There’s not much to pack: a change of clothes, bits and bobs, pouches of this and vials of that, Dally’s bedding. No one has said it’s all right to bring her. They aren’t asking permission. Surely if dogs were prohibited the Fereldans would have rioted—
“Don’t worry,” Clarke tells her where she’s lying just inside the emptied-out tent, head between her paws and eyes warily tracking every movement while Clarke stuffs her thin ratty pillow into a bag. “Even if I wanted to leave you here, do you think Bellamy would allow it? Absolutely not.”
She can talk to the dog if she wants. Shut up.
But she also stops, because she glances up and looks across flat slope of the valley toward the river and sees Lexa. Her hands don’t stop their stuffing, then their drawstring pulling, tying, shaking the bag once to settle its contents lower, but she doesn’t look away from Lexa through all of that, not until she’s standing up to shoulder the bag and pat her knees at the dog, whistling. (Dally doesn’t move.)
Dally may not move at the whistle, but Lexa does. Her head turns, and across the field and between the tents, she spots Clarke, and sees that Clarke has spotted her. Her stride hitches, and she lifts a hand in faintly awkward acknowledgment. For a moment it seems like she might continue wherever she was going (she definitely considers it), but she hesitates too long, and so turns to weave between tents in Clarke's direction.
She might be able to recognize the moment Lexa spots the bag on her back, larger than anything she'd bother to carry on a short trip. Her brows inch upwards, eyes wide for that split-second of realization. It stops her some feet further away than she'd intended, but resignation quickly follows.
She swallows, and wets her lips. "Where are you going?"
Clarke fits in another quick two pats on her thigh trying to get Dally's attention before she gives up and gives Lexa her own. For a moment her expression is impassive, like she's going to give her some sort of speech, but then it flickers into apology. Maybe sadness.
"We were assigned." As if they'd volunteer to go so far from the mountains now. And Lexa—"you're not coming." She doesn't actually sound surprised. "Your hand..."
Lexa nods, solemn. "You must do your duty." By now she's heard of the move to new outposts, of course. Her own face remains carefully blank, even as she's watching Clarke's sharply, studying that flicker of emotion, whatever it is exactly. Nothing that makes her feel better about this.
"My place is with my people," she confirms, as if there was ever any question. "My hand doesn't change that."
"Until it hurts too much for you to live with," Clarke says, face clouding. The stubbornness is probably misdirected and definitely futile—she isn't really an unstoppable force anymore than Lexa is an immovable object. Which is to say, almost. But not quite. "What happened to not waiting in the mountains for someone else to save the world?"
Lexa doesn't know what to make of this response, of Clarke's apparent displeasure with her. Maybe later she'll read more deeply into it but right now it stings, all of this stings, and she bristles, a flicker of hurt and anger sneaking through her expression, too subtle for anyone less adept at reading her than Clarke.
"The Inquisition and most of its army remain here," she points out. "Should they need our assistance, I will be here to see that we give it, as agreed. And if I must do so with only one hand, I will not be the first thane to prove it possible."
She means it as a compliment as much as an admonishment. She's capable of doing more. Possibly capable of doing anything—but the fire goes out, slow enough for it to fade visibly from her face. She hadn't really thought Lexa might come. She looks at Dally, who thumps her tail against the tent floor at the attention, and the puppy's little face helps her reset her own into something less miserable.
Plainly and painlessly, like she's stating a fact, she says, "I'm sorry."
It doesn't feel like a compliment. It feels like you're not doing enough, which would hurt less if Lexa didn't already thoroughly believe it, wasn't already haunted by the knowledge of how little time she has for all she needs to accomplish. She looks away before Clarke does and misses the misery, busy swallowing hard, jaw working side to side. (She doesn't dare look at the puppy, unwilling to risk that cute little face cracking her open.)
"There's no need to apologize," she says, cool and calm. "We each have our duty, and you owe me nothing. Good luck, Clarke."
