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The halls of the Mount Weather are ringing with noise. It is, by far, the loudest that Clarke has ever heard the place. The citizens were always so demure, stuck in their pristinely cultivated traditions. They were surrounded by the world’s most precious artifacts, yet were little more than on display themselves, never able to escape the confines of their museum. They never will, Clarke realizes, thinking about the surviving citizens her people have imprisoned on one of the levels that has remained sealed from the toxic air.
The mountain’s soldiers are all dead, their blood still pools on the floor, a gruesome reminder of the only hours old battle. But they managed to save most of the mountain men’s children, and the vacant eyed citizens that lived so long with this knowledge of their twisted culture but did nothing to stop it.
Clarke wants to hate them, but she finds she can’t as she looks in on them later, exchanging a nod with Marcus who is attempting to calm them, to incite some sort of order among the last survivors of the people of Mount Weather.
Clarke runs into Abby outside the medical bay. They hover awkward and unsure, she reaches out her hands, palm up. Abby’s face flickers from uncertainty to pure motherly concern and she grab’s Clarke’s hands, pulling her to her and pressing kiss after kiss into Clarke’s hairline.
Clarke feels herself soften for the first time since the missile, folding herself into her mother’s embrace, clinging to her familiar smell and the warmth of her.
“You did well, Clarke,” Abby says, pulling away to cup her face. “You saved them.”
Clarke thinks of them men and women she saw fall next to her in battle, of the grounders that lay still on the floor after the first wave, pierced by bullets that their padding did little to prevent. She thinks of her friends that were kept within these walls, bodies invaded and tossed aside. “Not all of them,” she says leaning into her mother’s touch, “not enough, I could have done more, I could have—”
She is cut off by her mom pressing a hard kiss to her forehead. “Breathe, Clarke. This fight is over.”
The words remind Clarke of Lexa and she remembers why she had been heading to the infirmary to begin with. She pulls back from her mother, seeking to clear her head and retain some semblance of the wall she has built in these harsh days of leadership. “Have you seen Lexa?” she asks, trying not to let her voice waver, “I’m sure her people are looking for her. Octavia said she hadn’t seen her since the first wave and I just—”
Abby cuts her off again, this time with a hand to her arm, “She is in the infirmary with just minor wounds.” She looks at Clarke clearly puzzled by her rush of words and poorly hidden unease, “This alliance will hold,” she says assuredly as though that is Clarke’s major concern. It should be, Clarke realizes then, shaking her head slightly to clear her mind, her concern should be the well being of her people, first and foremost.
“Yes,” she says choppy and nervous, craning her neck to see into the infirmary, “good, that is good.”
Abby laughs a little and gives her a push, “go see your friends.”
Clarke pushes through the door and immediately sees Bellamy talking to one of the surviving 100. He is bruised and battered, his arm held at a strange angle to his body, but he stands tall and strong. Clarke releases a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding, letting out a cry at the sight of him. He turns at the noise, and his face breaks out into a smile when he sees her. He stretches out his one good arm to her and she runs into him, burying her head in his chest and wrapping both of her arms around his neck.
“Happy to see me, Princess?” he asks, all charm and smirk, even as his arm so obviously pains him.
“Just glad you aren’t dead. For convenience purposes, obviously.” She replies, unable to hide her smile as she pushes away from him.
“Obviously,” he agrees, still grinning, a hand tugging at the bottom of her jacket. “We have an audience,” he adds jerking his head to one of the nearby white framed beds.
Clarke looks over and sees Lexa watching them. The commander is perched on the edge of the bed, one leg outstretched while one of the Sky people kneels by her foot. He is wrapping a bandage tightly around her calf, the fabric of her left pant leg cut, frayed and uneven, just above her knee. Clarke exhales a breath that had caught in her throat at the sight of her, taking in the blood that drips from a shallow cut down the length of Lexa’s arm and a bruise on her right cheekbone. She is alive. She is alive and glaring at her and Bellamy with an intensity that shouldn’t be possible after such a strenuous battle.
