Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

'Before you,' he said, 'you can see more women than warriors. Cowardly, unarmed, they will give up the moment they see the weapons and bravery of their conquerors who have given them such a drubbing so many times before.' (Tacitus, Annals XIV.36)

The first time Clarke sees her, she’s sitting on a throne, presiding over her dominion with a piercing stare and a crown of braids in her hair. Her warriors are spread at her feet, a multitude of them, all long-haired and wild and clad in identical brown regalia. There’s something of the sacred about her, like the crimson cloak draped across her shoulders and her divinity are one and the same.

Or at least it feels that way.

All the other girls are cross-legged on the scratched parquet floor of what was probably once a ballroom and is now the small gym, hands folded in their laps to keep their skirts covering everything that needs to be covered. They’re squirming and uncrossing and crossing their legs again, shifting their weight and fidgeting with their hems and pulling the sleeves of their dark sweaters to cover their fingers in the drafty morning cold. They’re young, even the ones the same age as Clarke, they’re so young and wriggly and eager to grow into their bodies.

The Head Girl is as still as a marble statue, back straight and eyes surveying the Friday mess of hormones and bridled possibilities.

A girl from the lower school starts braiding (plaiting, Clarke reminds herself) the ponytail of the girl in front of her but flinches her hands back when she’s leveled with an imperial head shake from the stage. She ducks her head down with pinkening cheeks. A moment later she chances a surreptitious glance back up and then quickly down at her lap.

The teachers file inside and sit in the line of chairs at the back of the room. The Headmistress sails in a few minutes later, followed by the Deputy Head who has donned his black gown even though the Headmistress is without hers for the first morning of the week. The girls scramble to their feet. The Head Girl stands too, flickering her eyes around the room with hands clasped behind her back. At least half the school copies her stance. When their leader releases them back to the floor with a subtle nod of her chin, the only sound in the room is the shuffle of heavy woolen tights against leather Mary Jane shoes.

“Good morning, girls.”

“Good morning, Headmistress.”

This is all still new to Clarke but she’s able to follow the formalities and responses well enough thanks to the fact that literally every single person is doing them around her. Clarke is nothing if not adaptable—she is nothing if not adaptable.

It may also feel really good to lose herself in the anonymity of a crowd, to follow instead of lead, to respond rather than ask. To be a child instead of an adult.

But Clarke doesn’t linger on that thought.

The Headmistress begins to drone on about things that surely no one cares about and Clarke tunes out the words, eyes on the Head Girl instead. There’s an aura of power and awe that surrounds this dark-haired queen, something in the way that she sits on the high-backed chair, eyebrow raised and finger lightly tapping the armrest, that seems to hold the entire school in her rapture. Something that makes her seem Dei Gratia even as the Headmistress babbles on about lost property and last term’s sports finishes. The Head Girl bows her head even before the Headmistress begins the final prayer and it’s her that the girls follow, not the grey-haired head of school.

Clarke keeps her eyes open as the Lord’s Prayer is recited, high voices and huskier voices and different accents and rhythms all modulating one another into a single chant. The Head Girl’s mouth forms around the words like a well-rehearsed dance, head ducked dutifully, but her eyes are unsleeping, idly scanning the room as if she can’t imagine a single one of her subjects would dare misbehave but ready if the impossible should happen.

She captures Clarke’s stare halfway through the prayer and it feels like everything ignites, like the Head Girl position comes with the ability to shoot lightning bolts straight out of her eyes and into American girls’ chests. Clarke sucks in a breath and tries to drop her gaze but it bounces right back up to the stage. The Head Girl is still watching her but her face remains unaffected, bored even, and Clarke is only given a pair of unimpressed eyebrows before continuing her ceaseless watch over the schoolgirls.

“…forever and ever, Amen.”

“Go with the blessing of the Christ almighty, the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen.” The Headmistress’s blessing is route and the school’s responsive “Amen” perfunctory.

The Head Girl stands and her girls are quick to mirror her movements.

“Ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in,” she calls out, the words echoing through the wooden beams in the ceiling.

“Ai ste yuj!” the girls shout back, louder and with more fire than the rest of their responses combined. Clarke has yet to figure out what they’re saying— like the previous two days when she’s heard it in morning chapel from her occluded position in the far back pew, it gnaws at her that she can’t follow along like she’s been doing with everything else— but she’s not immune to the contagious excitement it incites, energy rippling through the battalion of girls.

The Head Girl lowers her chin and the girls begin to file out of Friday Assembly through the double doors at the front of the room, starting with the youngest ones in their plaid smocks and knee socks and then the main school in their matching brown tartan skirts and striped ties under sweaters (jumpers. Damn it.) The Sixth Form is the last to leave, the only age group brave enough—or complacent enough in their seniority— to chatter under their breaths as they smooth down their pleated skirts and adjust their tie-less peter pan collars.

Clarke takes her time, allowing her new classmates to push their way to the front of the queue (Ha! Got that one) while she loiters at the back, unable or maybe just unwilling to take her eyes off the Head Girl. She’s still reigning over the proceedings, elevated up on stage with arms clasped behind her back. She’s more a battle general than a queen, Clarke decides, and understands now who the girls in her registration class were talking about when they referenced the Commander.

The Head Girl doesn’t catch her eye again and Clarke’s chest feels oddly tight when she finally exits the gym and turns toward the Sixth Form Annex.

Clarke doesn’t linger on that thought, either.

--

Luckily other things take up her attention in the following days, new schools and new countries and new bedrooms and new rules. New rule-makers. Different styles of essay writing and spelling and an entire year’s worth of coursework to make up in addition to the usual workload so that she’s ready for June examinations.

The Head Girl doesn’t entirely concede her peculiarly entrenched corner of Clarkes mind, however. Of course she has no idea of Clarke’s existence, much less her disconcerting status in it, and when they pass in the halls or that one time they reached for a knife at the same time in the cafeteria it leaves a much bigger impression on Clarke than it does on Heda.

Clarke’s new school isn’t new it all; she’s still coming to grips with the fact that the brick walls of the main building were constructed before her home country was even a country and that the ‘New Hall’ is in fact over a hundred years old. She feels out of place everywhere she walks, from the high stone cloisters to the squash court to the school chapel where they spend thirty minutes most mornings, wrapped in arcane russet floor-length cloaks to keep warm. It’s all so regal, so ancient and stately, and she’s so American and groundless, like a neon green plastic bag floating in the air between the megaliths of Stonehenge.

Polis School for Girls is so old that they have their own language, an eclectic mix of some local Celtic dialect and English leftover from the era when the buildings had been requisitioned for the British Infantry during World War II. The entire school had been evacuated to the isolated village of Trigedigyon in Cornwall for several years, the home town of the Headmistress at the time. Clarke doesn’t quite understand how it came about, isn’t sure exactly how one would go about creating an entire language, but it’s somehow been preserved across several generations despite there being no written form. The junior school is taught it as part of their studies and while few (if any) could be considered fluent, most girls speak enough that their speech is peppered with it and can hold a conversation between themselves that would leave an outsider in the dark.

It means that the unlucky girls like Clarke who didn’t attend the school from the time they were first out of diapers are separated from the pack a little, or at least it seems that way in the early days when the secret words are an affront to her interloper status and it feels like everyone is whispering in Trigedasleng behind her back.

Speak the language or forever stand on the outside.

Clarke is adaptable. She’s adaptable.

So she carries a little red notebook around with her, phonetically spelling out the words she hears more frequently than others. Sometimes there’s enough context that she can figure out the meaning, other times she jots down ideas and guesses for the next time she hears it. Once she gathers up a few words, it’s easier to work out new ones and she pores over her notes like a code breaker in the resistance.

The first word in her book is Heda.

Head Girl.

Commander.

--

It doesn’t take too long for Clarke to make friends, in actual fact. Harper and Zoe are really nice, even if they barely talk when they team up at the lab bench in chemistry, and the girl in the bedroom across from her is always happy to explain a school rule or stop her from going down to breakfast in her pajamas the first Saturday morning. If only Clarke could pronounce her name. Everyone’s nice, surprisingly—the school may cost more than the median salary in this country to attend each year but there’s very little snobbery or cliques here for some reason. There are groups of friends, of course, but it never feels like she’s imposing when she sits with them and for the most part her year is fairly cohesive.

She quickly falls in with Octavia and Raven, who sit together in the General Studies lessons they’re all forced to take and share a bedroom a floor below Clarke. The first double lesson had seen Clarke hiding away on a table by herself at the back of the room but the next day they’ve left a space between themselves for her. Clarke follows them to lunch and chooses out the same brown rolls and bowl of soup that they do. She stops holing herself up in a corner of a library with an unread book during lunch hour, furtively nibbling what ever food’s easiest to sneak out of the cafeteria that day. They’re close friends, a duo in almost everything, the kind of friendship that when one name doesn’t follow the other it feels unfinished, but they’re also kindhearted and never make Clarke feel like she’s a third wheel.

Octavia’s been at the school since she was seven years old, the youngest age girls can start boarding, and Clarke can’t help but be impressed. She vaguely wonders if maybe she should feel sad instead but there’s something about this school that’s beginning to feel sacred, like it’s an entire universe unto itself and the rest of the world only a hazy mirage.

Raven’s a little more recent, joining at the start of secondary school after attending another prep school up north, and with that comes a little more perspective, a little more awareness of an existence outside the six boarding houses and main building.

Without wanting to appear too eager, Clarke learns a few casual Trigedasleng translations from them and it bonds them together even more, the two British girls laughing at her awkward pronunciations and the way her American accent wraps around the language. Before long they’re walking to town on Saturdays to shop for clothes and eat Chinese food in the one restaurant that isn’t a pub and, thus, allowable under school rules. It’s easy with Octavia and Raven, their conversations light-hearted and blessedly shallow. They don’t mind that Clarke never wants to talk about her life in New York and they don’t ask difficult questions. It must be a British thing. It’s nice.

Through snippets and off-hand comments, Clarke also begins to construct a better picture of the Head Girl.

She’s been at the school since she was two years old; her name is Lexa and it’s not short for anything; she doesn’t go home for the school holidays and home-weekends (Exeat, apparently); she’d achieved the highest marks in the country on her GCSE exams; she became Head Girl at sixteen, earlier than any girl in the history of the school; it’s because of her that there are no longer house competitions, ending some sort of bitter rivalry and uniting the boarding houses into a coalition that works toward a common goal rather than fighting for an arbitrary system of points and demerits. Clarke crinkles her nose when she learns the last fact, still annoyed that the one tradition she’d expected from a British boarding school from Harry Potter is the only one Polis doesn’t observe. The fact that the change has resulted in ten times the amount of fundraising for charity and scholarships raised by the girls due to the combined efforts of the houses helps, though.

Heda is beloved by her girls and the teachers.
Heda is the backbone of the school, the Headmistress little more than a figurehead and the Board of Governors in her pocket.  
Heda is probably going to be Prime Minister one day.
Heda is sacrosanct.
Heda is as fearful as she is beautiful, all sharp bones and piercing eyes and disciplinary power.

Clarke’s pretty sure every girl wants to be Heda, pretty sure every girl would fight and die for their fearless commander.

Herself included.

Clarke is too busy, much too busy to concern herself with all this, all these new rules and different styles of essay writing and spelling and an entire year’s worth of coursework to make up in addition to the usual workload so that she’s ready for June examinations. New schools and new countries and new bedrooms and new rules. New rule-makers. But the Head Girl doesn’t entirely concede her peculiarly entrenched corner of Clarke’s mind and Clarke isn’t able to stop herself from jolting every time she passes Heda in the hallways like she’s spotted a Greek goddess walking amongst the common citizens.

--

England is a magical realm in which Art is a possible A-level examination subject and it means that Clarke is able to spend almost a third of her workload in the fourth-floor art studio that overlooks the playing fields. She paints the still-lives of fruit and hodge-podges scraps of fashion magazines into collages and when she’s alone after the official school day has ended she sketches the sinews and ligatures of the girls playing lacrosse out on the pitch, all movement and light and potential. There’s a freedom in their form, in the way they swing their sticks through the air like in swordplay, a synchronized grace she tries to capture on paper but fails, over and over again.

She’s too far away to hear anything, even with the September breeze wafting through the window, but the flow and command on the field leaves no doubt that the Head Girl must be the team captain. And she deserves to be, too. If the lacrosse team performs a perfectly choreographed dance in their footwork and the arc of the ball passing from player to player like it's been rehearsed for weeks, Heda is their prima ballerina.

Assuming that ballerinas are part-warrior, part lit-dynamite.

--

It’s surprisingly long before Clarke notices that the Head Girl doesn’t smile. Or at least that she doesn’t smile beyond a perfunctory closed-mouth one. It’s not that her expression is negative: even when she’s scolding a girl for a sloppy tie knot or writing up a group of girls for smoking behind the swimming pool building, her face remains cool and collected. On the rare occasion Clarke’s heard her raise her voice, both times in response to bullying between younger girls, it only grows stronger, deeper: there’s no cracking, no wobbling or loss of temper. If there’s an emotional expression of power, it’s what Heda seems to wear day after day after day.

If Clarke is mildly-fixated on this fact—on this girl, even—it’s only because she’s impressed with how much self-control she must wield, how much she’d like to possess a tiny sliver of that power for herself.

Sometimes she wonders if she should be impressed or if she should be sad but there’s something about Heda that is sacred, like she’s an entire universe pressed into the shape of a seventeen-year-old girl. Density like that can't possibly possess a single unit of empty space.

Then again, Clarke Griffin always struggled with the mechanics of astrophysics.

--

The last Friday of September is ‘Jeans for Genes’ day and girls donate £1 to charity for the honor of wearing home clothes; Clarke’s never seen a group of girls so excited to wear garments she’d taken for granted every day in her past life. There’s a buzz of excitement in the air, the entire school sporting ill-fitting jeans and too-tight t-shirts around their still-awkward prepubescent and teenage bodies. It’s all hunched shoulders and jealousy and snide comments whispered in empty rooms even as they preen and check their reflections in the glass trophy cases as they walk by. There isn’t a single girl who seems comfortable in her own skin and all at once Clarke appreciates the drab-colored uniforms, the literal uniformity and solidarity they imbue in a period of life that’s achingly self-conscious as it is.

The Head Girl wears immaculately-pressed brown trousers and a white collared blouse that may as well be the one from their school uniform. Her silver head girl pin is firmly affixed to the lapel, her long hair is pulled back in its usual tight braids, and she doesn’t wear a lick of makeup even as inexperienced black liner is smudged under the eyes of the other girls and there are blue eyeshadow marks on the collars of several tops.

