It’s been five minutes. Five minutes of watching the long hand travel around the clock. Five times. Clarke blinks and pries her eyes away from the wall, to rest them on her folded hands in her lap. Alright.
“You can do this,” she mutters to herself. “Easy.”
She stares at the white marks on the back of her hands for a moment when she unclasps her hands to put them flat on her thighs.
“No biggie. She’ll be back tomorrow. I’m going to…” Clarke falls silent. When did she start talking to herself? Eat. She needs to eat. Food. She’s going to have some food. Lexa made something, she’d told her, specially for her night alone. It looks delicious, whatever it is, and Clarke eats it cold, straight from the container, and dumps it in the sink when she’s done. What now?
She slowly makes her way back into the living room and flops down on the couch. Her eyes wander back to the clock. 17 minutes. Oh god. Something hurts in her chest, something huge and cold and empty and it brings tears to her eyes. What the hell? She reaches for her phone. Just a quick message.
I miss you.
She types, deletes.
Thinking of you.
Delete.
Why aren’t you here with me???
???????
Delete, delete, delete.
She tosses the phone into the corner of the couch, throws herself down in the other and pulls up her legs. 22 minutes.
She lets the tears flow. They’re always together. Have been for weeks. Every night. And it was only last week that Lexa said the words Clarke had longed to hear for…weeks. Months. Forever, it seemed. The relief is still palpable. She sighs, dramatically, into a pillow. She’s being ridiculous and very aware of it but still, she misses Lexa so much that it makes her stomach clench. Which isn’t such a nice feeling since it’s full of food that would have fed four. She sits up a bit too suddenly and burps. Fuck.
Clarke reaches for her cell phone again to open Spotify and her library, scrolling through the playlists. Mellow…sad…slow…classical…she wants none of it. The app suggests something called “Happy Pop” – which isn’t normally her taste, but Clarke selects it anyway and turns it up. The first song almost makes her smile, the second manages it until she stops to listen to the lyrics.
I said, ooh, I'm blinded by the lights
No, I can't sleep until I feel your touch
I said, ooh, I'm drowning in the night
Oh, when I'm like this, you're the one I trust
How on earth is that a happy song? Clarke pulls up the photo album on her phone. There’s a folder titled “Lexa”. Smiling Lexa. Sleepy Lexa. Lexa in the kitchen. Lexa by the river. Lexa and Clarke grinning like idiots. She remembers that one. Taken only a few days ago on the very couch she’s sitting on. After their innocent cuddling had turned into something a little more daring. Lips kiss-swollen, eyes deep and gleaming, both ruffled and happy. So happy. So very…exactly like she isn’t feeling right now. Clarke wipes at her face angrily, catching a tear that rolled out of her eye. Lexa wore the same top when she left earlier.
42.
Alright. She’s got this.
Five minutes later, Clarke is in the bathroom. Music is blaring from all available speakers and boy, let the neighbors come if they dare. Lexa loves that she has a bathtub and because Lexa loves it, Clarke got her some nice fragrant bubble baths. Because Lexa loves bubbles too. Clarke loves Lexa and she can’t stop touching her. She has the softest skin and she smells so good. This bathtub and the bottles arranged around it are part of the reason why.
The water is too hot when she gets it, almost scalding her skin, but it takes away the emptiness she feels. God, you’re pathetic, she thinks, leaning back into the bubbly foam. There’s too much of it and it makes Clarke feel like a kid, but that fits. She’s acting like a sulking child after all. Inhaling deeply, Clarke reaches for a skin oil that sits on the window sill. Apply on dry skin and rub in gently, it says. She pours some into her palm and rubs it on her wet arm. Indian rose and sweet almond and suddenly, Lexa is right there with her.
Minute 31 into the next hour finds Clarke in the bedroom, wrapped in the largest towel she could find, carrying a box of chocolates in one hand and dragging the large pillows from the bed with the other. She takes them into the living room, alight with candles by now. Another trip to the bedroom and she’s dressed in her oldest, most comfortable pair of sweat pants and an oversized sweater. Back in the living room, she drags the seat cushions from the couch, arranges them like a little island in the middle of the room, throws more pillows on. Finally, after a little consideration and a last trip to the bedroom, she adds the duvet.
How dare she? How dare she leave her alone? Clarke huffs as she climbs into her pillow fort of sorts. She’s still being pathetic and she’s being childish and she’s being all the things she thought she would never be because she’s a fucking adult. But she hasn’t been this in love in a while. They’ve allowed the feeling to consume them, she knows that. Spending all this time together as if there is nothing else. There isn’t, not for Clarke. Not right now. She wants Lexa. She wants her here, now, with her.
Her stomach clenches again, hints of heartburn churning behind her breastbone. Chocolate is really not the best idea, but she shoves two pieces in her mouth anyway and chews.
If she’s going to drown in her sorrow, she might as well do it properly. Clarke laughs bitterly, rightly so, at herself. It’s good that Lexa can’t see her now. That she won’t be back tonight. They talked about this and Clarke told Lexa it would be no problem at all. She was certain, too, that it wouldn’t be. That was before her inner baby took over though and it’s still wailing at the top of its lungs.
Clarke rubs her forehead, then pulls the duvet over her head and the box of chocolates inside. Full throttle misery, here she comes. In the darkness, half suffocating but refusing to let in some air, Clarke closes her eyes. And chews. And thinks of Lexa.
“Babe? Are you in there?”
Clarke groans.
“Clarke?”
“Lexa?” The sound echoes inside her little cave and Clarke throws the duvet off. “Lexa?”
“Babe? What the hell?”
“Lexa! What the fuck? You said you weren’t coming back.”
She’s beautiful, as always. Biting her lip, desperately trying to stifle a grin, and it brings tears to Clarke’s eyes again.
“You were not supposed to see me like this.”
“What have you done?” Lexa drops to her knees next to Clarke, pulling more of the duvet away. “Baby.” She chuckles softly. “You smell like a perfume store.”
“Yeah, uh..”
“You have something...,” Lexa reaches for her face, wipes her thumb along Clarke’s lips and puts it in her mouth, sucking slowly. “Chocolate.”
“Yeah, I had…some.”
“The whole box?” Lexa stares at the empty box next to Clarke.
“Maybe.”
“Clarke.”
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too. That’s why I came back here instead of going to my place. I missed you too, you little idiot. Move over.”
She kisses Clarke softly, making a show of slowly licking more chocolate stains from her lips, then turns over the pillow Clarke used to clean her fingers and pulls her into her arms.
“I’m my own person, you know,” Lexa says softly.
“I know. I am too.”
“Oh, you are,” Lexa confirms, chuckling gently. “You really are. Some kind of person.”
It makes Clarke laugh, for the first time in – she glances at the clock – roughly 4 hours.
“You were not supposed to see me like this,” she admits once more. “I wanted to be all adult for you and I would have made it by tomorrow.”
“You are exactly what I want,” Lexa whispers, pulling the duvet up over both their heads, kissing the last of the emptiness away. “Let’s go to sleep.”
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