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Entry tags:
(closed) but our hearts always beat like this: I have / to leave
WHO: Lexa & Clarke
WHAT: Purely professional concern, with a side of puppy
WHEN: When the anchor plot people return
WHERE: Valley
NOTES: /o/
WHAT: Purely professional concern, with a side of puppy
WHEN: When the anchor plot people return
WHERE: Valley
NOTES: /o/
That she brings Dally is completely intentional. Bellamy is back, same as Lexa, and Clarke could have left the puppy with him. He and the puppy both might have been grateful for it. But Clarke leads, carries, and drags Dally along. Intentional, and also ninety percent self-serving: she doesn't first think about how Lexa's been through a lot lately and Lexa likes the dog and Lexa might be glad to see her, but about Lexa being chronically disarmed by the dog and Dally being a good distraction, if things grow awkward, and an even better excuse to leave abruptly.
Halfway there, when Dally runs behind a stack of barrels and Clarke is considering just leaving her there to become a feral barrel dog, then she does think that Lexa has been through a lot lately, and Lexa likes the dog. That gives her the necessary push to lie down on the ground in front of everyone, feeling foolish and exposed, and coax the puppy back out.
There's still dirt-grey snow caught in her collar and in the crevices of her coat when she sees one of Lexa's guards. She lifts Dally in her arms, a shruggy motion, as if that's why she's here.
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It's larger than many in the valley but still a smaller version of the tent Clarke will remember from their campaign against the Red Templars. No giant map table or throne up on a dais, just a bed and a desk, a wash basin and a brazier glowing dully with coals. Lexa's stood in the space between, still just straightening up spine and shoulders as Clarke steps in, like either she was busy or it took her a minute to stand up. She hasn't managed to get her coat on, and when Clarke enters she's looking at it hung on its hook beside the bed like she wishes she had.
She looks fine. Tired, definitely, and stiff, and there are scrapes and bruises on knuckles and jaw and the edge of a bandage on one shoulder peeking out the open collar of her shirt. But she's upright and has all her limbs, and still can't help the way the corners of her mouth want to twitch up just slightly at the sight of Clarke with an armful of squirming puppy.
"Hello, Clarke. And Dally." She's almost too exhausted to be embarrassed that she just greeted a dog.
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She looks down at Dally. She briefly--so briefly--considers waving one of her paws at Lexa in greeting. It's a childish, stupid impulse, and she ignores it. But it's easier to keep looking at Dally for a stretch of seconds than to look back up at Lexa with her bruises and bandage and almost-smile.
"I heard you were back," she says, darting a look up and then back down, like Dally requires her focus and she can only spare so much--but Dally betrays her by pausing her squirming, freeing Clarke of the need to actively wrangle her, and staring attentively at Lexa instead. Clarke has to lift her chin to do the same. "Are you okay?"
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She's trying to be reassuring, tone firm but gentle, and lifts her chin that little bit into a posture that better suggests she's capable of protecting all those lives. The effort it takes shows through more than usual, especially when she goes to clasp her arms behind her back the way she always does and it backfires, injuries making the motion slow and stiff and unexpectedly painful. She drops her arms again immediately and tries to play it off, turning back toward her desk like the papers there might have started moving around or writing themselves while her back was turned.
"Have you seen Bellamy? He returned unharmed as well."
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"Yes." Her voice is distant, a little unfocused, for the moment she needs to coalesce the signs and settle on action. Once she has, she's louder and firmer while she bends to let Dally down onto the floor. "Yes, I've seen him."
Dally beats her to Lexa and sniffs her feet with determination, but Clarke isn't far behind, reaching to lightly touch her elbow. The other hand she lifts to hover near her shoulder and demonstrates her intention--to ease the pain for a while, if there's nothing left to do for the injuries themselves--with a brief flare of glowing white light. It doesn't leave much room for refusal, but it does leave a little.
"You have a crystal now, don't you?"
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And then the flinch of surprise as Clarke is suddenly in her space and touching her. It's not a subtle enough flinch to pass unnoticed, but it's not enough to really pull Lexa away from her either, and she gives a nod once the initial startle has passed and Clarke's purpose is clear. (Lingering injuries aren't self-flagellation or a principled stand against healing magic, just cuts from poisoned blades, ribs that were broken too many times in quick succession to be healed again already, and the superficial aches and bruises she didn't feel right asking the mages here to expend energy on when she could have her own people see to them in a day or two.)
