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Her throne seems to embrace her as she flops down into it like a child seeking for motherly comfort. Anya would know what to say – she misses her, misses the go for it, you’re the commander, you can talk to her and even the harder-than-they-should-be slaps she’d get when she was being foolish.
Sinking further against the soft leather that enclosed the back of the chair, all Lexa has room to feel is regret – maybe there’s a bit of her left for embarrassment to fill, too.
Caring about her ally was one thing – a dangerous thing on itself, an idiotic thing – but telling said ally she cared about her had been more weakness than she had allowed herself to show since Costia. And even then, it had been different, it had been further into their relationship. It had been when they were in a relationship, instead of what could almost be called a business transaction.
She had been weak, she had been teary and with the heart swollen to twice its normal size, she had said more than she should. And she knows Clarke did see through it all.
Lexa replays the scene in her head over and over again, taking note of everything she should’ve done differently. She should not have backed down, let herself been cornered – Clarke is small and Lexa knows her years in the Ark haven’t done much for the muscles in her arms. She shouldn’t have let anyone, much less a Sky Person, talk to her in such tone. She should’ve been more emphatic when she told Clarke to get out. She shouldn’t have said she cared about Clarke, that she had worried herself sick wishing her wellbeing when she came back for her mother.
She shouldn’t have allowed Clarke to knock her walls and find a way in.
Nails dig into sweaty palms as she all but tastes bile, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat as she wills herself to stop. thinking. about it.
They were at war.
Romance had no place in times like this.
It takes her more than a few deep steadying breaths to get her heartbeat down to a decent rhythm, get her eyes dry, get rid of the tight knot that kept her from breathing. Lexa grabs hold of her mirror – the one she only uses to apply her war paint, the one Anya gave her after telling stories about how people used to have them all over their houses, back when people did have individual housings – and looks at her reflection. The war paint is firmly in place, as it was designed to survive water and sweat, but she has to wipe away a new dip on it.
A tear had ran down her cheek without her permission. And she hates herself for it, but all she wants is to let more follow its path.
Getting herself back into her Commander persona – where her feelings aren’t, and all she cares about is her people – Lexa wonders. She has to make things right with Clarke, mend the crack her confession has brought to surface.
As she gets up to send one of her guards for Clarke, a blur of blonde hair whips through the makeshift doors of her tent, flapping it back in place as soon as she’s inside, much like it had been when she had done earlier, without dragging a struggling body with her this time.
“Clarke,” she feels her throat constricting again and she’s only half surprised she has to fight back tears at the mere sight of the Sky Person. She figures, as Anya used to tell her, after keeping it all in, one single fissure was enough to bring it all tumbling down.
All but waving her off dismissively, Clarke strides across the room until the tip of her feet almost touches Lexa’s – who stands her ground, decided on not backing down this time. The Commander has a speech planned, or at least outlined as she thought she’d have more time, and she’s about to start saying how much she does not care about her safety and how her blue eyes do not keep her up later than she would admit – because Clarke Griffin does not have a hold on her; she’s about to talk, when Clarke kisses her.
It’s almost innocent, the way Clarke closes her lips around her bottom one, sucking slightly before adjusting her mouth again, soft lips sliding against chapped ones. Lexa is stunned – she has the decency to close her eyes, but that’s as far as her body will cooperate with her – and shivers when Clarke brushes her hair over her shoulder, setting the other hand in between her shoulder blades.
She kisses back – of course, she kisses Clarke back. It taste like novelty and dreams and she almost scoffs at her own thoughts but Clarke Griffin, the girl who came from the sky, is kissing her and nothing can ruin it.
Lexa breaks the kiss – and hates herself for it – and steps back, only to hit her throne with her legs. She needs space, she needs to think and she cannot do that with Clarke breathing on her cheek, eyes glued to her swollen lips that match her own.
“Clarke,” her voice sounds choked but she doesn’t clear it, “You must forget what I said earlier, as it is prejudicial to our alliance.”
“Screw the alliance, I want you,” Clarke bites back, calling Lexa out on her lie with her wide eyes and raised eyebrows, “I care about you too, Lexa.”
It’s silly, it’s childish, but Lexa smiles, “You do?”
Lexa remembers overhearing one of the Sky People, someone she didn’t bother learning the name or memorizing the face, telling a large group about how much of a party girl – Lexa didn’t quite understand the term, but she had an idea of its meaning – Clarke was, and the absurd things they had done back in the Ark, something about licking moonshine from her navel, before Clarke turned “so hard” – those had been the words the girl had used.
Right now, as Clarke closes the space between them once again and tucks her hair behind her ear, she doesn’t seem so hard. Lexa herself doesn’t feel like she carries the weight of the world in her back anymore.
She indulges herself for a moment, reaching for Clarke as the blonde nods, only to let go as if fire had touched her.
“You shouldn’t,” she schools her features and falls back into a stoic mask, to which Clarke not so discreetly rolls her eyes, “It’s weakness. One of us might die in combat, and caring about each other would mak-“ Lexa doesn’t finish her sentence as Clarke kisses her again, pushing her until she falls on the throne.
This time, as Clarke waves her body until she’s sitting on her lap, Lexa lets her.
It had been different with Costia, almost accidental. Clarke knows what she’s doing – she must know, no one would casually scratch her neck with just the right pressure – and she knows what she wants, and she’s going for it.
And Lexa lets her.
For once, she gives up control and relishes in the warm body against hers as Clarke kisses her until her lips are tingling.
Lexa lets her.
It’ll ruin her and she’ll find herself crying when it all falls apart, like she knows it will. Clarke kisses the curve of her neck and Lexa buries her hands in golden curls, enjoying how the tongue swirling against her skin is making her forget about their imminent walk towards war grounds.
Clarke will ruin her.
Lexa lets her.