She doesn’t smile, she doesn’t frown, and she changes back into her uniform before supper.

Clarke wishes it wouldn’t be desperately uncool for her to do the same.

--

The Headmistress cuts funding to the Art program the third week of term.

Apparently the budget simply isn’t large enough to pay for an art teacher to come in a few hours a week and sponsor the Duke of Edinburgh gold award camping trip expedition at the end of October, especially when there are only three girls in the whole school sitting an Art exam, either for GCSE or A-level. The loss has to be considered part of the common good, Headmistress Gaius explains calmly to the art crew one Friday morning after Assembly. Funding is tight, these days - Clarke’s not entirely sure how, given how high the yearly fees are to attend this school, but it is and that’s that. There’s still enough time to transfer to another examination subject since the other two girls are in lower years and Clarke’s just started, or they can take a bus to a town three times a week to complete their exams independently.

The two younger girls in the studio are disappointed but their upper lips remain stiff.

Clarke doesn’t accept the ruling.

Livid, she rallies together the Art crew and then the Theatre Studies crew and the Design & Technology crew and soon she’s got the support of the biology and chemistry students as well. They march into a meeting of the Governors and Clarke leads them in a well-researched and comprehensive attack on the school’s priorities and the detriments to defunding art programs. When the Board shoots them down, declaring equal importance for the DofE programme, which teaches outdoor and teamwork skills and Clarke can’t help but agree with, they go higher, enlisting the support of parents and teachers and anyone who will listen.

When the annual joint-meeting of the Parents’ Union and the Old Girls’ Union occurs a week later, Clarke has gathered enough fuel to blow apart the Governors’ ruling with a flawless proposal for instigating a fundraiser as part of the Gold Award advancement, three hundred signatures and letters of support to the Board’s paltry few.

The art programme is reinstated; Heda and her Duke of Edinburgh crew organize a successful silent auction charity event to support their expedition.

The Headmistress gives Clarke several dirty looks but she can’t find it within herself to care.

Maybe she’s found a little power within herself, after all.

--

The first time Clarke speaks to her, she’s sitting on a throne again, draped in her special red Head Girl cloak and her six Prefects and six Heads of House hovering behind her uncertainly. They wait for their instructions as she gestures for Clarke to stay behind after Friday assembly .

She dismisses them with a hand in the air. “Em pleni." They scatter.

Octavia cocks her head at Clarke in question as she leaves with the rest but she can only give her a subtle shrug.

Clarke licks her lips and tries not to fiddle with her skirt hem as she stands before the silent Heda. The Head Girl taps a pencil against the arm of her chair while she regards Clarke, a curious but neutral expression on her face. The room is empty now and the sound of Clarke’s heart is louder than it should be. Her palms sweat and she clenches them into fists.

“You’re the one who organized 300 people and got the Unions to vote down my girls’ Duke of Edinburgh budget.”

“You’re the one whose budget would have knocked out the entire Art program,” she bites back without hesitation, fire beginning to replace the fear in her veins.

The lights have been switched off in the gym by now and in the dim light Clarke almost imagines the corner of the Head Girl’s lips turning up.

“Touché. Your campaign was…impressive. No one’s ever turned over a decision from the Board of Governors before.”

Clarke blinks. “Really?” She hates her childish need for validation the second it slips out but she’s still disoriented by the Head Girl’s unexpected praise.

“Really. Well done.”

“Um, thank you I guess?” Clarke scruffs the toe of her shoe across the wood floor. It leaves a tiny black mark and she looks away from it.

“Regardless of what you may think, you and I are not on different sides. It is only fair that the DofE team should earn their own way. Your proposal was innovative and fair.”

“Oh. Well, thank you, then.”

“You’re welcome, Clarke.” The Head Girl doesn’t smile but there’s something about the way she says her name that almost sounds like one; endearingly British of course, but it's more than that. Truthfully, Clarke’s never been especially fond of her first name until this instant.

She supposes she should nod and turn away, nothing left to say at this point, but disengaging herself from Heda’s gaze is more difficult than expected. In her defense, the Head Girl hasn’t dropped her own stare and so they continue to watch one another for far longer than is comfortable.

“You are new to the school,” the Head Girl states after what feels like an eternity and Clarke swallows and nods as if it’s a question.

“Yes, Heda.”

The girl puckers her lips but there’s a tinge of humor in her eyes. “You don’t need to address me as Heda. I’m called Lexa.”

“Clarke.”

“Yes. I am aware.” She sounds amused and Clarke doesn’t blame her. Given that she’d called her by name only a few seconds ago. And that she probably makes it her business to know the names of every girl under her watch.

“Right. Yeah. Of course you know that.” Clarke glances desperately toward the door.

“Yes. I know your circumstances, too. It’s part of my responsibility.” There’s a split second where she hesitates but quickly presses on. “I’m sorry for your losses.”

Blood begins to reach her extremities again and the familiar sensation of shutting down and emotion suppression takes over. Finally. “Great. Thanks. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine.”

“I’m not worried about you,” comes the soft response and it’s so unexpectedly gentle that Clarke’s eyes flicker back up from where they’d fixed on the floor. “Your strength is apparent to anyone who looks. I only wanted to offer my condolences. And to let you know that you can talk to me anytime. As I said, it’s part of my responsibilities as head girl.”

Something about this wording irritates Clarke and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself snapping back something that’ll definitely get her in trouble. “That’s very kind,” she finally bites out. “I actually need to get to my first class, so—”

“It’s part of my responsibilities but I also offer it freely. As a…friend,” the girl interrupts and for just a second Clarke can see past the gear-shaped Head Girl pin on her lapel and the red cloak around her shoulders and the multiple girdles belted around her waist. For just a second she can see the girl - the girl who is beloved by all as Heda but known as Lexa by only few.

But the image passes so quickly that Clarke feels a little woozy and Heda stands and exits the auditorium before she can respond, the mantle of her cloak and duty swinging around her shoulders as she marches down the hallway, every step measured and purposeful. Two girls chatting in the corridor startle when they see her and dart away to their first lesson.

Clarke wonders again if she should be impressed or if she should be sad.

--

Miss Gauthier praises Clarke’s latest creative direction by the end of the next week, her faceless studies of the human body, the way she amplifies the musculature and blood vessels of the moving figures until they’re living medical textbook images. Clarke prefers to think of her charcoal sketches as the human form bare of skin and armor, free and lithe and sinuous.

But then again she also tries not to think about it much at all.

Chapter Text

The Head Girl isn’t technically part of a house but her bedroom is at the top of Flidais House, named for the Irish goddess of the woodlands and wild things. It feels appropriate, somehow; it’s far too easy to imagine Heda riding a chariot pulled by deer, her dark curls flowing behind her as they glide through the forest.

Clarke’s in Brigid House so she doesn’t tend to see a lot of the Head Girl on the weekends despite the fact that school is still very much in session even without their weekday classes. There’s breakfast in the main dining room and the quasi-optional Saturday Activities in the large gym and formal dinner each night. She asks Octavia about it when she can’t spot their fearless leader at any of the supper tables much less in her usual spot at High Table.

“Lexa? Oh, I think she managed to get the Headmistress to allow her Sunday evenings off from her duties this year. I imagine she has a lot of prep to catch up on since she’s so busy during the week.”

Raven snorts, stabbing a spear of boiled broccoli and flicking it under the table with all the ease of a girl who's been doing it for years. “One evening a week isn’t enough for that. There’s no way anyone could get through the amount of prep we’re given in a single evening. She’s got be up all night revising, and not just on the weekends.” She laughs at Clarke’s alarmed expression and glances up to High Table before disposing of another bite of overcooked vegetable. “What? You think she can do prepwork for six A-levels and the debate team and her DofE award and organise all the prefect duties in the measly hour she gets between her post-supper responsibilities and lights-out every night?”

“She’s doing six exams?” Clarke is taking three (and general studies); she doesn’t know anyone who’s sitting more than three. She actually thought three was the maximum. She’s exhausted from studying for three exams.

“Mmm, she petitioned the board to be allowed it. It’s why you don’t see her around on Saturdays either: she attends weekend classes at the grammar school for Psychology and… Politics, I think?” She looks to Octavia for confirmation and receives a nod. “It must be a burden, being practically perfect in every way.” Raven appears completely nonchalant about it all, maybe even a little bitter, but Octavia’s lips purse up in reprimand.

“Give her a break, Raven. You know she’s been through a lot.”

Clarke looks from friend to friend. They’re both looking a little uncomfortable now, back to picking at their bland dinner. “What do you mean, she’s been through a lot?”

“Look,” Octavia finally says quietly, “it’s not our story to tell. But I’ve known her since we were little girls and there’s a reason she works so hard, why she pushes herself to the limit.”

Clarke is a teenage girl and she wants nothing more than to drag everything out of Raven and Octavia, to tell them to spill the gossip and gasp over it together. But Clarke is also a teenage girl who’s gone through a lot herself and she backs off immediately, nodding and changing the subject to her and Octavia’s biology coursework write-up while trying to shovel enough cardboard chicken into her mouth to avoid getting a bollucking for food waste.

--

It’s past the usual audition times but Clarke decides she wants to join the chapel choir. There’s just enough free time in her evening that it’s too much and singing seems like it might be a good release. The Deputy Head is the director, a strict older man with a dark beard and an alleged allergy to deodorant, but Raven assures her that he’s got a good heart.  Somewhere beneath his terrifying exterior, anyway.

Clarke introduces herself one morning while chapel is dissembling. He tells her to sing a hymn in the middle of the courtyard as soon as she brings up the subject. It’s snowing and her brown woolen cloak is almost soaked through but she manages to warble out just enough of Amazing Grace that he seems satisfied she’s not tone deaf and tells her that granplei is every Wednesday night at seven-thirty.  Clarke has no idea what he’s talking about but nods and tries not to run when he dismisses her.

She follows Raven into the Old Hall after supper the following night, learning that granplei is Trigedasleng for practice or training, and they hover around the plastic chairs lined up with two rows facing the other two rows. Raven asks if she’s a first or a second because surely she’s not a third and she shakes her head, lost.

Dr. Peters sails in at 7:29 and the girls stand in perfect formation in front of their seats except for Clarke who is left afloat between the rows of singers. He regards her for so long that she thinks she’s already done something wrong (her hands begin to clench, readying for a fight) but then he nods to himself and asks Bree and Trina to move down a space so that Clarke can fit into a spot in the front row. She tries to insist that she’ll be fine on the end and that no one has to move for her but she’s met with lighthearted giggles from the choir; apparently their positions are an important hierarchy based on ability and year.

Music is passed out and Raven hands her a pencil for some reason, finger on lips from her position in the row behind Clarke, and granplei begins. There’s something satisfying about the sound of so many voices fused in unison during the simple warm-ups, about the fact that even Clarke’s rough voice falls into sync with the girls on either side of her and immediately begins bending to fit into what many have made one.

She doesn’t recognize the songs and her note-reading ability is almost nil but she’s able to follow along for the most part, mouthing the notes whenever she gets lost. Soon a warm feeling begins to envelop her chest, spreading down to her toes and into her fingertips. It’s a sense of connectedness and it hurts almost as much as it unravels some of the tension in the muscles that have strained to hold her chin high for too long.

The Head Girl leads the row across from her, her attention entirely on the director when he’s waving his hands in the air and using her own hand to drum out the musical signature like a metronome whenever he’s busy at the piano. The entire choir has their eyes on her during these moments, their secondary director and primary rhythm-giver.

As nine o’clock harkens, Dr. Peters asks the Head Girl to sing the solo for Ave Maria as their last song of the night and instructs the choir to come in on the penultimate stanza of page two. Clarke furiously thumbs through her music trying to figure out what a stanza is and trying to remember what penultimate means when all at once a solitary voice ascends to the beamed ceiling, soaring up and up until surely it can’t go any higher but then the heavens open and Clarke loses the ability to breathe.

Heda’s sung plea to the Virgin Mary is something ethereal, something that entrains Clarke’s whole body to freeze as if a single movement might make it stop.  She’s never heard a sound like this; it feels like she’s being lifted off her chair and into the stars. The music increases in volume and pitch, rising and rising until its crescendo. It hovers at the apex, a bird of prey preparing to dive into flight, and then with a final rebuff of the melody the voice hurls itself to Earth again, gliding from the skies and alighting with the easy grace of a master, dangerous and beautiful at the same time.

Clarke is pretty sure that her mouth has dropped open as she gapes at the Head Girl for the mere thirty seconds that seem like an undivided lifetime complete with happily-ever-after and pearly gates. The sight laid out in front of her eyes is somehow equally mesmerizing—Heda is no less than glowing as she sings. Her eyes are ablaze and her cheeks are pink and she looks so alive, so weightless for those thirty seconds. For half a minute Lexa is the Virgin Mary; she’s the angel Gabriel and she’s light incarnate, too. She’s so pure, her voice is so pure that Clarke can hardly stand it.

She isn’t the only one transfixed by their Head Girl’s voice, it would seem. It takes Dr. Peter’s exasperated sighing and pounding out the introductory notes again before the choir is able to join in at their parts.

It’s only after granplei is over and she steals another look at the Head Girl while she converses with Dr. Peters about timetables that Clarke notices the dark rings under her eyes for the first time, the bone-weariness that colors her skin and drowns the green of her irises. The music has stopped and Lexa is Heda again and there’s such a contrast between the two that Clarke feels like she’s struggling to catch a breath even though her lungs continue to take in air as normal.

--

When they return back to the boarding house there’s a small package on Clarke’s bed. It’s wrapped in brown grocery bag paper and the familiar United States Postal Service logo adorns the top right corner. She stares at it warily, nestled in what is now the minefield of her pink duvet, but curiosity wins out over the usual urge to distance herself from everything on that side of the pond and she tears into it. There’s a box of Fruit Roll-ups inside, a Hallmark card taped on top.

There isn’t much she wants to think about written inside the puppy-adorned ‘I Miss You’ card but she sees enough to figure out that it’s from Wells, a small heart before his name. It makes her want to cry, want but not to possess the ability, and she closes it up, tucks it back into its envelope, and shoves it under her bed.

She smiles at the box of snacks though, touched that he’d remembered their childhood tradition of Clarke trading her healthy orange slices for Wells’ sugary treats ever since kindergarten. It wasn’t until they were in middle school that he’d admitted to being mildly allergic to citrus.

Picking up the box, she’s about to tote the goods down to Octavia and Raven, recalling their discussion the other day of these not existing over here, when a tug in her chest makes her pause and sit back in the desk chair.  There’s still about an hour before lights have to be out and an idea corrodes her mind until it’s rusted over.

