrie continues to drink for a moment, taking long sips until she finally sighs softly and sets the mug down on the counter, turning to face Grace.
"Explain to me again why there's a random girl lying on our couch?"
Grace's eyes flicker guiltily over to where Hannah lies, curled up on the couch with a bandage around her head and a blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon.
"I told you, she just needs a place to stay."
"Uh huh," Mamrie is highly sceptical, Grace can tell just by looking at her and she casts a longing glance at Mamrie's coffee, wishing that for once Mamrie wasn't so stubborn. "And how do we know her?"
"Well, you don't." Grace shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. "She's a friend of mine."
"Gracie," Mamrie's voice is soft, bellying her words. "You don't have any friends that I don't know."
Grace blushes a little, the pinkness creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. "That's... I mean I do have some."
"All of whom I know," Mamrie casts her eyes over her, analysing her for a moment and Grace feels almost naked, despite her sweatpants and oversized shirt. "Grace..." her eyes widen slightly, "she's not a hook up is she? Because if she is that's cool-"
"No!" She cuts through, her cheeks heating up even faster. "No, she's just a friend Mamrie! A friend who needed a place to stay, she hurt herself yesterday."
"Yeah, I can see that," Mamrie stands up on her tiptoes, leaning over the counter so she can peer down at where Hannah lies, breathing peacefully. "What happened?"
"She tripped and fell." Grace shrugs, "she'll be fine, I checked her over."
"Grace Helbig," Mamrie turns back to her, rolling her eyes, "professional doctor." The smile in her eyes dies down and when she speaks again her voice is sombre. "You get why I'm wary, right? I've never seen this girl before and now you're asking if she can stay with us for a week or so? It's kind of weird, Grace."
"Um, excuse me?"
They both spin around, turning to see Hannah standing beside the couch, chewing nervously on her lower lip as she looks between them, eyes as wide and honest as some sort of woodland creature.
"Hannah, how are you feeling?" Grace steps around the counter, half reaching to make sure Hannah isn't about to fall, half in an attempt to place a buffer between the redhead and their guest.
"Um, much better thanks," Hannah smiles a little weakly, rubbing a hand over her eyes and suppressing a yawn. "My head hurts a bit."
"I'm not surprised," Grace ushers her forward, helping her sit on a barstool. "You have a lump on the back of your head."
"I'm Mamrie," the redhead holds out a hand and Hannah looks at her a little apprehensively as she takes her hand, shaking it heartily.
"Hannah Hart."
Mamrie cocks an eyebrow and Grace can see that she has been tripped up, an unwilling smile twisting her lips upwards as she looks at Hannah with renewed interest. "Hart? As in H-A-R-T? Me too."
"Mamrie Hart?" Hannah's eyebrows shoot up and she beams at her, "Wow! That's so cool dude! What a coincidence!"
"Uh, yeah," Grace watches them uncertainly, leaning a hip against the counter. "Cool."
"How much of that conversation did you hear?" Mamrie rests her elbows against the counter as Hannah looks abruptly guilty.
"Enough," she admits, shrugging awkwardly and her eyes fix to Mamrie as she speaks, "but listen, I know you're worried about me and I totally get it. I wouldn't be happy with a stranger crashing in my apartment either, y'know? But I swear, I'm totally normal. I'll pay rent while I'm here and I'll be out of your hair as soon as I can find an apartment that isn't going to bankrupt me."
Mamrie runs her eyes over the girl, considering her carefully and Grace exchanges a worried glance with Hannah as they wait for Mamrie's decision.
"Fine." Mamrie says at last, watching with curious eyes as Grace lets out a soft, relieved breath. "As long as you pay rent. You don't seem too weird."
Grace bites her lip to stop from smiling.
If only she knew.
---
"So we're really like roomies now, huh?"
Hannah is practically skipping beside her. For a girl who almost suffered a concussion she seems to have far too much of a spring in her step, Grace thinks as she wanders alongside the girl, hands deep in her pocket and eyes fixed to the floor as she shoulders past strangers in the fresh April air.
Her sensors never really seem to switch off. It's irritating being so aware of what everyone around her is doing, like a niggling in the back of her mind that she can't get rid of. New York is a big city and people are always in danger, so the uneasy, worried tug in her stomach never quite goes away, lingering for as long as she can remember. She's learnt to ignore it by now, learnt to prioritise her life because being a superhero is a full time job but it doesn't quite pay the rent and she can't just drop everything to run off and save people. Life is full of accidents and uncertainties, if she swooped in to rescue this city every time something went wrong they would never learn and even worse, people could start asking questions about who and what she is.