She tries to focus on the pain instead of Clarke's proximity and the warmth of her hands through the thin fabric of Lexa's shirt, but she still swallows as she dips her chin in answer. "Yes. We got them back from the Venatori." Now it's her turn to sound distracted, as the magic wicking the pain away is more relief than she'd expected and for a moment her whole posture slumps with the release of tension, eyes falling briefly shut as she exhales. Clarke gets a soft little smile, still tired but less tight.
"Thank you."
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Clarke shakes her head at the thanks, eyes on her own hand, a focused furrow between her eyebrows. The smile is only caught in her peripheral vision, at first, and takes a second to filter through; when it does she glances sideways and up, first at the curve of Lexa's mouth, then her eyes, then back down again.
Her expression doesn't shift, but it does soften. She knows. She can't not know.
But there's still an unthawed splinter of anger and resentment in Clarke's chest, however small and rapidly melting, and even if she has it in her--because she does--to hold onto that and take hold of Lexa at the same time, and kiss her with teeth, she can't now. Not when she looks like this.
She lowers her hands. Her eyes, too, long enough to check on Dally, who's stopped sniffing Lexa's boots as if in pursuit of the answer to a mystery and has rolled onto her back alongside them to squirm. Clarke nudges her exposed belly with the side of her boot while she says, "Can I see it?"
She doesn't mean the crystal. She was going somewhere with that, originally, but now she's holding a hand low, palm-up, near Lexa's anchor.
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The question snaps her attention back from the vague middle-distance where it was focused, confused for a second. She looks down at Clarke's hand hovering and then back up, giving a brisk nod and opening her fingers where they've been loosely curled.
"Could we sit?" It's asked abruptly, and Lexa explains it only with a gesture at Dally begging for attention at their feet, out of reach. She's only looking out for the dog, obviously, not for herself.
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So maybe it's a little pointed that she crouches down--without any stiffness or wincing--to pick up Dally and cradle her again. In petting range. But they're still going to sit down, because Dally isn't the reason they should.
"She's spoiled," Clarke says, bouncing her like a fussy baby while she follows Lexa to sit down.
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There's only the one chair in front of the desk, and Lexa leaves that for Clarke if she wants it, instead sinking down to sit on the edge of her bed. She still moves with care, but turns to see Clarke bouncing the puppy and snorts softly at the sight, and at the explanation. Spoiled or not, she reaches over to scratch Dally's ears, though it's a slow reach, hand hovering just short for a moment to make sure it's alright.
Once fur has been ruffled she turns her hand over, offering Clarke her palm again, as requested. She considers trying to make polite smalltalk, but decides on silence for the moment.
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Clarke stalls by putting Dally down on the bed, instead, on Lexa's other side, and once she's that close she decides not to sit at all. Not yet. She takes the offered hand instead, only touching it with her fingertips, like it's blown glass, tilting it one way and then the other as if the magic might shift in the light.
"How much does it hurt?"
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Lexa doesn't object, just lets Clarke examine and manipulate her hand as she pleases. In the meantime, she turns toward Dally, reaching out her free arm to pet her and maybe even coax her into her lap, if that can be accomplished without seeming like she's trying to. (Liking the puppy is one thing but being seen wanting to cuddle it is another, even with Clarke.)
"It doesn't usually hurt when I'm here. Away, it gets steadily worse until I must either return or have it removed."
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Clarke lifts her head to deliver a skeptical look only to discover that Lexa is not looking back at her to receive it, because she's looking at the puppy. Clarke has been replaced. What the flames.
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She rubs the puppy's ears and nods, turning back only after a long second to catch the very tail end of that look. Not that she needs it, given the tone.
"The hand," she clarifies, "There is no other way to remove the magic." She says it very calmly, but then turns back to Dally as the puppy finally hops up into her lap. Lexa curls an arm loosely around her feet and adds, "That was the Venatori's plan as well."
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She sits down in the chair without consciously choosing it over the bed, and without letting go of Lexa's hand. She's focused on other things.
"Why would they do that? Do they still work if they're--removed?"
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Lexa is still petting Dally, but she's looking at Clarke's hold on her hand. The shift as she sat tugged her attention back, and light as the contact is, for a moment it's hard for her to ignore. She's not sure why Clarke still has her hand, but she's not about to ask or to take it back. It's amazing how much more settled she feels, how much further from dank dungeons and the scent of blood she is with just that slight gentle pressure of Clarke's fingertips and the warmth of a puppy bouncing in her lap. She dodges getting her jaw licked, but allows lapping at her other hand--and, warily, nibbling on fingertips--instead.
"I found a collar for Dally in Halamshiral," she says without looking up, "I'll bring it when I return next, if you'd like. For when she wanders off."