Edited (i speak english i swear) 2017-04-27 01:39 (UTC)
Clarke nods once for Lexa, and a second time for herself, brow furrowed and gaze on the ground. It'd be easy to be hurt in turn, or to decide that she's taken on enough of the vulnerability—and the flirting—and now it's someone else's turn. Lexa's, specifically. But Clarke knows her face too well, now, and knows what her skin does when Clarke's hands are close to it, and really, she's never been good at waiting for someone else to do anything.
So she looks up and comes closer, one hand on the strap of her bag to keep it in place until she's come to a stop and needs both of her hands to take Lexa's. The glowy one, underneath the glove. She lifts it up and kisses the back. Something else out of one of those books Lexa hasn't read.
As she lowers it and lets it go she opens her mouth, pauses while her lips twitch briefly into a smile at how stupid what she's going to say is, and then says it anyway—"In case I don't see it again."—with a defiant look up into her eyes. Cool and calm that.
As intended, this move catches Lexa entirely off-guard. She'd have been surprised even if it didn't feel like a whiplash about-face from the rest of the conversation, but as it is she comes about as close as she ever has to just standing there gaping open-mouthed. (Which is to say that for a moment she stares, eyes wide and liquid, lips parted the barest fraction around a breath that doesn't come; on anyone else it'd be no reaction at all, but on her it's the equivalent of a slow-motion soft-focus swoon.)
Suddenly everything else that's passed between them needs to be reevaluated, and—though a hard kernel of her still doubts whether Clarke wouldn't have walked off without a word had she not happened by—through this filter everything else Clarke's said begins to take on a different tone. She stares a little more, not at all smooth, nor cool, nor calm. Not by her own standards, anyway. She can't do nothing, not after a gesture like that, and not with the way Clarke's departure now suddenly aches all the more painfully for what might have been after all if they'd only had time.
All this shock and aww occurs in a pause that has lingered too long, but finally Lexa leans slowly forward into Clarke's space, and carefully brushes a kiss to her defiant cheek. "Be careful," she whispers. It sounds like come back.
Edited (em dashes for em jay) 2017-04-29 21:29 (UTC)
To say Clarke's eyes close would be an overstatement. There's no time for closed eyes at the moment. Really, there's no time for any of this. But she does blink very slowly while Lexa's mouth is on her cheek, and afterwards she smiles, tight and closed-lipped, and lifts a hand to briefly squeeze her shoulder.
It's not the most romantic gesture she's ever made. But look at it this way: she isn't kissing her face because that's something she's counting on seeing again later. Lexa is clearly the pessimist in this situation. "We'll be back," Clarke says, as confident as if she were actually entitled to boss around fate. "Our people are here, too."
There's a little bit of punch to that, like before. You could do more redux. But as willing as Clarke is to bully people into things when necessary, she can't genuinely say that this is. It would be nice, that's all. Nice for Lexa not to cut off her hand before Clarke can even properly begin making plans for it. Nice for her to be around. But it's nice for her to be watching Clarke and Bellamy's people, too, and it's nice for much less selfish reasons. So this is all the fight Clarke can put up.
Lexa's lips thin into a flat line at that last little dig, but there's something fondly exasperated in the way she nearly rolls her eyes. She's not that confident they'll return, but if anyone could manage to boss around fate, it would be Clarke, and there's some comfort in that.
"I'll see no harm comes to them," she says, because she knows beneath the needling that is something Clarke will worry about just as she would if she were the one being sent hundreds of miles away. She steps back before the moment has a chance to linger and turn awkward, her farewell a firm nod. "Safe journey."
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no subject
“Don’t worry,” Clarke tells her where she’s lying just inside the emptied-out tent, head between her paws and eyes warily tracking every movement while Clarke stuffs her thin ratty pillow into a bag. “Even if I wanted to leave you here, do you think Bellamy would allow it? Absolutely not.”
She can talk to the dog if she wants. Shut up.