She closes the white curtains she’d sent away for on her first day at the school, unpacks her school bag and lines up her pencils and pastels on the desk.Takes off her wine-colored school jacket and drapes it over the door of her wardrobe. A poster is askew and she fixes it. Her new laptop keyboard is already dusty and she blows at it, wiping her sleeve on the screen to clear away the fingerprint smudges. It doesn’t work, only serving to smear them worse.

Every cell in her body wants to ignore the notion, to flee and hide and just get under the covers and resume her trashy romance novel with the overly-muscled dude on the front cover in her tiny single room and pretend she’s back at home, that everything is the same. But something else picks at her brain and before it can eat her away entirely she jumps up and slips her shoes back on, grabbing a couple of foil-wrapped sweets from the box and shoving them deep in her skirt pocket.

The housemistress looks up in surprise to see Clarke Griffin actually signing out for an evening but doesn’t say anything about it, only reminds her to be back by ten for curfew. Uncertainty plagues her the entire walk across the street and the entire arduous process of signing into Flidais and the entire climb up the back stairs. She tries to look like she knows what she’s doing, where she’s going, like she has a friend somewhere in this maze of corridors and hidden staircases. That she’s here all the time, that this isn't a big deal.

She reaches the third floor and keeps climbing.

It’s quieter up here on the fourth floor landing, all the giggles and knocks and sounds of girls huddled together on top of hot radiators on the floors below muffled. There’s a counter-height table under the window with a kettle and teabags and an oversized white door at the end of the hall. Clarke supposes this must be it, the lone turret that stands above the red brick house; she thinks of Rapunzel, all alone high up in her tower.

What is she doing? What are you doing, Clarke Griffin? What the—

Clarke raises her hand and knocks on the door before she can talk herself out of it. Her knuckles hit the wood only very lightly and she’s not too surprised when nothing happens. It’s her excuse to turn away, fully justified for at least trying, but instead her hand raps again, louder this time. This time the door is opened promptly, a girl with long hair and glasses poking her head out the crack, her mouth already parted and a soft smile stretched around it.

It takes Clarke a second longer than it should to realize that she hasn’t, in fact, knocked on the wrong door and that this pajama-clad girl is, in fact, the Head Girl.

Her mouth snaps shut when she sees it’s Clarke, straightening up and pushing wild curls behind her ears. Opening the door more fully, Heda stands with her feet slightly planted apart and her shoulders stiff; the transformation is abrupt enough that Clarke almost forgets she’s clad in baggy pink pajama bottoms and a vest top.

“Clarke. How can I help you? Forgive me, I thought you’d be one of the younger girls.”

For a long moment Clarke stands mute but the Head Girl, to her credit, maintains her politely open expression the entire length. “I… Sorry, I know you're probably revising. I just got a care package from a friend in America.  And I thought you might like a pick-me-up? Or a break from the studying?” She’s babbling at this point and only makes it worse when she thrusts forward the two lone fruit roll-ups in her hand like she’s paying offering to a deity or trying to satiate a growling beast. (She hasn't ascertained which description is more appropriate yet. Maybe both of them.) 

Heda blinks.

“You brought me a…snack?”

“Um. Yeah.” She looks down at the foil wrappers in her hand. “Sorry, yeah, you probably have no idea what these are. They look like tampons. They’re not.” Clarke wonders if she can kick herself off the balcony to the left of the Head Girl’s door.

Lexa looks just as confused and awkward as Clarke feels but she opens her door wider and props it open with her leg. Behind her is a large room, white and spacious and absolutely immaculate. “That’s very kind of you. What are they? If not tampons.”

Clarke almost swears Lexa’s trying to make a joke but she’s not sure enough to laugh. “My friends here told me that you guys don’t get fruit roll-ups over in the UK. And I was sent some in a box from my friend. In New York. To share. So I wanted to…share.”

“Thank you, then. Come in,” Lexa finally says after a long pause. She swallows when Clarke's muscles are sluggish in responding to their action signals. “Unless you were only dropping them off. In which case—”

“No no, I thought you might want a break, too, I mean, I know—”

“Yes, I could do with a break.”

“Are you sure, because I just realized that choir just got out so you probably haven’t started yet so—”

“Come in, Clarke,” the head girl finally orders lightly, a smile playing around the edges of her mouth, and Clarke smiles, too.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Clarke hands the fruit snacks to Lexa and shuffles past her into the bedroom, aware all at once of the weight of her arms and legs and how her shoulders want nothing more than to slouch forward and her hands wonder what their natural stance is because floppy by her sides makes her feel like a ragdoll. But she also shouldn’t cross them across her body so she eventually settles for adjusting her ponytail.

Lexa perches on the edge of her desk, a simple unfinished thing that sits under a circular window, and Clarke eventually bites the bullet and plops down on the perfectly-made bed like she’s a hundred times more confident than she is. She tucks her foot under herself and then quickly puts in back on the floor, forgetting that she’s still wearing shoes.

The head girl watches her quietly.

“You have a nice room,” Clarke finally comes up with to break the silence.

“Thank you. I like it too - it’s nice to see over the trees.”

Clarke stands to look out the window but it’s dark and, well, that’s a patently unproductive exercise. “I bet. My room looks onto the trash cans—rubbish bins—between the houses. So any view would be nice.”

There’s a stack of books on Lexa’s desk taller than Clarke and even the papers and booklets that make up her prepwork are in neat piles. A bulky old laptop that looks like it’s seen better days is plugged into the wall but it’s dusted and the screen is clean of fingerprints and smudges.

Lexa nods but doesn’t add anything to Clarke’s chatter. “What are you working on right now?” Clarke asks next, nodding at the desk.

“Greek.”

Letting out a nervous noise of disbelief, Clarke looks up at the head girl. “Greek? You can even study that?”

“Dr. Peters privately tutors me and another girl from the Grammar School after school hours. He read Latin and Greek at Cambridge.”

“Oh. I had no idea. Why?”

Lexa raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Why do you study Greek? It’s such an unusual subject. Are you planning to study languages at uni?”

“No. I'll be sitting for a PPE degree.”

Clarke’s been going through the same UCAS university application process all the other girls are going through but she hasn’t quite caught on to all the terminology yet. It’s a common struggle ever since she boarded that flight to London two months ago, to be honest.

“Philosophy, politics, and economics,” Lexa supplies at Clarke's blank expression.

“Oh. That’s cool. Sounds like that would be useful for a lot of things.”

“Yes. That is the goal.”

Lexa volunteers no more information. Instead of asking more questions, Clarke settles for some sharing in return. It’s good doctor-patient practice, or at least someone once told her that, a long time ago. The Head Girl has her hands clasped in front of her and Clarke does the same.

“Awesome. I’m applying for medicine.”

“That’s a very worthy direction.”

“Thanks. It’s the only direction I’ve ever been headed.”

“Did…is being a doctor something that runs in your family?” Lexa asks, averting her eyes and pushing together a stack of papers on the desktop.

“Yep.” Clarke notices a loose thread on her skirt from where she’d hemmed it up on the second day, discovering that not a single other girl wears their plaid skirts at the regulation knee length. For most of them, it’s because they’ve owned the same skirts for years and they’ve grown, but given how easily Clarke was able to get advice on how to sew it up without creating bunches, she’s pretty sure that’s only the official explanation. She tugs at it.

“Will you be staying in the UK for your degree or going back to America?”

“Here, I think.”

There’s more thick silence but Lexa thankfully breaks it this time. “I'm hoping to pursue a political career.”

“Yeah? What kind of politics?”

“Social policy. Human rights, specifically.”

“Wow. That’s serious stuff.”

“Yes. I think so.”

Determined not to let another silence metastasize, Clarke reaches for a foil package and dangles it in front of the head girl. “So. You want to experience what Americans advertise as a fruit snack?”

“Should I be worried?” She actually looks slightly wary and Clarke laughs.

“Nah. But there are very specific ways you have to eat it. Rules of elementary school you have to follow.”

“Are you going to reveal these sacred rules?”

Clarke tears open the wrapper and hands Lexa the plastic coated tube. “Okay, first you have to be really careful when you unroll it. It’s super easy to rip.”

Lexa’s adorable trying to unwrap the damn thing, all serious expression and tongue at the corner of her mouth. When it’s unfurled she grins up at her teacher and Clarke swears her heart stops beating for a second. “Now what?”

“Well, you have two options. See all those punched out shapes? You can peel them off and eat them one by one.”

“Or..?”

“Or you can do it the right way. Which is to tear it in half—”

“You told me it was really important not to tear it when I was opening it.”

Clarke grins. “Yeah. Maybe I just wanted to watch you struggle.”

“Clarke,” Lexa sighs in exasperation.

“Heda,” Clarke teases right back and she doesn’t miss the flush that creeps up Lexa’s chest. It draws her eyes down to the thin vest top for a moment and for a moment she loses her train of thought. She clears her throat. “Anyway, the best way is to tear it in half and wrap it around one of your fingers. Usually one on your left hand or whatever one you don’t write with.”

Lexa does as instructed, taking the strawberry confection and twisting it around her left pointer finger. “This is a very odd sweet, Clarke.”

“And now you suck on it. While you work or read or whatever. Like a lollipop. That’s a word here, right?”

Nodding in response to her question, Lexa takes a deep breath like she’s going into battle and takes a tentative lick of her finger. Her eyes widen. “Oh. It’s good, actually.” She looks genuinely surprised and Clarke laughs again, can’t remember the last time she’s laughed so much since coming to England.

Her mirth is cut off with a strangle when Lexa puts her entire finger into her mouth and swirls it around, quiet smacking sounds seeming obscenely loud all of a sudden. Something grips her chest and makes her feel a little lightheaded, a little tingly. She watches the girl hum with pleasure and wonders why her mouth is so dry. Her throat must be parched after all that singing today.

“Yep, you’ve—you’ve got it. Congratulations on your first fruit roll-up experience.”

“It’s brilliant,” Lexa sighs, finally taking her wet finger out of her mouth and gazing at it happily. She licks her lips and fuck what the hell is this ache deep down in Clarke’s body? It’s almost similar to how she felt when she was with— she stops her traitorous train of thought by blowing up the track, leaping to her feet.

“Awesome. Listen, I know you have a lot of work to do and it’s probably getting close to curfew, so I should go.”

The Head Girl stands, her posture straight once more. Yet again, Clarke notices the color dull in her eyes only in contrast to how they’d been a moment ago and it only adds to the odd weight currently crushing her upper body. “Thank you, Clarke. It was a pleasant surprise to have you stop by.”

“No problem. Just wanted to share the wealth. You know, with everyone. No one should have to go through life without a fruit roll-up.”

She turns to leave, glancing back for an awkward wave when she’s past the threshold. Lexa moves her arms behind her body, a hint of a grimace forming when the sticky fruit snack clearly rubs across her clean hand. Clarke holds her smirk until she’s down a flight of stairs and it’s enough to erase any strange feelings from her mind’s eye for the moment.

--

Clarke’s sketches feature anatomically-vivid collar bones and clavicles and long slim fingers for the next week and she doesn’t bother analysing that either.

Chapter Text

Despite never really thinking about it, Clarke realizes that she’s acquired a lot of implicit stereotypes about all-girls’ schools and the girls therein. Quite a few turn out to be laughably wrong, like that the girls are bitchy or snobbish or obsessed with their looks. There are certainly instances of all of those but it’s rare; most girls are down-to-earth, inclusive, and the lack of boys actually seems to make the girls care less about their appearance. The stereotype that no boys leads to less distraction in class is also patently untrue: if anything, having no testosterone-fueled attention seekers makes the girls more chatty in class, speaking up and arguing their positions all the time without interruption. It’s wonderful, even if the teachers often despair that they’ll never get through the syllabus in time for exams.

There are other stereotypes that turn out to have at least a little grounding, however. Most notably the fact that—probably thanks in part to the isolated position of their campus relative to town and other schools—few girls have a lot of experience interacting with boys, much less sleeping with them.  Clarke discovers this in the next few days when she suddenly and inexplicably has boys on the mind (thus fulfilling another stereotype all on her own, that the girls are wracked with sexual frustration) and she can’t find anyone with their own stories to giggle with under their duvets at night.

Octavia and Raven are oddly silent, discomfited even, when Clarke drops a few casual sexual references into their conversations and even the loud boisterous girls down the hallway blush furiously when Clarke asks where they find guys to hang out with.

“Sometimes we have dances with the boys’ school in town?” Jessica tries, failing spectacularly to convince Clarke that these boys from are in any way worth kissing, much less dating.

“Amanda has a boyfriend in town.”

“She met him before she started here; they’ve been dating for years.”

“Kath has a brother who’s really fit…”

“He’s like, fifteen, Mischa.”

“I hear he went down on Roma when she was on her period,” Rebecca chimes in disgustedly and Clarke has to scrunch her nose up in agreement.

But she seeks out Roma during Afternoon Tea and finally discovers the tiny group of girls who’ve managed to straddle (quite literally, it would seem) boarding school and sex. And it’s really just sex for this group of girls, all anonymous fumblings in club bathrooms over Easter break and blow jobs like they’re handshakes. It’s not exactly Clarke’s scene but she’s also not used to feeling this much pent-up sexual energy so she decides that maybe this is what her new scene should be. She follows them to a dodgy bar one Thursday evening when they’ve all requested a leave of absence to attend a falsified birthday party at the home of one of the girls whose parents live in town.

Kissing is apparently snogging and snogging is apparently pulling and Clarke pulls several guys that night. Their lips are chapped and their fingers are like sandpaper and when a guy in military fatigues kisses her on a barely-secluded part of the dance floor after too many VK Blues Clarke feels absolutely nothing. 

Heda sits on her throne at Friday assembly and Clarke sits on her hands, studying the interlocking of the parquet floor. She doesn’t accept Roma’s invitation to go out dancing again the next night and she shelves her oil paintings of the naked male body in Art.

Maybe she’s not as sexually frustrated as she thought. She’s just not sure what she is.

--

She throws herself into other things.

The Brits don’t really celebrate Halloween, Clarke is aghast to learn. They theoretically do, sort of, but no one dresses up beyond the half-hearted pair of devil’s horns or witches’ hat and there’s definitely no trick-or-treating or parties. So she takes matters into her own hands, proposing a small Brigid Halloween party in House Meeting that quickly builds steam until it’s suddenly an all-school party in the Formal Dining Hall.