All in all, on her days off Grace would prefer to stay in, but today Hannah is eager to see her new hometown and more importantly Mamrie has her new boyfriend over, a guy with a strange German name that Grace can't pronounce.
The redhead had pushed her out of the door with a nod to Hannah and the words, "keep her occupied, help her find a job."
It's true that Hannah doesn't seem to do well without activity. She's only been in their apartment for two days and she's already rearranged their DVDs into alphabetical order, scrubbed the bathroom floor and done every piece of laundry they have. At that point, Mamrie had to admit that she might be an asset.
"Yeah, we are." Grace sidesteps, dodging a hurrying man and reaches out to grasp the arm of an old lady about to cross the street, tilting up her chin as a taxi speeds past. "Careful."
Hannah is smiling when Grace turns back to her, but Grace only lets out a short huff, shrugging her jacket further around her shoulders and moving swiftly onwards.
"So how is this going to work? Does anyone actually know who you are?" Hannah hurries to keep step with her, matching her long strides with several of her own smaller ones.
"No," Grace pauses at the next set of lights, turning to fix Hannah with a hard stare, "and no one can know, understand? Especially not Mamrie."
"Mamrie doesn't know?" Hannah's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "How have you managed to keep it a secret?"
"With a lot of difficulty," the lights change and they start forward, "and you're not about to screw all of that up for me."
"But surely she's going to get suspicious," Hannah is forced to duck behind her by the swelling crowds, but she raises her voice to keep speaking. "What with both of us going out together? We'll be away at strange times of the day and stuff, she's going to start asking questions."
"No." Grace turns abruptly, coming to a halt and Hannah almost stumbles into her, stopping just inches away from her and looking up in confusion, shifting away when the people behind her grumble.
"Grace," she nods towards the sidewalk, "keep going."
"No," Grace shakes her head, feet planted firmly on the ground. "You listen to me right now, we are not working together, we're not partners or any other ridiculous little theory you have in your head."
"What?" Hannah demands, hurrying to catch up with her as Grace begins her long strides again. "Wait! That's not fair!" She catches Grace's arm, tugging her to a stop. "I want to help! I have just as much of a right as you!"
Anger rushes through Grace and she pulls herself from Hannah's grip, tearing her arm away from small fingers. "Actually," she all but growls, "you don't have any right." She steps closer to the smaller girl, taking a vindictive pleasure in the way that she cowers a little, leaning backwards. "Not only do you have no right to just sweep on in here when I have been looking after this city for years, but you have to be assigned an area to protect." She spins on her heel, her irritation pushing her to walk so fast that Hannah almost has to run to catch up with her.
"Hey! Wait, I'm sorry!"
"You will be if you don't shut up soon." She mutters through gritted teeth and Hannah reaches out to touch her again but Grace rips herself away. "Don't touch me."
"Sorry, sorry!" Hannah holds her hands up, backing a step away. "Look Central Park is just a block up, why don't we walk through there? It's a little quieter and more peaceful."
Hannah's right, irritatingly enough, Grace feels a lot better when she's off the busy streets and in the relative quiet and peace of the park. The paths aren't too crowded and as they walk further and further they start to lose people, until Hannah finally says, softly.
"I didn't mean to upset you."
She feels immediately guilty, sighing heavily as her eyes flicker over to where Hannah walks beside her, head hanging dejectedly.
"Yeah, I uh... overreacted. Sorry."
"No, it's fine," Hannah shrugs off her apologies, "I didn't realise that there were rules. I suppose it was pretty selfish of me to just swoop in and claim this turf as my own."
"Pretty," Grace agrees easily, shaking her head a little as she lets out a long breath, willing herself to be calm. When she next speaks her voice is awkwardly jovial, "didn't your parents teach you anything about the Association? They aren't about to just let you fly on in here and start saving people." The joke is oddly stilted and Hannah doesn't laugh, instead squinting up against the sun at her, forehead wrinkled with confusion.
"What do you mean?"
"Well the Association are the ones who assign turf," Grace looks at her strangely, perplexed by her misunderstanding. "You must know that."
"Um, not so much." Hannah shrugs, cringing a little. "I'm kind of new to all of this." Her hands slip into her pockets and she kicks at the ground as they walk, scuffing her shoes.
"Didn't your parents teach you anything about this stuff?" Grace's exasperation is clear and she is taken aback when Hannah comes to an abrupt halt, turning away from her on the pretence of leaning against the railing of the small bridge they're crossing and peering at the water down below. "Hannah?"