Bellamy looks at Clarke curiously, rubbing a large hand over her shoulder. “You gonna go say hi, Princess? Or are you and the commander just going to stare?”
Clarke wrinkles her nose at him, trying to look annoyed, but it’s hard when she knows that Lexa is alive and Bellamy is healthy and they won. They won the war, the mountain is under her control, and for the first time in decades the cages are empty.
She raises onto her tiptoes until she is eye to eye with Bellamy, relishing in the warmth of his expression. She presses a kiss to his cheek and tugs one of his curls between her fingers, “I’m going to say hi,” she says.
He lightly pulls on her blonde hair in return, “probably a good idea before she comes over here and stabs me.” Clarke shoots him a confused look before walking over to where Lexa still sprawls.
The healer has moved onto the next bed, and Lexa looks away from Clarke as she approaches, tugging half-heartedly on her new bandage. Her armor has been shucked off onto the floor, her red cape draping onto the ground as well. Her sword is un-slung from her back, hanging over the bed’s corner post. Without her armor and weapons she looks smaller, young and slim, war paint smeared and expression pouty.
“I see you found your boy,” Lexa says to Clarke without looking up, “he looks as though he is well.”
“He is,” Clarke answers, slightly confused at the way that Lexa avoids her eye contact, something she has never done. “And so are you, right?” Clarke half reaches out a hand as though to touch Lexa’s bruised cheek, “you look—” she hesitates, unsure of the word that the commander will most like herself describes as “—strong,” she finishes, “you look very strong.”
Lexa half smiles at this, looking up finally and catching Clarke’s gaze. “I am very strong,” she agrees, with a tone that leads Clarke to think she is teasing. Such humor is not common from the often stoic leader of the grounders, and Clarke realizes how much relief Lexa must be feeling to have finally freed her people.
“Well then,” Clarke says, continuing their dialogue after another prolonged bout of eye contact, “you must be in good enough health to walk around with me.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, instead reaching down and grasping Lexa around the wrist, hauling her to a standing position. Lexa looks as though she wants to be annoyed by the touch, but instead allows herself to be led out of the room. Bellamy gives Clarke a mock salute as they push out the door.
They walk without a destination in mind. Clarke is content simply knowing Lexa is there, they reach the end of the hallway and take a left. The halls stretch empty and echoing before them. All the grounders and sky people have congregated either by the infirmary or in the cafeteria. The two groups actually mingling, joined in mutual respect and the after-battle haze.
“Many people are dead,” Clarke reminds herself under her breath as she surveys the empty halls.
“But we are free,” Lexa answers. Clarke jolts back to reality, not having quite realized she spoke aloud. She also realizes that she still holds Lexa’s wrist in her left hand, her thumb absently stroking the skin of Lexa’s wrist as she walks. Lexa looks over at her, and she can feel her cheeks warming and begins to loosen her grip. Instead of making her let go, Lexa turns her wrist in Clarke’s hand, moving her fingers until they link with Clarke’s. Lexa tugs her until they are walking side by side, hands joined in between them.
They don’t talk, and Clarke reminds herself to keep breathing as Lexa moves her thumb against the sensitive plush of Clarke’s palm. Lexa begins curiously looking into the rooms as they pass, eyes wide and observant, her mouth falling open a little when she sees something that piques her interest. She looks so much younger to Clarke, more like the teenage girl that she truly is, one that wasn’t called to rule her people before she was old enough to raise a sword.
One room makes Lexa fully stop, dropping Clarke’s hand as she turn suddenly to get a better look. Her brow furrows and she steps closer to the room. Clarke wants to laugh at the way Lexa clenches her jaw when she still fails to figure out the room’s purpose. Lexa turns back to Clarke, gesturing at the room, obviously wanting to ask but not wanting to seem ignorant.
Clarke allows herself a small huff of laughter as she steps through the doorway, tugging Lexa behind her. The room is entirely covered by white tiles, with small circular grates in the floor, and spigots attached near the top of the walls about four feet apart.
“It’s the showers, Lexa,” Clarke says glancing over to see the other girl’s reaction. She waits to see realization dawn on Lexa’s face, but instead only sees her brow furrow further, “Y’know? Like, for getting clean?”