The Headmistress is strangely supportive of the plans, especially given she’s only just stopped giving Clarke the evil eye about the whole Art/DofE coup; she even allocates them a small budget and calls for volunteers to help organize in chapel one morning. All at once, Clarke has thirty girls aged eleven to eighteen clambering to create music playlists and paint decorations on large strips of butcher paper. Despite never having done something like this before, she manages to delegate committees and protocols and shopping lists; the dining hall is bedecked in orange and black and cobwebs days before the 31^st.

The school is humming with costume ideas and arguments over duplicates and printed patterns for sew-it-yourself nun’s wimples and doctor’s scrubs. The one rule of the party is that everyone has to come as an influential female figure in history, women who made a difference somehow. It’s Clarke’s idea and she’s quite proud of it, remembering all the slutty nurses and slutty policewomen and other excuses to reduce perfectly strong characters into maximal amounts of bare skin from her past Halloween experiences. Not that a single girl would dare show up to a school party showing even an inch of cleavage, but still. She’s had enough of damsels in distress and passive Disney princesses.

(It’s oddly the only part of the party planning that the Headmistress objected to at first. Clarke can’t quite figure out why.)

Halloween day proceeds as usual, all the girls in uniform during the day and the only hint of the holiday being the pumpkin soup they’re served for lunch and For All the Saints being sung in morning chapel. Instead of the usual two-hour afternoon prep period at four o’clock though, they’re excused early and the whole school scurries back to their houses to prepare.

Clarke’s been too busy to contemplate making her own costume, the rental is safely hanging on the back of her door, so she spends the afternoon putting out metaphorical costume fires instead. A literal fire, too, when a girl in Lower Four is far too excited to wait for a free slot in the toaster and decides that the best solution is to squish her slice of bread in with her friend’s piece. Between the smoke alarm evacuation, hair curling, and last minute facepaint touchups, she’s only got a few minutes left when she finally manages to get back to her room and slip into the dusky-rose dress.

She’s seriously in luck that it fits since she hadn’t even unpacked it when it arrived yesterday but the zipper is too high-necked to do up by herself and she holds it together with one hand over her shoulder as she goes down a floor to find help.

Raven cocks her head when she sees Clarke’s costume, a mischievous look appearing in her eyes. “Hey there, Princess.”

Ignoring the taunt for the moment, Clarke squeals instead over Raven’s astronaut costume she’d stayed up several nights to make, poking at the American flag patch she’d managed to embroider on the sleeve and flipping down the shield on the plastic helmet to block the teasing eyes. 

“I’m Isabella of France—she’s not a princess, I’ll have you know,” Clarke pouts as Raven fumbles with the thick white gloves to regain her sight. She’d stayed up quite a few nights herself, tearing through Octavia’s textbooks for ideas. Who knew British history was so fascinating? Or so…long?  “She was a serious bad-ass, actually. When the—”

“Whatever you say, Princess,” Raven smirks when she finally tears at the glove with her teeth and flicks up the visor. “History schmistory. Let’s go party.” Clarke sighs and doesn’t bother continuing her nerdy lecture to her English friends on their own history (she’s pretty sure they know it all, anyway).  She runs her finger over the ‘Collins’ name label on the spacewalk suit and her smile dampens for a moment but it quickly returns, almost entirely genuine.

“Meaningful words, Eileen Collins,” she laughs and Raven salutes with a cheeky grin.

“First woman to pilot a space shuttle and to command one. Take that, Frenchie.”

“Don’t listen to her; you look brilliant, Clarke,” Octavia interjects and Clarke’s jaw drops as she takes in Octavia’s costume for the first time.

She knows Octavia is skilled at sewing—she’s doing an A-level in Textile, so obviously—but this is above and beyond simple experience. She’s dressed as as Sacagawea, the Shoshone woman and honorary sergeant who led a couple of basically useless white guys across the uncharted United States single-handedly, and if Clarke had to venture a guess, it’s as historically accurate as it possibly can be. The faux-leather dress actually looks practical, down to her ankles, and there’s intricate beadwork and fringes all over it. Her hair is in two neat plaits and there’s a papoose strapped to her back.

It’s not a sexy costume, at least in terms of tightness or skin on show, but wow. Clarke almost feels bad for how long her eyes linger over her friend’s body. 

“Fuck, Octavia…” she breathes and has to forcibly snap her mouth closes after a moment. “You look amazing. Great choice of powerful woman. Power is really sexy on you.”

Octavia’s gaze shifts over to Raven for a split second before she smiles at Clarke. “Thanks. Yours is…an unusual choice, but you pull it off well.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment but I’m going to take it as one.”

“It’s a compliment, trust me. Should we head over?”

Raven says nothing during their exchange and Clarke furrows her brow before shrugging it off. Sometimes these two are absolutely impossible to read and she’s too distracted right now to mediate whatever argument they’re having this time.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Clarke says, tugging at Raven’s hand to get them moving. It breaks whatever spell has settled on the room and they gather their last minute things. Octavia helps her with the zipper and they exit the room to follow the mass exodus out of the house to the main school.

“Don’t forget your crown, Princess,” Raven shouts out from behind them, holding out the plastic diadem from where it had been forgotten in their room. Rolling her eyes, Clarke stomps back inside and grabs the crown and a thick black marker from Raven’s disaster zone of a desk. She writes ‘Isabelle of France’ in big letters across the brim.

“There. You know, Sacagawea was a princess, too. Technically,” Clarke mutters darkly and she sets the crown on her head.

“Too late,” the astronaut crows back, lowering her visor once more. “Only room for one nickname per friendship group.”

Clarke pretends to be annoyed but it’s really the last thing she feels right now, joking with her friends on their way to a party like any other teenage girls.

--

Supper has been replaced by a buffet in the Formal Dining Hall, an unusual event in itself, and Clarke is thrilled that the celebrations are already in full-force by the time they arrive. She passes a Marie Curie and a Mother Teresa and at least two girls dressed as Florence Nightingale. It’s only been a couple of months since she joined the school so she’s a little surprised how strong her sense of pride is in these girls, at the level of enthusiasm they bring to everything. The stereotype of female-only schools being made up of rabid feminists is a blatant myth, at least in its derogatory sense, but Clarke decides that if belief in female empowerment is part of feminism (she’s not entirely sure what feminism actually is, if she’s honest) maybe it’s not entirely inaccurate. At least at Polis, anyway.

She loves it.

The girls stand around with plates of finger food, mostly segregated by year but not exclusively, swaying their hips to the music playing at a moderate level from the speakers. It’s not crazy or wild by any means (there are enough teachers to prevent that ever happening) but the conversation is animated and it’s a hundred times more fun than they’d usually be having at this time of day, anyway. Loads of students and even a few teachers come up to Clarke and thank her for putting this together or to show off their outfits and the feeling of warmth in her chest increases to the point where she wonders if someone has slipped vodka into the punch (she knows there is exactly zero percent chance of this.)

After everyone’s had time to eat, the Headmistress claps three times and the girls silence after a minute or so, turning their attention to the stage where she stands behind a podium. Her hair is pulled back as always but today she’s wearing a Tudor-looking wimple on top of her head. She’s probably supposed to be Elizabeth I but with the permascowl on the woman’s face Clarke can’t help but think she looks more like Bloody Mary. The scar running along her cheek from an old fencing injury only accentuates the epitaph.

“Happy Halloween, girls,” the curly-haired woman says stiffly and for a brief moment Clarke wonders if they’re supposed to echo it back in response. Luckily the Headmistress presses on. “Polis has never held a Halloween party and I’m so pleased we’re finally getting on board with more modern times. Traditions are all well and good but being a part of the world is becoming more and more of a priority at this school. There will hopefully be more modernizations of this sort in the following months and I’m confident you’ll enjoy them just as much.”

There’s something ominous about her words but from a glance around her, it doesn’t seem anyone else has picked up on it so Clarke blinks the feeling away and smiles back at the faces that catch her eye.

“Thank you to Clarke Griffin in Upper Six and all the girls she led in making this evening a success. None of this would be possible without her vision and competent leadership skills.”

Clarke blushes and waves weakly when every head swivels to look at her. She’s still wary of the Headmistress’s sudden support even if she can’t put a finger on why.

“And now with a word from your Head Girl who has, I’m sure, enjoyed her break from event planning—” Clarke definitely gets a weird vibe as the Headmistress says those words, “—I’ll leave you to your celebrations. The party will end at nine and I expect all you back in your houses and lights out by eleven o’clock unless you are in the fourth form or below, in which case I’m sorry to say that it’s ten o’clock as usual.” The younger girls groan.

There’s a rustling in the crowd and the center section of girls moves aside. Clarke scans for the familiar brown uniform and red cloak of Heda but what appears on stage is a shock, even having seen the girl in cotton-candy pink pajama bottoms and glasses a couple of weeks ago.

She’s Boudica.

She’s fucking Boudica.

Her hair is in dozens of braids and her face and bare arms are covered in war paint and tattoos and she’s wearing a sleeveless leather tunic and fur-trimmed cape and gold torque necklace and there’s a belt that cinches it all together and fuck she’s fucking Boudica.

Clarke is pretty sure she’s never given a second thought to the aesthetic attractiveness of Celtic warrior queens until this exact instant and she’s even more sure, what with Octavia’s outfit as well, she’s witnessing the genesis of a lifelong personal kink for leather. Fuck.

Fuck.

The worst part is that somehow the Head Girl doesn’t look that different from her usual self. It’s like she’s not even dressed up, like she was born for this kind of armor and raw, vicious power; like it’s always been hidden away under her cloak and uniform. Like she’s finally taken her true skin. 

“I was unaware that I would be called upon to say anything tonight,” she starts and the entire room is shock-still. The Headmistress looks equally shocked as anyone else, no doubt imagining her star pupil would be in her steadfast uniform and clean face.

“But if I must say words this All Hallow’s Eve, let them be these.”

A pin could drop and they’d all go deaf.

“Stedaunon don gon we en kikon ste enti.” She raises her fist in the air and translates louder and with even more power behind every syllable. The bronze bracelet around her bicep flashes under the florescent lights. “The dead are gone and the living are hungry!”

She’s the lit match and they all explode into fireworks; the resounding cheer shakes the chandelier, rivets of light dancing over Heda’s face as she stands over her troops, arms behind her back and chin as high as the sky.

After a minute she finally moves to quiet their whooping and they calm down quickly, although it does take a few seconds. Out of the corner of her eye, Dr. Peters has joined in the ruckus with a few slow claps of his own, as have several other teachers.  

Heda finishes with the usual school valediction once they're silent again. “Ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in!”

“Ai ste yuj!” the school hollers back.

Clarke's unable to assert her own strength at the moment.

When the Head Girl steps off stage Clarke finds her legs moving in that direction without any input from her brain. She feels like a moth to a flame. If she were smarter she'd probably go find a light bulb or something safer than the wildfire of this girl’s eyes but she keeps pressing through the throng, all self-preservation instincts apparently vanquished by the warrior queen of the largest and last uprising against the Roman invasion in British history. 

Her eyes seem bigger than ever behind the war paint and they’re almost black, all traces of green relegated to the far outreaches of her irises. As usual Heda waits patiently for Clarke to speak first and as usual Clarke barrels right in.

“You look amazing.”

“Thank you, Clarke. I was pleased to find that the drama department has an extensive collection of props.” Boudica roves her eyes up Clarke’s costume and cocks her head to the side. Clarke forgets how to exhale. “I like your costume, too. You are well suited to being the She-wolf of France.”

“How did you know who…”

She smirks, languid and deep and fuck fuck fuck. “You have it written on your crown, Queen Isabelle.”

Clarke crinkles her nose. “Still. You know who she is. And you’re the first person who didn’t assume it’s just a pretty pink princess costume.”

“She was a princess I suppose, at least at birth.” Heda’s eyes drift up to Clarke’s crown and back again. “I find her far more compelling as a queen, though. The first and only queen to order the execution of her inept king. She may have been known for being violent and bloody but the people loved her and no one could ever doubt her influence on the course of history. She did what she had to do.”

Clarke swallows and lets her eyes settle on the Head Girl badge that's fastening her cape together. “Um, yeah. Thanks.”

Heda regards her silently again and Clarke tries to remember words. Any words. A single word. All she can think about is the tattoos on Lexa’s arms, how she wants to feel the texture of war paint, the tattoos under her fingertips.  How fucked she really, really is.

“Your party appears to be a success; well done on its execution,” Heda adds when Clarke does little other than open and close her mouth. Clarke wonders when Lexa last attended an event at this school that she didn’t help plan, much less take the lead; wonders whether Lexa views it as a threat or a relief.

“It’s mostly down to the girls,” she finally manages, clearing her head by wrenching her eyes away from how tiny the Head Girl’s waist is beneath the belt and to the room at all the strong historical women chattering about the chocolate profiteroles and ice skating next week.

“Under your impetus and watchful eye. Take the compliment; you deserve it.” The Head Girl starts to turn away but stops herself, eyes roaming over Clarke’s costume again. “Even if you were ‘just’ a pretty pink princess, I’d assume appearances can be deceiving.”

She leans in, her lips dangerously close to Clarke’s ear; Clarke hears her next conspiratorial words as if underwater.

“But you could never be anything less than a Queen, Clarke.”

And with a single nod of her head, she swivels on her heel and walks away, her cape swooshing in the air behind her and then settling across her shoulder again. The crowd parts for their Commander and her waist-length hair sails behind her like a royal robe of its own.

Boudica’s unification of the British tribes and 100,000-strong revolt against Rome may have fallen eventually but Clarke’s certain it wouldn’t have if this girl had been at the helm.

Clarke feels like the defeated civilization in either scenario.

fuck fuck fuck.

--

Another all-girls’ school stereotype has some foundation in truth, Clarke discovers when she pushes open Raven and Octavia’s door after the party and finds two groundbreaking female explorers charting vast and unknown frontiers.

She closes the door again and refuses to put any labels to the stirring of feelings in her chest.

Pauna the black school cat features in all of Clarke’s drawings for the next week.  

Chapter Text

Clarke is chosen to recite part of the liturgy for Remembrance Sunday, the day celebrating the armistice and end of World War I. The Headmistress calls her into her office after supper and gives her a laminated copy of the words, simpering about an honor it is for Clarke to be chosen, that it’s never been a new girl before much less one who isn’t British.

It sits uneasily but her friends assuage her concerns, reminding her that she’s become an important presence in the school since September and that she deserves it. She wants to disagree but she’s also not blind to the influence she’s somehow cobbled together when she argues about the importance of healthier food choices in the lunchtime rota or her organization of a school-wide first aid seminar after a girl chokes on dry meat at dinnertime and no one knows what to do.