But she also stops, because she glances up and looks across flat slope of the valley toward the river and sees Lexa. Her hands don’t stop their stuffing, then their drawstring pulling, tying, shaking the bag once to settle its contents lower, but she doesn’t look away from Lexa through all of that, not until she’s standing up to shoulder the bag and pat her knees at the dog, whistling. (Dally doesn’t move.)
no subject
She might be able to recognize the moment Lexa spots the bag on her back, larger than anything she'd bother to carry on a short trip. Her brows inch upwards, eyes wide for that split-second of realization. It stops her some feet further away than she'd intended, but resignation quickly follows.
She swallows, and wets her lips. "Where are you going?"
no subject
Clarke fits in another quick two pats on her thigh trying to get Dally's attention before she gives up and gives Lexa her own. For a moment her expression is impassive, like she's going to give her some sort of speech, but then it flickers into apology. Maybe sadness.
"We were assigned." As if they'd volunteer to go so far from the mountains now. And Lexa—"you're not coming." She doesn't actually sound surprised. "Your hand..."
no subject
"My place is with my people," she confirms, as if there was ever any question. "My hand doesn't change that."
no subject
no subject
"The Inquisition and most of its army remain here," she points out. "Should they need our assistance, I will be here to see that we give it, as agreed. And if I must do so with only one hand, I will not be the first thane to prove it possible."
no subject
She means it as a compliment as much as an admonishment. She's capable of doing more. Possibly capable of doing anything—but the fire goes out, slow enough for it to fade visibly from her face. She hadn't really thought Lexa might come. She looks at Dally, who thumps her tail against the tent floor at the attention, and the puppy's little face helps her reset her own into something less miserable.
Plainly and painlessly, like she's stating a fact, she says, "I'm sorry."
no subject
"There's no need to apologize," she says, cool and calm. "We each have our duty, and you owe me nothing. Good luck, Clarke."
no subject
So she looks up and comes closer, one hand on the strap of her bag to keep it in place until she's come to a stop and needs both of her hands to take Lexa's. The glowy one, underneath the glove. She lifts it up and kisses the back. Something else out of one of those books Lexa hasn't read.
As she lowers it and lets it go she opens her mouth, pauses while her lips twitch briefly into a smile at how stupid what she's going to say is, and then says it anyway—"In case I don't see it again."—with a defiant look up into her eyes. Cool and calm that.
no subject
Suddenly everything else that's passed between them needs to be reevaluated, and—though a hard kernel of her still doubts whether Clarke wouldn't have walked off without a word had she not happened by—through this filter everything else Clarke's said begins to take on a different tone. She stares a little more, not at all smooth, nor cool, nor calm. Not by her own standards, anyway. She can't do nothing, not after a gesture like that, and not with the way Clarke's departure now suddenly aches all the more painfully for what might have been after all if they'd only had time.
All this shock and aww occurs in a pause that has lingered too long, but finally Lexa leans slowly forward into Clarke's space, and carefully brushes a kiss to her defiant cheek. "Be careful," she whispers. It sounds like come back.
no subject
It's not the most romantic gesture she's ever made. But look at it this way: she isn't kissing her face because that's something she's counting on seeing again later. Lexa is clearly the pessimist in this situation. "We'll be back," Clarke says, as confident as if she were actually entitled to boss around fate. "Our people are here, too."
There's a little bit of punch to that, like before. You could do more redux. But as willing as Clarke is to bully people into things when necessary, she can't genuinely say that this is. It would be nice, that's all. Nice for Lexa not to cut off her hand before Clarke can even properly begin making plans for it. Nice for her to be around. But it's nice for her to be watching Clarke and Bellamy's people, too, and it's nice for much less selfish reasons. So this is all the fight Clarke can put up.
no subject
"I'll see no harm comes to them," she says, because she knows beneath the needling that is something Clarke will worry about just as she would if she were the one being sent hundreds of miles away. She steps back before the moment has a chance to linger and turn awkward, her farewell a firm nod. "Safe journey."