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Perhaps Lexa had known it all along. From the very first time the storm that is Clarke Griffin appeared before her eyes. Perhaps Lexa had already loved her then.
But love is weakness. And Lexa is not weak.
Even when she takes a chance in the tent where she kisses Clarke for the first time, Lexa repeats in her mind, this is not weakness.
Even when she leaves Clarke there on Mount Weather, alone, as the army of Grounders retreat on her command, and Lexa thinks she feels something in her chest twisting and tugging in all the wrong places, she thinks to herself, this is not weakness.
So in hindsight, Lexa supposes she should’ve known all along. But it doesn’t truly hit her until Clarke is at her door, grabbing her wrist and looking at her injured hand with concern written across her face.
And Clarke looks back up, lifting Lexa’s arm slightly, and she says,
“Sit down. Let me change that for you.”
And Lexa finds herself unable to say a word, not even a thank you to the blonde girl. Clarke deserves more than a thank you. She deserves a thousand apologies, and yet even then, Lexa fears it will never be able to make up for what she did at Mount Weather.
But here she is, in all her stupid caring-too-much-for-people-she-shouldn’t glory, seated beside Lexa on her bed and gently unwrapping the bloodied bandage on her hand. Lexa finds it extremely and increasingly difficult not to lean over and kiss Clarke senseless, whisper words she has not said since Costia into Clarke’s ear, trace her fingers along Clarke’s skin. But that is more than what Lexa deserves, and so she forces her stupid feelings down, forces the overflowing amount of affection and adoration down.
Clarke’s hands are gentle, soft and warm. They work quickly and with purpose, her eyebrows slightly pinched together and her mouth pulled into a small frown, as if she is actually worried about Lexa. Lexa thinks it’s horribly foolish of Clarke to still care. She doesn’t expect anything other than hate and bitterness from the blonde girl.
Lexa realises it then — just after Clarke is finished changing the bandage, and she simply sits and stares at Lexa, her blue eyes searching Lexa’s own for something. Something Lexa does not know if she finds, because the wind is knocked out of her momentarily as blood rushes past her ears and her heart skyrockets at their proximity.
Clarke, Clarke, Clarke.
Her mind repeats itself over and over again. As if it knows no other words, as if Clarke is all she will ever need. As if she is in love.
Lexa accepts it for the first time.
Love is so foreign to her, so unfamiliar and so daunting. To love someone like she loves Clarke, it is brave and yet it is ever so scary.
Then Clarke gives her a soft smile — more than what Lexa deserves, because Lexa does not deserve to be forgiven so easily, because Lexa deserves to be hated, not treated with such care. Because Lexa is not enough for the greatness that is Clarke, and yet her eyes reflect everything that is the opposite of what Lexa deserves.
And just as Lexa almost, almost, lets the three words slip out of her mouth, Clarke leans forward and presses her lips to Lexa’s forehead, tender and soft, and she starts to get up.
Lexa watches her go.
Because she doesn’t deserve to say those words to Clarke — at least, not yet. But Lexa hopes, which she hasn’t done in a long time, and that is enough for now.
Lexa realises it after Clarke leaves and she is left unable to sleep, the ghost of Clarke’s cracked but warm lips lingering on her forehead, her hand tingling with the remnants of Clarke’s gentle touch.
Love is not weakness. Not anymore.
Love is Clarke Griffin, who is strong and steady, and all too forgiving and stupidly brave and selfless.
And Clarke makes Lexa feel anything but weak, because with Clarke, Lexa is lifted to heights she never thought imaginable.
So Lexa decides that night that love is not weakness. Love is the blonde girl who fell out of the sky, with her tender touches and soft lips and her heart that is much too big for this cruel world.