So she shrugs and starts memorising the lines. There aren’t too many, luckily, and she knows she could just read the words off the card, but while she’s certainly not shy or stage-fright she does tend to forget to engage both her brain and her mouth when faced with large crowds. Better to be prepared.

Harder to forget or prepare for, apparently, is the Head Girl. She’s everywhere. Every time Clarke turns a corner the red cloak seems to be waiting; tennis and granplei and on her prep-time rounds in the Sixth Form annex. Heda even visits Brigid House one evening to check on a younger girl with a Games injury. Clarke doesn’t meet her eye in the entryway and it doesn’t seem like it’s being solicited anyway.

But still.

Why is she nowhere when Clarke’s looking and everywhere when she’s not?

It’s only when Raven asks whether Clarke needs any help with the Trigedasleng pronunciations of her Remembrance Day speech that she knows she has no choice other than to seek out the Head Girl. She’s probably making a mountain out of a molehill but something seems off and Heda is the only one who might be able to shed some light on the truth.

Supper ends at its usual 7:15 and it’s a rare evening that Clarke doesn’t have any activities or responsibilities afterward so she goes back to House instead of sitting with the other girls in the Annex common room to watch oddly-lit soaps while really chattering about every subject except the actual show. She stalks back and forth in her room, changing her sheets to the clean ones just delivered back from the school laundry only to change them right back to the softer old ones, putting DVDs into her laptop only to take them out again, lining up her colored pencils only to tap them against a blank page in her sketchbook.

An hour and a half later she can’t wait any longer, zipping up the jacket she never removed and slipping her feet back into the shoes still waiting by the door. She knows the Head Girl has administrative duties until nine o’clock but she signs into Flidais anyway and props herself up outside the white door up in the tall tower until she returns.

When she finally hears noises in the stairwell below, they’re quiet. Slow. The steps are more of a trudge than a stride and Clarke wonders if she’ll be in trouble if the housemistress finds her loitering outside the Head Girl’s room. She jumps to her feet but when the door to the landing swings open, it’s Lexa after all, her shoulders slumped and her eyes half-closed; she looks as though she’s been crucified and then told to carry her own cross back down the hill when it’s all over.

Of course Heda straightens when she notices a blonde girl encroaching on her private space, pulls herself together with energy that seems to come from nowhere. Clarke feels awful for witnessing what’s almost certainly a side to the Head Girl she doesn’t want seen and she drops her eyes to the ground as if they’ve been there the whole time.

“Clarke.”

“Oh, hi! Good, you’re here; I was looking for you!” Clarke’s voice is so chipper that it grates against her own ears.

She swears Lexa sways for a moment but she pretends not to notice. “How can I help?”

Shit, she really doesn’t want to bother Lexa with this right now, especially since it’s probably nothing, but she can’t think of a single other excuse why she’s here. Clarke sighs. “Sorry. I just…I had a question for you. About the Remembrance Day speech I have to do.”

Lexa nods, her eyes darkening slightly. “Yes?”

“You know what? It can wait. Never mind. Sorry to disturb you.”

“It’s fine, Clarke. What is your question?”

“Look, you seem exhausted. It’s nothing that can’t wait until the morning.”

Lexa’s voice turns low and almost dangerous; Clarke can practically see her hackles rise. “I’m fine, Clarke. What is your question?”

She gulps and makes a note never to insinuate Heda’s weakness ever again, even if it’s not a weakness at all. There’s no way she can possibly get enough sleep, no way she’s been able to rest or have a few minutes of free time being a normal teenager for years now. Maybe even longer.

“Sorry, sorry. Just… I’m confused why I was given the speech. Octavia said the girl who’s next in line to be the head girl usually does it, and that’s obviously not me so...”

Lexa shrugs but the tension in her shoulders doesn’t abate. “That’s not always true. Often, but not it’s not set in stone.”

“Oh. Okay then.” This is Clarke’s opening to smile and nod and leave. She doesn’t. “But why is the speech in English instead of Trigedasleng like I’m told it’s always been?”

“What?” Heda growls, quick and fierce as a cornered animal, and while Clarke’s felt awe in the Commander’s presence since she started at the school, it’s the first time she’s actually been a little afraid, too. “It’s in English?”

“Yes?” Clarke takes a step back when Heda advances forward like she’s going in for the kill. She stops herself when she’s halfway across the landing to Clarke, though, and takes long deep breaths through her nose.

“I was unaware it had been changed,” the Head Girl finally forces out in a measured tone. “Do you have a copy of what you were given?”

Clarke holds up the shiny paper wordlessly and she nods once.

“Join me,” Heda orders and Clarke has to jog to keep up with her stride as she enters her bedroom and closes the door soundlessly behind them.

The Head Girl paces and Clarke stands by the entrance, folding her hands in front of her body for lack of a better stance. The atmosphere is charged and Clarke instinctually stays still to avoid electrocution.

“Is there something weird going on behind the scenes? Because the Headmistress is giving me the creeps for some reason but no one else seems to notice.”

The Head Girl stops pacing and exhaustion seems to crest over her again. “Your intuition is impressive.” She sighs and lets the wall prop her up as she slides down it, sitting with her legs in front of her and two fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. 

Clarke waits.

“May I trust you with a confidence?”

She wants to laugh at Lexa’s strangely formal choice of words but she’s aware it would probably be fueled by 90% nervousness. Nodding soberly instead, she drops to sit on her knees on the other side of the room, folding her hands in her lap and picking at the cuticles.

“When Nia took over from the previous headmistress five years ago she immediately instigated a number of changes to the school infrastructure.” It’s strange to hear the Headmistress referred to by her first name, but then again only a couple of weeks ago Clarke felt the same about Heda.

“It wasn’t a surprise and many changes were welcomed, the natural progression with a new head, but it over time it became evident that while many of her initiatives were positive—the changeover to a cafeteria-style lunch instead of a formal seated one every day, for example, and greater weekend flexibility to leave the school grounds— there were a great more that resulted in more harm than good. Most notably, she slowly amplified the importance of House Competitions. We’d always had them but they were friendly and based more on exam and sports results than anything else. Being awarded the House Cup at the end of term just meant a couple of boxes of Heroes or Celebrations for the winning house during House Meeting.”

Clarke nods, imagining the scene well. Those boxes of assorted chocolate candies seem to feature as a prize for almost everything at Polis.

“By the end of her second year, Nia had invented a complicated system of points that could be awarded by the Prefects and Heads of House for anything from showing up in a clean uniform to writing the best essay in a contest voted on by the entire school in Assembly. And for the first time, points could be taken away, too – houses were demerited for showing up late to supper, late prep work, and even dirty fingernails.”

Clarke glances down surreptitiously and tucks her fingers into the carpet.

“The Prefects and Heads of Houses got to take away points, too?”

“Yes, as did the Head Girl as the highest authority in the matter. It gave the school officials a great deal of power, especially since they could award and deduct points from any house, not only their own. And absolute power tends to corrupt absolutely, no matter the scale.”

“But I mean, did it really matter? In the end, did winning the House Cup or whatever it was actually mean anything?” Clarke chews on the side of a nail. 

“Never underestimate the addictive properties of a system of points, Clarke. Even without a clear goal, we’re all painfully susceptible to ranking systems when there are frequent, immediate, and yet intermittent rewards. Operant conditioning at its finest.” Lexa's shoulders are squared, even leaning against a way. Her hands are still. 

“Huh. Like video games, I guess?"

“Exactly.” Lexa’s eyes soften for a moment but then she takes a deep breath and continues. “In any case, there was something at stake; most of the new changes like going into town on Saturdays became only available to the winning house for the following term. They were the only ones allowed to use the computer lab as well, and were excused from several cleaning duties around the school. Needless to say, we all fought viciously for points and even more so for ways to deduct them from other houses. Girls took any opportunity to turn in their fellow students for the smallest offence and there were even a few instances of girls lying about the start times of events so others would be late. Jus drein jus daun.” Lexa glances over at Clarke. “Blood must have blood,” she translates. “It’s like saying an eye for an eye.”

“It became like civil war, houses turning against houses. And as if that wasn’t enough, houses began to turn on themselves, something I can only assume Nia took advantage of when she introduced within-House competitions by the end of her third year.”

“But why would she want to promote that?” Clarke asks, utterly confused.

Lexa hesitates, studying Clarke intently for a long pause. Whatever she’s looking for, she evidently finds and she takes a deep breath before continuing. “My suspicions are unverified and I know she came from a boys’ school previously where such competitions took a central place in school life, so she was likely following that precedent. But I also believe she found the resulting strife to be a factor she could use to her advantage, one that weakened us from the inside so she could initiate even greater changes.

“Like what?”

“It was never made clear. I overheard her speaking to the Bursar one day about the school’s non-profit status.” Clarke raises her eyebrows, unaware of this fact. “We take our charitable model seriously at Polis, with any profit above and beyond what is required for running costs is funneled back into scholarship programs. Almost a fifth of girls here are fully-funded as a result, with priority going to girls from high-risk and traditionally underrepresented backgrounds.”

“Wow. Seriously?”

“Yes. And more are partially funded or have their fees subsidized.”

“Was the Headmistress trying to change that, do you think?”

“I have never seen proof. That was my worst-case fear and it was only a suspicion; noting ever came of it. There are many other explanations.”

Biting her lip, Clarke thinks this over. “But whatever the case, why would she need to go to all those lengths? Surely as Headmistress she could just go ahead and make whatever changes she wanted.”

“The Headmistress has less authority than you might think. All her major decisions have to go through the Board of Governors. And the Governors are mostly Old Girls, a group rarely enthusiastic about radical changes to their beloved school. So Nia would have had to convince them that the school was no less than falling apart for them to agree to any type of major overhaul.”

This is just as compelling a story than most of the ones in Octavia’s history textbook; Clarke waits for the climax, rapt.

“The final straw was at Speech Day at the end of Trinity term two years ago when the Headmistress announced her niece as the next Head Girl. I knew the girl, knew that things would only get worse under her leadership.”

Pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them, Clarke leans forward. “And?”

Heda lifts her lips into a hallow façade of a smile. “And I united the Houses. My summer after GCSEs was spent meeting with the Governors in secret, proposing a House coalition as the best strategy to rebuild order out of the chaos the school had descended into. No more competition; jus nou drein jus daun. I promised peace and strength and I emerged from the final conclave victorious.”

Lexa is detached as she lists her triumphs and Clarke wonders if it’s more than just modesty.

“That’s why they made you Head Girl at sixteen?”

“Yes.”

Clarke drops her knees back to the floor, crawling over to the same wall Lexa’s leaning against to rest her own back. “And you think it might be happening again?”

“I’m unclear what Nia’s intentions are this time. I had hoped that she was simply set on greater modernisation, something I do not disagree with in many aspects, but such changes need not require the sacrifice of our traditions. Remembrance Sunday at Polis is about more than just the First World War and the Trigedasleng is an integral part of its foundation.

“So the Headmistress is getting rid of traditions and allowing new things like Halloween parties so we don’t notice when they’ve all been stripped away?”

“Perhaps. I also suspect she is attempting to weaken me and my influence with the Board by promoting an opposing leader.” The head girl remains as still and unmoving as she has this entire time, the only hint of emotion on her face a muscle that twitches in her jaw.

Clarke holds her breath, on tenterhooks. “Who?” This just gets better and better in the worst way possible.

“You.”

She scoffs. “Me? Ha! Raven told me there hasn’t been a prefect in decades who wasn’t at the school since prep school – there’s no way they’d ever make a first year American kid anything more than a chalkboard monitor.”

The Head Girl squints at Clarke’s words but doesn’t comment. “Be that as it may, you would make a strong leader, Clarke: you already are. And part of the revised charter we drew up includes the ability of the girls to impeach any of the school officials with a vote and appoint a new one. In times of change or uncertainty, people often want a leader from the outside. Someone who isn’t entrenched in the politics and entropy of a four-hundred-year old mire of traditions and esoteric paradigms. Nia may be trying to capitalise on that.”

“I understood like three words in that sentence but I guess I get the gist,” Clarke sighs. “There’s no change or uncertainty happening right now though. Everything seems fine.”

“Yes, it is. And I’m not concerned about the Headmistress, not really. She’s petty but largely powerless. If the most she can do is go behind my back with English translations and agree to the hosting of parties, we have nothing to be concerned about. I only want to ensure it stays that way.”

“But what about when you leave at the end of the year?”

“I am training up a second for the Head Girl position. And in turn she will choose her own second. And so on, flame to wick to flame.”

Something stirs in Clarke, something she thought long dead and buried. She thinks of all the eager wriggling girls, of her new home and the depth and breadth of its importance. This may not be war and Polis may not be the kingdom of heaven but it feels a hell of a lot like it, like she would risk everything to keep her people safe. “If you and I stand united, there’s not much she can do from that angle. And we’ll take her down if she tries anything.”

Heda studies her again; Clarke fills her lungs and broadens her shoulders. “I’m not scared of her.”

Lexa’s expression goes from wary commander to tender so quickly that Clarke’s stomach swoops. “Sha. You are nothing if not fearless, Clarke Griffin. Yu nou fir raun.”

There’s a long silence, one that seems to thicken exponentially as warrior and warrior hold one another’s gaze until a bell ringing out from the floor below shatters the spell. A quick glance to the clock on the nightstand attests that it’s indeed five minutes to curfew and Clarke leaps to her feet, almost tripping over her own two feet.

Lexa stands too, adjusting her skirt and straightening her jumper. “Come back with me after granplei tomorrow. We can discuss a strategy for the Remembrance Sunday service then.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Their powerful words are evaporating into the starry night and Clarke feels almost shy now as she heads for the door.

“And Clarke?”

She turns. Lexa crosses the room with too much grace for a schoolgirl. Reaching out, she grips Clarke’s forearm and by some instinct Clarke grips back. There are four layers of clothing between their arms but somehow it feels like they’re skin-to-skin. “Thank you. For allowing me to share. And for your support.”

“You’re welcome.”

As she walks back across the street, Clarke wonders if Lexa was referring to sharing the full story or sharing the weight pressing down on her shoulders.

She’s probably never been able to share the burden of either.

--

Clarke dreams of breastplates and swords and war horses, half-dreams that are more like half-awakes.

--

chariots and Roman centurions, cries and crunches and the clanging of metal

--

—stretched lips around bared teeth

--

teeth biting into lips, tugging and—

--

There's a crimson cloak waiting around every corner of Clarke’s dreamscape, too. The only difference is that at night she doesn’t lie to herself about being colourblind.