“Showers?” Lexa says, rolling the word on her tongue while looking with narrowed eyes at the spigots, “I do not see how these would clean you.”
Clarke pulls Lexa further into the room, turning the knob that is fixated at just below eye level. The spigot hisses and coughs before water falls in a harsh spray to the tile floor. Lexa moves a little closer to the water as Clarke explains, “You stand under it and uh,” she moves her hand around in front of herself, “wash and stuff.”
Lexa sticks her hand in the stream and then pulls it back, “It’s warm,” she says, her mouth pulling a little bit as she makes a face.
“Yeah, well. You don’t usually take cold showers unless—” Clarke stops then, face turning a little red.
Lexa glances at her curiously while cautiously moving her hand underneath the stream again, “Unless what?” she asks as the water runs over her hand.
“Unless you are feeling, uh, overwhelmed? I guess?” Clarks shakes her head dismissively and tries to think of a way to change the subject. She is coming up empty and Lexa is opening her mouth to possibly ask a follow up question and Clarke panics. She reaches underneath the spray and flicks a handful of water right at Lexa’s face.
Lexa recoils back, looking down disbelieving, blinking to clear her eyes before raising her eyes to glare at Clarke. Clarke looks at her and sputters out a laugh at Lexa’s face paint that now drips entirely down her face, running in rivulets down her neck and into her clothes. “You will regret that, Clarke of the Sky people,” Lexa growls. She grabs at Clarke’s arms while Clarke squeals and attempts to twist away. She is unsuccessful and Lexa forces her under the spray, fingers digging into her arms. Clarke spits out a mouthful of water as she struggles free from Lexa’s grasp. She expects the commander to be glaring still, but instead she actually seems to be smiling, her cheeks dimple as she takes in Clarke’s affronted face. “I told you that you would regret that,” she says smugly and Clarke laughs.
“You just have to win everything, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Lexa answers simply, nodding her head in affirmation as she reaches up a hand to wipe water from her eyes.
“Well that kinda sucks,” Clarke says turning away from Lexa, “because I’m pretty competitive, too.” She spins back around, practically tackling the taller girl back under the water. They both stumble into it, gasping and laughing, fingers tickling under necks and between ribs and the backs of knees. Neither can seem to get the upper hand, Lexa is stronger and taller but Clarke had the advantage of surprise. Clarke eventually backs Lexa into the wall, and they still when Lexa is pinned.
Their faces are close now, hair dripping wet and clothes soaked. “You have raccoon eyes,” Clarke whispers, their noses almost touching. She reaches up to Lexa’s face, wiping away the rest of the paint with her fingertips. Lexa shivers under her touch, pushing forward insistently into Clarke’s touch. Clarke shifts against her at the sudden movement and her thigh slips between Lexa’s legs. Lexa gasps just a bit at the feel and moves a hand almost nervously to smooth her wet hair over her shoulder.
“I think that I like showers,” she says at the same time that Clarke moves into press a kiss to the bruise on her cheekbone. Lexa quiets then, and closes her eyes as Clarke presses another kiss to the jut of her brow and the soft round of her cheek. She whines a little as Clarke fits her lips to the corner of Lexa’s mouth, her hand reaching up to rest underneath Lexa’s collarbone. Clarke pauses as she feels the steady beat of Lexa’s heart beneath her palm.
“So you aren’t heartless,” she sighs out as Lexa tangles her hands in Clarke’s blonde hair. Lexa sifts the wet strands through her fingers softly and moves her head in a nod. Clarke presses harder over Lexa’s chest and feels the rhythmic thumping speed as she moves her mouth to cover Lexa’s. Their lips are wet from the water and they slide together smoothly as Lexa cradles Clarke’s head, pressing her more fully against her, arching against Clarke’s leg.
Their tongues are warm in contrast to the water that has cooled on their skin, and Clarke thinks that the beating of Lexa’s heart is the only thing she wants to hear for the rest of her life. Lexa moans softly against her lips, and Clarke thinks that noise might be welcome, too.
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