"I'm not really on... speaking terms with my parents."
"Oh," she swallows for a moment, stay a few paces behind the girl, "sorry," she offers lamely and then continues. "But they must have told you stuff when you were growing up, when you first started accidentally lighting stuff on fire and throwing embers in class, right?"
"My parents don't know." Hannah's shoulders hunch, as if she is expecting some sort of angry retort and when none comes, she slowly uncurls herself, turning to peek nervously over her shoulder at Grace.
Grace runs a hand through tangled locks, pushing her hair back and scrunching it up tight for a moment before letting it fall and at the same time the tension leaves her shoulders and propels her forwards, to lean a few paces away against the railing of the bridge.
"How did you keep it from them? Did they never tell you they were gifted?"
"No, you don't understand," Hannah takes a shuddering breath and steadies herself. "Grace, they don't have powers."
She gapes at her for a second, her mouth hanging open as she stares. "They... were normal? They how...? Why do you have powers?"
"I was in a car crash," Hannah curls further in on herself again and Grace braces her herself. She's heard these kinds of stories a million times and she knows they never end well. "It was night, I was tired and I was just driving through the desert in the middle of nowhere. Some... thing hit me. A big truck, a container. It was driving manically, out of control and it just whacked into the side of me. The container burst and I was crushed by it, drenched by the stuff inside of it. It burnt," a shudder runs through her, shaking her body. "I thought I was dead. Then the next thing I know I was waking up. I had to drag myself out and I walked down the road until I hitchhiked with some couple to the nearest town. The hospital treated me for concussion but..." she flexes her fingers, eyes wide and unbelieving. "I should have died. I was flattened by that thing. It should have broken every bone in my body. The next thing I know, I'm floating and I'm super strong and I have these little flares of fire."
Grace's stomach is turning, rolling with fear and amazement and she's pretty sure she's staring at Hannah like she's an exhibit in a zoo. "You weren't born with it." She breathes finally and Hannah slowly shakes her head.
"But I want to use it," she insists, her eyes brightening a little. "I have this gift, I have to embrace it!"
"I don't know what they'll say..." Grace gazes down at her, "you're unlike anything I've ever heard of."
"What who will say?" Hannah's brows push together. "You mentioned an Association? What's that?"
"It's crazy that you don't know," Grace lets out a small, incredulous breath, but at Hannah's irritated glance she continues, "the Association is the board that governs us."
"Us? There are more heroes?"
"More heroes?" Grace scoffs, shaking her head, "there's a hero on every corner of the earth, protecting someone, somewhere."
"Then why don't we hear more about you... us?" Hannah corrects herself.
"That's where the Association comes in," Grace shrugs, "one of their roles is to protect our identities and stop people from getting to curious. Otherwise we'd never be able to do anything."
"So the Association are like... a union? A government?" Hannah's lets out a small, unbelieving laugh. "And it's just called the Association? God, you guys are so pretentious."
"No!" Grace rolls her eyes at her, "that's just short hand. Its full name is the Association of Superheroes and Safeguards of Earth Security."
Hannah stares at her for a moment, her mouth hanging before she finally says, slowly, "so... ASSES?"
"What?" Grace snaps as Hannah bursts into laughter, almost keeling over where she stands. "No! Hannah this is serious!"
"It's called ASSES." Hannah reaches up to wipe a tear from her eye and Grace can't help the smile that slips onto her face, pressing her lips together to try to suppress it as she rolls her eyes, grabbing Hannah by the scruff of the neck to push her onto the path.
"Yeah, yeah, well done nit wit. Keep walking."
"Okay, I'm alright," there are still tears streaming down Hannah's cheeks and past her grin as she hurries to catch up. "Tell me more about it. I promise not to laugh."
Grace eyes her sceptically, but finally relents. "It's run by a council of heroes, the oldest and wisest of our comrades. They look after heroes; provide care and equipment where it's needed. There aren't many places you can get such flexible Kevlar coloured like that." Grace looks at her curiously. "What's your suit made out of?"
Hannah smiles sheepishly and shrugs. "Old Lyrca?"
Grace has to laugh at that.
----
Hannah has an alarmingly way of charming anyone she meets. There's something about her that seems to catch people's attention and hold it; something in her easy smile and the way she waves her hands around as she speaks. She's currently working her charms on the owner of the small book shop turned cafe, Grace is watching from a few metres away as the man laughs and nods and offers to show her the family recipe for his special fruit cake.