Chapter Text

The next day is long. Long in the way that irritations pile on delays pile on forgotten coursework essays pile on lack of sleep. It's foggy out in the morning and it hangs heavy and low, refusing to evaporate until almost suppertime. By the time choir practice rolls around, Clarke is so exhausted that she breaks the Deputy Head’s cardinal rule and yawns in the middle of a song. Her punishment is to stand on one foot for the rest of the hymn. It’s not really that big of deal, it’s funny, really, but Clarke’s not in a place to find anything funny, not when her eyes have been opened to the snake in her idyllic little Eden, and she scowls the entire length of the song.

 Or almost the entire length of the song.

 At some point she feels the Lexa’s eyes on her and she catches her trying to hold back a smile during the highest notes of the final descant.

 Clarke stops scowling.

 --

Dr. Peters asks Raven to stay behind after granplei to troubleshoot something on the choir recording software and Clarke shoots her an apologetic shrug as they gather their things; it’s the third time she’s had to debug the Deputy Head’s computer this term. Lexa ducks over the piano with the director and he taps a few pieces of paper on the music stand. Whatever they're going over, it only takes half a minute or so but it feels like the stars have started new life cycles by the time the Deputy Head touches the back of his hand to Lexa's arm gently and then motions Raven over to the decrepit old laptop he stores unpadded in his satchel. The Head Girl gathers her things and they push through the double doors together, bracing themselves for the cool night that stands between themselves and the boarding houses.

There’s a patch of immaculately manicured grass in the middle of the quad the girls call the ‘holy ground’ because it’s exclusively reserved for school staff, the Head Girl, and her Prefects. It’s not really not that big of deal to swerve around it—it’s tiny—but if there were hallowed soil in this school, this would be it.  The first thing a newly-appointed Prefect or Head Girl does is to stomp across the grass; it’s unofficially their matriculation into the position. Girls walking with a teacher or school official are technically allowed to follow them onto the grass if invited but it doesn’t happen very often.

It comes as absolutely no surprise to find Lexa veering to avoid the patch.

Now that she thinks about it, she’s never seen Heda taking the shortcut across the quad despite the other Prefects luxuriating in the privilege. Playfully, of course. Raven has pointed on out numerous occasions that Octavia saves exactly three seconds cutting across the grass and loses at least three times that dancing in the middle to taunt her friends.  

Clarke begins to get a feel for what it’s like to be Heda as they walk. The stares from the girls, for one: she’s not sure she’d ever get used to all the slack jaws and starry eyes, like the Head Girl is a celebrity or a queen walking in their midst. An eleven-year-old on her way back from Evening Prep smacks straight into a lamp post when she attempts a shy wave and Lexa’s at her side immediately, checking for blood and comforting her in dulcet tones too quiet for anyone else to hear.

The teachers and staff members stare too, not quite in the same way: there’s a fair amount of deference but also protectiveness when she nods at them in passing. The housemistress bursts into the brightest smile Clarke’s ever seen when Lexa steps inside Flidais, humming a few words in greeting as she signs herself into the registration book. In contrast, the grandmotherly woman eyes Clarke warily as she sign her own name but her face is all softness and light when the head girl thanks her and wishes her a good night.

A few other staff members peek their head into the drawing room at the sound of Lexa’s voice and she compliments them on the muffins at breakfast, thanking them for remembering that Ellen Wu is allergic to blueberries and making a chocolate one just for her. They pat her arm and coo over her braids and she accepts their petting with easy grace.

Clarke receives more than one suspicious side-eye.

“Do they always act that way?” Clarke asks when they’re finally make it into the stairwell, gesturing back toward the cooks and Mrs. Daisy.

"Friendly?"

"Like you've invited an axe-murderer into their dwelling."

“They are unaccustomed to me having guests.” Lexa says this matter-of-factly but it wallops Clarke’s chest as if she’d spit it out. The head girl halts on the second flight of stairs. “I usually say good night to the little ones. Would you like to wait for me in my room?”

“I’m okay here.”

Tilting her chin down, Lexa pushes through the swinging door to the lower form bedrooms. All at once the lazy chatter intensifies and girls stream out of the bedrooms two by two and crowd around their head girl, raising their arms for hugs and yelling out stories about their day.

“Heda, my mum sent me flowers for my birthday tomorrow, look!”
“I can’t find my necklace, Heda, the one with the yellow heart…”
“How much longer until home weekend, Heda?”

The Head Girl sniffs flowers and suggests the bathroom sink as a possible location for missing necklaces and answers a homesick girl’s quiet enquiry with a whisper and a hug. She admires braids that look remarkably familiar, tuts playfully at magazine posters of boy bands, and admonishes a tall girl for not having done her prep yet.

Clarke leans against the wall and watches, her chest too small a cage. All these little girls, many of them away from their parents for the first time in their lives, many whose term-time parental figure is little more than overworked housemistresses and splinters from an overworked Head Girl.

She wonders who comforts them after a nightmare, who praises their beaming A-stars and encourages their disappointed Cs. She knows most of them are lucky enough to have involved parents and that boarding school doesn’t necessarily mean any less of a positive family life but she also knows there’s at least one who doesn’t. At least one who buries her face in a pillow so her roommate doesn’t wake up from the sound of her tears. One who doesn't know how to sleep in this new world without a mother or a father asleep in the next room. 

She wonders who comforts Lexa's nightmares, wonders who praises her achievements and encourages the disappointments. 

Lexa catches Clarke’s eye at some point and her smile is so gentle before she turns back.

“Okay, reshop, oma goufa,” the Head Girl eventually has to say, smiling and starting to disentangle herself from the chaos of limbs and small voices.

“Reshop, Heda,” they chant back, each claiming a final hug. All at once Clarke understands the pull of the endless responses in chapel, the reassurance that a predictable cause-and-effect can offer in a world of uncertainty. The feeling of speaking and knowing exactly what will be said back; listening and knowing exactly what to say. The feeling of things always going as planned, at an unchanging constant that stays the same even as the sands of time erode everything else to dust. 

Clarke looks at the carpet beneath her leather shoes until she feels a light touch on her arm.

Lexa’s cheeks are smudged with pink like an oil painting, almost as rosy as they are when she sings, when they climb the final flights of stairs to her room and it’s a beautiful sight.

--

They’re discussing the possible divisive effects of Trigedasleng itself on school life and the social infrastructure and then all of a sudden Clarke is bolting awake in a dim room and a warm bed.

“Shit. Shit shit shit,” she curses aloud when her brain finally recognizes Lexa’s room and the huddled shape at the desk.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” the shape says calmly, turning her head toward Clarke. “I told the housemistresses you’d fallen asleep. They’re not looking for you.”

“But how did I—”

Lexa goes back to her books, adjusting the desk lamp to better cover where she’s scribbling in a notebook. “One minute you were arguing with me about the British class system—quite vociferously, I might note—and the next you were out cold on my floor. I considered checking your pulse.”

Clarke files away for another day the smile she can hear in Lexa’s voice. “But—”

“I put you on the bed. It’s cold on the floor and you looked like you could use the sleep.”

“You carried me?”

“I’m stronger than I look,” she notes, distracted by a misspelling or something that she has to lean forward and rummage through her pencil case for.

“What time is it?” She can’t see the clock in the darkness; she’s not sure how the desk lamp can possibly be giving Lexa enough light to read by.

“1:23am.”

“Seriously?”

“You must have been very tired. You started snoring at some point.”

“I did not!”

Lexa turns her neck again and shoots her a quick grin. Clarke notices she’s wearing her glasses again but otherwise she still seems to be in full uniform. “No, you didn’t,” she concedes, “but you’re a very deep sleeper.”

She actually hasn’t fallen into anything deeper than a light sleep since August but she chooses not to admit that right now. Instead she enjoys the warmth of the duvet (Lexa’s duvet, a part of her brain that never shuts up these days) for a stolen moment before sitting up and preparing to dash back across the road in the icy November night.

“Mrs. O’Brien said for you to stay here tonight. She doesn’t want you outside alone at night.”

Clarke blinks. “What?”

“Go back to sleep, Clarke. I’ll wake you up in time to get back to House before breakfast.”

“But you need to sleep, too - and why are you doing prep at 1:23 in the morning?”

“I have two more essays due tomorrow. I’ll be up all night.”

“But—”

“It’s fine, Clarke.”

She huffs and flops back against the single pillow. “It’s literally across the street. This is so stupid.”

“You’d also be waking them up to unlock the door, which isn’t fair.”

Blowing a strand of hair off her face, Clarke sulks and crosses her arms over her prone body.

Lexa finally swivels in her chair to face Clarke and rests her elbows on her knees so that their heads are closer to being level. “Listen, I won’t be using my bed whether or not you’re here. So you might as well make the best of the nighttime hours and sleep.”

“Hurumph,” Clarke summarizes in her usual eloquence. “Thanks, Lexa,” she murmurs in a small voice.

Lexa drops her eyes in acknowledgement and turns back to her work and Clarke reluctantly closes her eyes, trying not to think about how good the girl’s bed smells, like soap and something clean and floral. About how beds are the greatest zone of total privacy, the only place girls in a boarding house can burrow into and shed every single expectation and layer of armor. About how Lexa slides naked legs along these sheets and how her fingers curl into this pillow and—

Right. This isn’t working.

“Lexa?”

“Clarke.” She doesn’t turn toward the bed and she sounds mildly amused.

“I can’t sleep.”

“It’s been three minutes.”

“Sometimes you just know you won’t be able to fall asleep.”

“I won’t bother arguing with you on that.”

Something about the tone Lexa responds with makes an image of Clarke’s mother spring to mind and she lets it hover for a minute before slamming the door closed again.

“Lexaaaaa,” she whines and she’s rewarded with an honest-to-god snort from under the window.

“Clarke.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Shall I make you some warm milk and rub your back?” she asks dryly.

“Heda,” Clarke gasps in delight, “did you just sass me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she responds primly.

“Just as well then: yes, I’d be delighted for you to come rub my back.”

“Tough luck, Isabelle. I’m busy arguing why your philandering husband Edward didn’t deserve to be treated so poorly and it’s sickening me.”

“History? I thought Octavia said you guys were on the Enlightenment right now.”

“English. Christopher Marlowe.”

“Ah. Edward II. That sucks. I hear the other English class is doing Othello instead.”

“The white hot poker that gets shoved up his arse makes it suck less, in balance.”

Clarke’s jaw drops. “I love nighttime-Lexa. You’re so punchy!”

“And you’re so awake, nighttime-Clarke. Go to sleep.” There’s no hiding the pleased tone of her voice though and Clarke grins and burrows herself deeper in the sheets.

“Reshop, Heda,” she says while turning over and throwing the duvet over her head. It smells fucking good in Lexa’s bed and she indulges in a long pull of air through her nose and into her lungs.

“Reshop, lukot,” Clarke hears after a brief pause.

--

Sleep works for a couple of hours or so before grinding to a halt; clearly her body isn’t accustomed to such deep sleep. She wraps the duvet around herself and nudges awake the head girl from where she’s slumped over the desk.

Clarke reads over the Edward II essay while Lexa works on her Greek composition, tapping the correction pen—eradicator— against her lips while she edits. Lexa keeps glancing down at Clarke like she can’t believe she’s not dreaming up her presence.

She probably catches Clarke looking at her in the very same way.

The 6am alarm finds an empty bed and two girls curled over or against a rickety old wooden desk.

 --

Zoe tells her that ‘lukot’ means friend when she asks at breakfast.

Clarke’s rested and bushy-tailed and last period art is all expansive landscapes drenched in sunlight.

The world inside these gates is feels even larger today but it never occurs to Clarke that it may be her heart. She decides to go downstairs and say goodnight to the younger girls in her boarding house that night and she’s surprised to find a single girl who wants a hug from the new kid, much less all of them.

Chapter Text

There isn’t really that much of a difference between the weekdays and the weekends in boarding school, weekends having a slightly later curfew time for the older girls and a correspondingly slightly later breakfast time before the regimented activities start all over again. So when Clarke’s beckoned into Octavia and Raven’s double room after supper with a crooked finger and the flash of a vodka bottle, it makes no difference that it’s Thursday night and not a weekend night.

It also makes no difference to Clarke’s excitement levels – alcohol is exactly what she wants right now.

Or at least it’s exactly what she wants to want right now.

Maybe she’ll believe it after a few shots.

“How did you manage that, lady?” Clarke peers at the label, wondering if she should be worried whether a dusty label without a single letter of the Latin alphabet has gone through food safety checks. Eh. Surely alcohol sterilizes itself. 

“My brother stopped by for a visit this afternoon,” Octavia singsongs, immensely pleased with herself.

“Aww, I missed Bellamy? From the way you talk about him, I can’t decide if I expect him to be the devil incarnate or a freckled little leprechaun.”

“Well luckily for us he was closer to the Satan end of the spectrum today, 'casually' leaving his backpack open and the vodka sticking out while we waited for his bus back to the air force base. Kept glancing down at it meaningfully— he’s such a numpty, I swear.”

“Nicely done. Where’s Raven?”

“Nicking some chasers from the fridge. I doubt there’s anything good but hopefully there's something to cut the sting.”

Clarke sniffs the open bottle and almost gags. “WOW. Okay. Yeah. Chasers are going to be pretty important for tonight’s games.”

“What should we play?”

“Dunno, I’m too tired to handle something with actual rules and thinking.”

“Oooh yeah, I forgot — you were out late last night, weren’t you?” The Prefect’s eyes are gleaming at the idea of mischief.

Frowning, Clarke tries to assess exactly how much Octavia knows and how much she should tell her two friends. It's not like spending the night in Lexa's room was a big deal but there's an urge deep in her chest to keep it to herself, to keep the memory safe and unsullied. “Was Mrs. O’Brien freaked out?”

“Oh, she was pissed. God, you were going to be in so much trouble; Raven and I tried to think of excuses for you but after we suggested you might be in the shower were were out of ideas. Sorry!”

“Thanks for trying, though,” Clarke says sincerely, touched that they’d attempted to help at all.

“Of course. Anyway, she was flapping around like a mad mother hen until she gets a phone call from the Head Girl at like, ten past, and suddenly she’s all smiles and rainbows. Lexa’s always been good at placating the staff members around here; probably asked after her granddaughter or something. Where were you, though? And why did Lexa—”

Raven comes in just then, a cardboard box of orange juice under one arm and a two-litre bottle of Tesco brand bitter lemon in the crook of her arm. “Look who found the megahaul!”

“Brilliant,” Octavia enthuses, snagging the orange juice and shaking it up. “Where did you find them?”

“Under the sink in the staff kitchen.”

“Raven!” both Octavia and Clarke scold but she only shrugs.

“I feel like there are so many worse things we could be getting up to in the grand scheme of the universe. It’s not like I’m blowing anything up.”

Clarke shakes her head fondly but grabs the tea-stained mugs off the bookshelf and pours them each a hearty helping of vodka.  Raven dumps a splash of orange juice in each and Octavia tops up the three drinks with fizzy lemonade.

“We make a good team,” Clarke decides and they toast themselves as first order of business. "Cheers."

They drink. It's like liquid fire.

“Disgusting. I love it,” Octavia wheezes out while the other two girls muffle their coughing into pillows.

“Bloody hell, these cocktails are more hydrazine than ethanol," Raven muses once her lungs stop trying to expel the poison, turning the mug in her hands with a slightly worrying glint in her eye. "Maybe I spoke too soon about blowing things up - if this stuff meets fire, we're all pink mist,” 

“Hydrazine?”

“Rocket fuel.”

“Sounds about right,” Clarke affirms, trying another sip. Her throat fights it and that makes it a hundred times worse. She grabs for the orange juice the same time that Octavia snatches the bitter lemonade and they down long gulps to stop the burn.

“Well the only thing for that is drinking more,” Raven says brightly, declining the lemonade when Octavia’s done with cocky smirk and settling down cross-legged on her bed. Octavia mirrors her position on her own and Clarke flings herself down onto Raven’s bed violently enough that the other girl is launched up off the mattress and into the air.

“Right. I see you for what you really are, Clarke Griffin. I’m sitting over here,” the owner of the bed huffs and plops down with Octavia.

“Fair enough. I just wanted my own space.” Clarke sprawls herself across the entire length of the bed and Octavia throws a teddy bear at her head.

“Never have I ever been out past curfew for nefarious purposes,” Octavia starts with a smirk, smoothing down her school skirt demurely as if she can’t fathom breaking the rules.

Raven whips her eyes over to study Clarke. “Oooh, that’s right.”

“Wait a minute, who said we’re playing Never Have I Ever?”

“Fine. Truth or Dare, Clarke?”

“Da—”

“She chooses truth,” Octavia answers her own question with a grin.  A snort is heard from behind Raven’s mug. “Why were you late for curfew last night and why did the Head Girl have to bail you out?”

“One, that’s two separate questions, Raven, and two—that’s not how you, you can’t…”

Raven and Octavia blink at her and Clarke knows she’s outnumbered. She takes a long pull of the vile liquid in her hand, pinching her nose shut to buffer her taste buds a little. It’s laughably ineffective.

“The more you protest, the juicier your secret must be,” Raven notes calmly, taking another tiny sip and immediately wincing. “Come on, Princess. Spill.”

“Why can’t we play, like, two truths and a lie or something?”

Raven doesn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know that one but I’ll take a stab at it. Clarke, tell us two truths and a lie about where you were last night.”

Blowing out a puff of air, Clarke sips at her drink and gives her friends the most innocent expression she can muster. They don’t buy it. “Fine.” She leans forward and Octavia and Raven do, too. “Mr. Wallace, the cello tutor—Dante—suggested some, how shall I say, private lessons in the practice rooms of the Music House but let’s just say that he was the one being schooled in the art of—”

The girls descend into gags at the thought of Clarke and the creepy older man before she can finish and she leans back against the wall, stirring her drink with a finger and tries to maintain a haughty expression rather than join in with the noises of disgust. Serves them right.

“Or… Maybe it wasn’t a dude at all. Surely it’s more likely in this school that I was caught between the sheets of some pretty lady all night long. And loving it. She smelled like flowers and sunshine.”

Her friends hoot and Clarke manages to keep a straight face, pursing her lips and flicking her hair off her shoulders.

“Or I was asking Lexa a question about my Remembrance Sunday speech and lost track of time.”

Raven and Octavia’s faces fall. “That’s the most boring explanation ever.”

“Sorry. Your turn, Octavia.”

While Octavia contemplates her statements, Clarke sees the wheels of Raven’s mind spinning and busies herself with the orange rocket fuel in her cup.  

“Wait a minute…” Raven grins. “I thought it was two truths and a lie.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“You messed up,” Octavia taunts, pointing at Clarke's Blue Peter mug. “Drink! Mistakes and not playing by the rules count double.”

“Is that how the game even works?” Clarke takes a long swig of her drink anyway, welcoming the blaze in her throat.

“I don’t know! I wanted to play Never Have I Ever. Far easier rules.”

“Never have I ever kissed a girl,” Clarke volleys over and suddenly they’re playing flip cup like normal teenagers with secrets.

--

In more stereotypes with a grain of truth, Octavia and Raven are the lightest of lightweights and they've passed out with their faces squished into each other’s hair before the vodka bottle is more than a quarter empty. Clarke’s a little tipsy, no doubt, but she firmly believes herself to be in her full mind when she tucks them in and tucks the bottle under her jumper.

Back in her room she changes into jeans and a dark long sleeve henley, pulling out her ponytail tie (hair bloody bobble) and running a brush through her hair before sticking her tongue out at the reflection.

Yep. Barely tipsy at all. Sneaking out the window and down the fire escape is a good idea. A great idea, even.

Hanging out with her friends is always fun. Always.

Except when all she can think about is Lexa. When she has to censor herself bringing up Heda every other sentence while they sit in a boarding house sneaking bootleg vodka out of teacups. When she keeps imagining the way Lexa’s hair shimmered and bounced in the Boudica braids instead of remembering which cup she’s supposed to be aiming for and subsequently losing a drinking game she’s been champion at since she was fourteen years old.

Or when all she can think about is how Lexa would answer the questions they fire at each other, whether she’d be skilled at flip cup (of course she would be), whether the scent of sunshine in her sheets is from shampoo or from body lotion or from something else altogether.

Does Lexa produce sunlight from inside her skin? Clarke wouldn’t put it past the Head Girl.

Going across the street to get the answers first-hand is a good idea. A great idea, even.

It’s always a great idea to seek answers and other...higher things. Higher things in tall towers. 

Scientific method and all that shit. Clarke’s a great scientist.

She crawls out the window, vodka in hand, and almost immediately a blast of cold air shocks her into falling head-first onto the fire escape balcony. The window pane starts to slip as she hauls her legs through and she barely manages to catch it before it locks shut, propping it open with a nearby book. The rusted-over structure screams as she wobbles in the nighttime silence and the ground appears to have turned into an ocean; why else would it be rolling in waves?

Okay, maybe she’s a little more tipsy than she’d thought.

She sits down to catch her balance and it’s an easy decision not to get up again. Yep. This is what she’d really wanted to do, take in the view. 

The view isn’t magnificent. Two black bins and an unbroken wall of brown brick. But the air is cool and it clears away some of the fog from her brain. And if she leans way over the edge she can just about see the lamplight from the very top turret in the house across the road.

Clarke stays outside until her legs go numb from the cold. The vodka barely burns anymore. The light up in the tower never goes out.

It’s just a girl crush. Happens to her all the time. Like all the time. It’s not a big deal. Totally normal. She’s definitely straight.

It’s not like she wants to kiss Lexa or anything. Just, you know, be around her all the time and hug her and smell the nape of her neck.

Maybe touch her lips. For science. They look really soft.

Definitely straight.

She's attracted to Lexa's lips as a friend.

At 3am Clarke is back inside but she isn’t sleeping and she cranes her head out the window.

The light shines on like an eternal flame. 

--

Friday assembly finds Clarke sitting just as upright and unmoving as Heda amongst the multitude of fidgeting girls.

She doubts that the Head Girl’s perfect posture comes from a desperate effort not to vomit, though.

The Headmistress marches in and Clarke struggles to her feet with the rest of the school. If she keeps her eyes trained on Lexa, it’s only because the rest of the room is rudely spinning around the Head Girl's throne. Harper tugs at the hem of her skirt after a moment and it takes too long before she realizes everyone’s sitting down again. She drops carefully to the floor and Heda finally sits, too.

An enquiring eyebrow is lifted in her direction from stage and Clarke shoots a tight smile back before ducking her head down and focusing on taking long, even breaths. Her stomach finally begins to settle during prayers and she looks up to find Lexa watching her, the green of her eyes rendering all else monochromatic.

Clarke’s definitely straight.

She definitely feels about Lexa like she would any other friend.

Sure, maybe sometimes she thinks about the way the light hits Lexa's jawline as if she’s been chiseled out of marble and the way her cheekbones would make Michelangelo cry but that doesn’t mean anything: what kind of artist would she be if she didn't notice the aesthetic properties of the world around her? 

Art class finds Clarke completely blocked and Friday night finds her holed up in her bed with aspirin, asleep long before the weekday curfew much less the slightly later weekend bell.

--

Daylight comes and goes far too quickly on Saturday (in fairness it’s gone by about four o’clock this time of year) and Clarke’s belly is happy again, full of fried rice and covered in a brand new jade top, when she crosses the street and signs into Flidais House. The housemistress gives her a suspicious eyebrow raise but she doesn’t comment on Clarke’s failure to leave on time three nights ago and she’s glad for it. She’s already tense enough, her legs stiff as she climbs the stairs to the top floor. Pausing in the landing at the top, she gives her heart time to decelerate from the cardio before taking a deep breath and knocking on the white door.

Lexa answers the door in snug black jeans, knee high boots, and a crisp Oxford shirt neatly tucked in and oh fuck Clarke’s definitely not totally straight.

Nope.

“Clarke. Good, you’re here, I just got back from town. I’m glad I didn’t miss you.”

“Um, yeah. I’m here. And tomorrow’s Sunday, so I thought we’d better…” Truth be told, Clarke barely remembers why she’s here. Fuck.

“Right, yes, we should come up with a final plan of action for the Remembrance service.” Lexa holds the door open and gestures into her room. “Come in.”

Clarke waits until Lexa sits down on the bed and then chooses the wall opposite her and wraps her arms around her knees. The room feels smaller today, stuffy. She tugs at the collar of her shirt but there’s not enough air circulating to do any good.

“Okay, so we need to figure out—”

“Are you okay, Clarke?” Lexa interrupts, leaning forward with her elbows onto her knees. Her expression is so open that Clarke has to avert her eyes. God, why is Lexa’s room as sparse as a monk’s cell? There’s nothing to look at, no posters or framed pictures or even little knickknacks to let her eyes fall on except the pair of beautiful eyes watching her.

Her eyes fall to the glimpse of skin Lexa's shift in position teases at between the cracks of her button-up shirt and quickly skitter to the paneling behind her head. “What? Yeah, of course.”

“You seem… jumpy.”

“I’m not.”

Lexa looks her over. “Okay.” She stands and lifts the window sash a few inches; a cool breeze hits Clarke’s chest and she sucks it into her lungs like she’s finally made it back to the airlock after an oxygen tank malfunction but her lungs refuse to fill anymore than halfway. “If you are nervous about tomorrow, we—”

Clarke jumps to her feet. “I’m not nervous about tomorrow.”

Lexa raises her eyebrows as her eyes track Clarke pacing the room but she says nothing until the fifth or sixth lap around the perimeter.

“Clarke.” Reaching out when her Clarke-shaped planet is at its perihelion, its closest point in revolution, Lexa plants a hand on her arm to slow the reckless trajectory that can only end in orbital ejection at its current rate.

It’s gentle, it’s so gentle and soft and caring but in this moment Clarke feels more she-wolf than queen, wrenching away from the touch and its warmth.  “I’m fine, Lexa. I just have some excess energy right now, alright?” she snaps, crossing her arms across her chest.

Lexa flinches, her arm still frozen in the air from where she’d hastily pulled it away. Her eyes are wide and panic-stricken.

“I’m sorry, I should not have—” she stammers thickly after the heaviest pause known to mankind, a pause during which Clarke’s teeth ache and her muscles howl into the empty vacuum of space.

“No, no, I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry,” Clarke stammers right back, desperate to take it all back. What the fuck is wrong with her? She feels awful and tries to plaster a smile on her face to soothe shot nerves but Lexa isn’t fooled one iota and Clarke watches miserably as Heda falls back into place on the girl’s face.

The Head Girl holds her eyes on Clarke and nods once. Arms fold behind her back and she swallows away whatever remnants of vulnerability survived the slaughter.

“I will never ask you to do something you are uncomfortable with, Clarke. You can go ahead with the speech as you were instructed.” Heda lowers herself to the bed, her gaze held unblinkingly on Clarke.

“No, I want to do this. I will do this.”

“Then there is no need to worry. I will ensure sure you face no negative consequences for your part.” It’s amazing what perfect posture the Head Girl can achieve sitting on a fluffy duvet.

“I’m not… Okay,” Clarke finally admits in a last-ditch effort to crack through Heda’s armor, “I’m a little…out of sorts about something, but it’s not what you think. I’m not rethinking any of this stuff.”

The tension in the Head Girl’s shoulders eases slightly but her back is still rigid. “Is it something you would like talk about?”

“No. I mean, not yet. I’m not ready…yet,” Clarke amends at the sight of the girl’s jaw clenching. “Yeah?”

Lexa takes a breath through her nose. “Yes.”

The bed hardly moves as Clarke carefully sits down beside the other girl. “Lexa?

“Yes?”

She gives the white-knuckled fingers folded in Lexa’s lap the briefest of squeezes. “Muchof.”

“Pro,” Lexa replies quietly, her hands finally unclenching; she surreptitiously wipes her palms on her knees enroute to the zipper of her boots.

The vise binding her chest begins to loosen and Clarke takes what feels like the first full breath since she's entered the room. “So this ceremony tomorrow…”

“Right. Let me give you the background to the ceremony.”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m about to get a history lesson?”

“Because you are. I’ll keep it brief,” Lexa promises and Clarke’s never been so glad to see the barest hint of a smile. When the boot slips off her foot, the Head Girl’s socks are pastel pink with little blue stars and Clarke’s heart promptly vacates the premises.

“We have always celebrated Remembrance Sunday, from its first inauguration in 1919, but the purpose and ceremony expanded after the Second World War. Polis was evacuated to Trigedigyon Castle in 1942 when our buildings were commandeered for the local military for barracks. Many of the nearby boarding schools had closed by that point in the war, but Polis was unique in that a large proportion of students were made up of war orphans, wards of the crown, and children of foreign nationals who were unable to return home, many of whom were taken in when other schools shut their doors. And with the evacuation orders and the escalation of fighting in Europe, we lost the rest of our male teachers when they were conscripted into service and a large percentage of female staff left to order to tend to their own families rather than relocate to Cornwall. It was only through the efforts of the few remaining staff members and the older girls, who fought tooth and nail to hold their school family together, that we were able to remain operational at all. 