She smiles in spite of herself, bemused by the girl's strange attraction and turns back to one of the many bookshelves lining the wall. She doesn't really read, but there's something very satisfying about the way her fingers run over the old spines. She finds one on Old Norse myth and pulls it out curiously, blowing dust from the cover before she opens it, flicking through a few pages randomly.
"Mythology, huh?"
The voice startles her and she slams the book shut with a bang, turning to look at the tall stranger standing behind her. He's nearly the same height as her, with dark hair and soft blue eyes and he holds up his hands in surrender, clutching his cloth tightly.
"At ease."
"Oh, sorry," she can feel the heat creeping onto her cheeks, panic spreading up from her stomach and clutching at her heart.
"Mythology?" He asks again, indicating to the book with a small, polite smile. "Are you interested?"
"Oh, uh, no I was just looking." She fumbles with the book for a second until she can finally hook it back in the shelf. "I'm here with my friend while she hands out résumés."
"Oh cool, that's nice of you." The guy nods over at where Hannah and the manager are still talking animatedly. "Looks like she's doing well."
"Yeah well," a small, wry smile slips onto her face, "she has a way with people."
"Good of you to traipse round the city with her," he steps away, leaning to whip the cloth from his apron and she watches as he casts long, broad strokes over the table beside them, blue eyes smiling up at her.
"She's new to the area," she can feel her cheeks heating again, tangling her fingers in front of her nervously to stop herself from fidgeting. "Plus she's my roommate. Couldn't let her get lost."
"The city is confusing if you don't know it," he agrees easily, flicking off his cloth and tucking it back into his apron. "One time I got so lost I had to sleep on the subway." His laugh is nice, Grace thinks, soft and casual and she smiles, chuckling once obliging.
"How did that work out for you?"
"Got my jeans stolen by a homeless guy." He shrugs, rolling his eyes as she laughs again. "Hey," a large hand is held out in her direction. "I'm Mike by the way."
"Grace," she curls tentative fingers around his, shaking it once.
"Hey," Hannah approaches from a few paces away, smiling at them both as she edges closer to Grace through the packed tables. "You okay?"
"Good, yeah," she gestures awkwardly towards Mike, "this is Mike, he works here."
"Oh, hi," Hannah's smile is big and friendly and the hand she holds out for him to shake is confident. "Good to meet you dude, I'm Hannah."
"Hi," Mike nods towards the counter, "seems pretty obvious that you'll be working here soon."
"You think?" Hannah's smile only grows as she shrugs uncertainly. "I hope so, this place is great."
"Yeah, I haven't seen him talk to anyone new for that long in... about three years." Mike laughs, shaking his head and bringing a hand up to rub over the back of his neck. "You're in, don't worry."
"Awesome! Guess I'll see you soon then." Hannah nods at him again, offering a wave as she starts to weave through the tables again and Grace lingers for a moment, casting him a shy smile.
"Um, see you again, maybe."
"I hope so," his answering smile is tentative and nervous and she can feel his eyes on her until she's out of the door and standing in the street beside Hannah.
"Well that was successful," Hannah seems irritably smug, grinning knowingly up at her and Grace sighs softly before starting down the street.
"Yeah, you got a job, Mamrie will be thrilled."
"And you got a date," Hannah nudges her gently in the side and Grace sidesteps away, glaring down at her.
"No I didn't."
"You didn't get his number?" Hannah's expression drops, aghast. "But he was so into you!"
"You don't know that," she retorts easily, rolling her eyes. "He was just being nice."
"Yeah, in hope that you would go to dinner with him!" Hannah throws her hands in the air, exasperated.
"Hannah," she pauses, pulling Hannah up short, "I don't have the time for a boyfriend, my life is basically unravelling right now anyway. I'm inches away from losing my job, which means I won't be able to pay for my apartment and Mamrie is pretty much my only friend. Adding a boyfriend to that mess and trying to hide..." her eyes flicker out nervously to the people surrounding them and she drops her voice, "the thing from him... it would never work and you know it."
"Maybe you just need to loosen up, Grace." Hannah is insistent, trotting along beside her when she starts up her long paces forward again. "Be a little reckless."
"Yeah, I don't do reckless." She replies, succinctly and from the corner of her eyes she sees Hannah roll her eyes.
"Yeah, you don't say."
----
Sorry this is late, I really appreciation your patience. A few people have asked about an update schedule so I’m gonna tentatively say once a week for now, because I’m working on a lot of other fic and I also have a ton of work to be doing. Leave me your thoughts and feelings in my ask box, I love talking to you guys!