“The older girls took over teaching and the entire school worked together to cook meals, clean their quarters and laundry, and perform all the other housekeeping duties we take for granted today. They grew their own food in the castle gardens, constructed brick ovens out of bombed-out houses, and held bazaars to raise funds. Many of the girls volunteered in the nearby cottage hospitals and there are stories of several girls taking over traditionally masculine jobs in the village like shelter-digging and rescue efforts. One journal we have displayed in the front office even suggests there may have been some covert code-breaking work being done in the amateur radio club. But it's never been confirmed.”

“To bolster morale and keep themselves bound together in the strongest possible unit, they began calling themselves warriors, mighty Polis soldiers, and when they returned to this building in 1947, their proclamation that they'd declared victory in every battle was no hyperbole.”

“That’s unbelievable,” Clarke murmurs, imaging for a moment all the girls in military uniforms instead of their usual brown wool ones. It’s not difficult. It’s also not the first time she’s made the comparison.

“It was nothing less than a triumph,” Lexa says, pride bursting through every syllable.  “It's why such a large part of our mythos and traditions revolves around the image of us as indomitable warriors, willing to fight to the death for one another and for the school. Trigedasleng evolved as part of that collective spirit, arising out of Polis slang and codewords they invented up in the castle as well as the local Kernowek tongue. Grammar and syntax were initially devised as a creative method of teaching Latin conjugations but it proved popular enough that it became a leisure activity, one which required no precious resources like paper or pencils. More importantly, it served to bind the girls together against the outside world.”

“Ah, so it was intended to exclude outsiders.”

Clarke's half-teasing but Lexa's response is deadly serious. “Yes. It’s basic human psychology. The best way to increase group cohesion is to create a strong in-group and maximise their differences with the out-group.”

“At the expense of the out-group.”

“We are what we are. Perhaps it was harsh, but they had to be that way to survive.”

“It doesn’t have to be all about survival now though.”

Lexa takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. “No.”

There are a few stanzas of silence and Clarke studies the circles under the Head Girl’s eyes and the black duct tape holding together the soles of her boots. 

Survival may be the only thing Lexa’s ever known.

“Okay. Polis girls are awesome. And tough as nails. What does that have to do with the Remembrance service?” Clarke probes, distracting herself from the phantom tightening of the ghost heart still haunting her chest.

Lexa resumes taking off her other boot from where she’d paused a few minutes ago.

“After the war, Remembrance Sunday morphed into a more general celebration, more victory parade than solemn reflection. We honor the fallen men and women not only in Her Majesty’s wars but in our own personal ones. So many of the girls back then lost friends and family members and the same is true today, even if the losses are in wars more often metaphorical than literal. The important part is that we vow to keep fighting, no matter the intensity or type of battles we might face in our lives.”

Boots finally removed, Lexa lines them up neatly at the foot of her bed before crossing her legs underneath herself. “A major portion of the service has always been conducted in Trigedasleng for that reason, to remind us that past girls just like us emerged victorious in their battles and we have the power and might to do the same. That 'girl' is a word of power, not of weakness, and that together we can achieve anything."

There's fire in Lexa's eyes as she speaks, a fervency that could probably generate power for the entire British Empire at its height. It's impossible to look anywhere else.  

“So changing my part to English is sacrilege, got it.” Clarke speaks glibly only because grand things are stirring in her chest again, feelings of flight and fight that have nothing to do with fear or the stress response. 

“It is a dishonor to those who have come before, to the girls and staff who made this school what it is today,” Lexa clarifies lowly.

“I agree. Teach me the Trigedasleng and I’ll recite that instead. I don’t give a damn about the Headmistress.”

A smile curls up on Lexa’s lips and she lets it rest there for a moment before responding. “Your heart shows no sign of weakness, Clarke Griffin. But you are also correct that the language excludes many and this is something I believe we will need to address to ensure continuing strength as a unit. We must be more adaptable; Nia is right about that much. Stubbornly clinging to old ways is a weakness, one easily exploited. But change doesn’t have to be at the cost of our traditions.”

Clarke nods emphatically. “So what do you suggest?”

--

The curfew bell is heeded this time and there’s a comfortable vibe as Clarke gathers up her notes and phonetic pronunciations, her little red book bursting to the brim. She turns around just as she reaches the door. Lexa's gaze is unwavering even though she's moved to her desk and is thumbing through an exam booklet. 

“Reshop, lukot.”

Lexa is beautiful when she smiles.

“Reshop, lukot.”

Clarke's friend is so fucking beautiful.

--

'Friend' is definitely not the right word, though. 

Chapter Text

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out all human hearts before His judgment seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet;
Our God is marching on. 

The song Clarke knows as a battle hymn but is apparently named otherwise here marks the end of the Headmistress’ traditional Church of England service and a subtle nod from Lexa across the choir rows lets her know it’s time for the uniquely Polis portion of today’s Evensong. She’s still tingling a little from the final chords of the organ when Heda ascends out of the choirgirls, shedding her cloak in her seat and pulling away the ancient Polis flag from the marble font. As she takes her place at the high altar, legs planted apart and red flag draped over her shoulders, Clarke wonders if this girl is mortal at all. Wonders if this is the coming of the glory, if the Head Girl isn’t about to set loose her own fateful lightning and her terrible swift sword.

The hushed whispers and fidgeting taper away until there isn’t a sound, maybe not even a breath, from the rest of the chapel as their leader surveys her flock for a brief spell. Without moving her neck, she signals to the girl in the organ room with a glance and a steady drum beat begins echoing through the nave.    

Clarke is almost as rapt as the little ones in their straw-brimmed hats and special occasion blazers, their mouths open and their hands tucked under their bums as they strain forward over the wooden pews, and she almost needs to stand, too. Feeling decidedly more corporal and clumsy, Clarke fumbles over the knees of several girls and barely manages not to trip over her ankle-length cloak as she stumbles her way to the pulpit. The Headmistress simpers at her before taking her seat in the alcoves built into the wooden paneling behind the choir. 

“Oso hit choda op nat, kom tona gou fou nau, na koma stedaunon op,” booms out from Heda at the front of the chapel. Nia whips her head around to the Head Girl and then back to Clarke, surprise quickly morphing into anger, but she’s ignored by both parties.

Clarke clears her throat. “We come together tonight, as we have countless times before, to honour the dead,” she translates.

Her stupid American accent feels crass and feeble against her counterpart’s mighty call and she tries not to cringe or bely her nerves by shifting her weight or allowing itchy fingers to touch her face.

The Headmistress starts to stand, her face all shades of red and white, more indignant centurion than head of a girls’ school, but she freezes and slumps back in her seat when Heda levels her a sharp look. Steam is veritably rising from Nia’s corkscrew curls but she holds her tongue. Clarke swallows and tries to block out the slighted woman from her peripheral vision.

“Ogeda sonraun ste fleimen, en oso teik ogeda wamplei in kom oson,” the Head Girl continues after a lengthy silence.

It’s not just the lower school that’s straining forward to see, now. Even the teachers appear to be caught up in the rhythm of their words, in the drumming that’s only slightly slower than a human heart beat.

“Each life is valuable, and we suffer every loss as our own,” Clarke interprets and she’s pleased to hear a little more timbre to her voice this time.

“Reshwe, gonakru. Wamplei nou laik eno-de. Hofli Christos na teik yu in gon hou.”

“Sleep in peace, warriors. Death is not the end. May Jesus welcome you home.”

As her words die out, Clarke exits the pulpit and takes the fleimkepa off the mantle set into the stone wall, joining Heda at the alter. The brass candlelighter is held out to the youngest acolyte in-training who startles for a moment before flushing deep red and leaping to her feet. Her hands shake beneath her white robe but she manages to extend the wick and dip it into one of the candles lining the front choir rows.  Lexa lays a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder before continuing the liturgy.

“Raun faya, oso wada klin laudnes-de kom fotaim.” The Head Girl flicks her eyes up at the draped alter and little Charlotte swallows but manages to take the final two steps up to where Lexa stands and light the Remembrance Candle without incident.

“In fire we cleanse the pain of the past,” Clarke repeats.

“Yo gonplei ste odon.”

“Your fight is over.”

All three bow their heads to the flame and then Charlotte returns to her seat beside the other acolytes. Clarke remains at the front, climbing the stairs to where Heda stands and taking her place at her right hand side. They both turn to face the candle.

“Yo gonplei ste odon,” Clarke recites again, this time in Trigedasleng and with an emphasis on the first word, “ba osir gonplei kigon feva.”

“Your fight is over but for the rest of us, our fight goes on,” the Head Girl translates this time, their switch in language as seamless as their change in gaze. There’s a rustling of excitement in the pews, the lower-school girls squirming on their hard wooden seats as the two figures at the alter survey the congregation.

“Yo laik gona. Yo na gon raun. Oso gonplei nou ste oden.”

“You are all warriors. You all will go off to fight. Our fight isn’t over.” They’ve rehearsed this but a shiver still rockets through Clarke’s spine at Lexa’s words and from the looks of it, the rest of the school is equally transfixed on their leader.

“Stedaunon don gon we en kikon ste enti,” Clarke says, moving her hands behind her back and hooking them together, ignoring the image of a certain Celtic warrior queen shouting the same thing so she doesn’t lose her place. 

“The dead are gone and the living are hungry.”

“Lev yo op meija en nema yo in: Yo gada yo rein in. Yo nou fir raun,”

“Train hard and remember: you are each worthy. You are all fearless.”

Clarke takes a deep breath, pleased to find that it's no longer shaky in the least. “This day is about remembrance. For those we have lost, for those we will lose, and for those we will soon find again,” she reads. This part of their service is new, the previous phrases simply translations of the original rites, and although she and Lexa composed it only hours ago, it seems to fit right in as if it’s always been said.

The drum is still beating and Heda’s continuation follows Clarke’s rhythm like the rising climax of a well-rehearsed song.

“We remember those who suffered for our sake. We remember our own sufferings for the sake of others. We remember that our battles aren’t fought alone.”

Clarke raises her left hand in front of her body and Heda raises her right. Their eyes meet as their hands grasp the other’s forearm in what Clarke has learned to be a hundred-year-old school tradition.

Hands slip down to hands, fingers joining together before lifting them high above their heads so that every row in the chapel can see.

“Oso throu daun ogeda en oso kik thru ogeda,” Clarke calls out and it’s echoed twice as loud by the girl at her side.

“We fight together and we survive together!”

Their hands are still entwined when Heda punches her other arm into the air; there’s victory in her eyes and adrenaline in each heavy breath. “Kom war!” she shouts, the two words ringing out in the shell-shocked silence for the briefest of seconds before the school erupts.

Resounding bellows of ‘to war!’ and ‘kom war!’ rise up over the cheers like hallelujahs to their commander’s battle cry and several girls leap to their feet, the rest of the school following only a beat later.

Lexa is mostly successful in keeping the laughter off her face as she calms the rhapsodic girls with a gesture of her wrist after a few moments. Their hands fall to their sides but their fingers remain linked until the chapel is quiet once more. Nia is spitting mad over in her corner but she’s cloistered away from the girls’ sight so they pay her no heed.

Heda lets her gaze drop to the Headmistress’ before returning it to the balcony where the Sixth Formers sit and then to the rest of the girls. “Ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in,” she delivers in what must be an infuriatingly calm tone to the simmering Nia. 

“Ai ste yuj!” the school yells back. Older girls have to tug the sleeves of several girls in the lower school to get them to sit down again.

Clarke is in no way successful at holding back her laughter. “I will fight for what I believe in,” she asserts around a grin.

There’s the briefest of confusions as the girls figure out what they’re expected to say in return, having never recited the school valediction in English before, but they hardly miss a beat.

 “I am strong!”

--

It’s heady and thick, the thumping in her chest and the oxygen in her lungs as the Head Girl gestures to the Headmistress that they're finished and Clarke has to give the woman credit for gritting her teeth and completing the rest of the chapel service amid the haze of fervour and barely-bridled potential. She leads a greyscale prayer and gives the standard blessing; the girls drop their heads but their hands and knees dance.

Adrenaline’s kaleidoscope decays in all too rapid a half-life for Clarke though and she begins to feel a little loose—loose like the lines between the real and the dream world are slipping, loose like she’s lost a supporting beam. Loose like she’s starting to fall apart.

Rather than pushing her way back through the choir row with wobbly knees, Clarke sinks into a spot at the end, tucked away in the furthest corner of the chapel. The girl to her left passes the sheet music for their final anthem, the school Remembrance Hymn, and Clarke tries to focus on the blurry words, sucking controlled breaths in through her nose and out through her lips—in and out, in and out—as a girl in the back row flicks Lexa’s tuning fork and hums the base note for the rest of the singers to follow.

It’s a slow melody, one composed and set to older words by a head girl in the 1960s for the service, and Clarke half-heartedly mouths the words while staring at the massive Remembrance Candle on the alter. The flame flickers back and forth without a discernible pattern. Side to side, back and forth, up and down.

The choirgirls all hum under their breaths until their pitches mesh and then split off into the first harmonic chord. There’s no organ on this song and the first note is key; they’ve been practicing in granplei and impromptu lunchtime row rehearsals all week. The choir sings each Trigedasleng verse alone and then the school repeats it back while the first and second sopranos shadow a haunting English descant a beat after each stanza and the seconds and thirds add harmony to the school’s lyrics. 

Medo ste thonken, Medo drein au
          A body’s hollow, a body bleeds
Oso kik raun, ogeda, soulou
          We live as one, we live alone
Ai laik yu gona, ai na get raun, you   
          I am your soldier, I will atone
Yumi na teik won sonraun au?
          And will you take a life with me?

Halfway through the song Clarke can’t even pretend to mouth the words and she lets their meaning wash over her instead. She thinks of the lonely dead, she thinks of the lonely living, she thinks of the schoolgirls, living together even as they live alone.

Everyone’s alone in the hour of their death.

Ai keryon gyon op, ai keryon g’ breik au
          My soul moves on, my soul is freed
Pas skaikrasha, klin tristraka
          After the storm, a lightning flash
En houd don gon hosh trashsaka
          With all the world reduced to ash
Yumi na teik won sonraun au?
          And will you take a life with me?

Everyone’s alone in the single hour of their death. (But maybe in the innumerable hours of life—)

Lexa has her tuning fork back and she taps it at the end of the anthem, a small smile and a subtle nod to the rest of the choir to indicate their success at staying in tune. 

“Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost,” the Headmistress recites as the last notes fade into nothingness. “As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end—”

And Clarke can’t take another millisecond.

She ducks out the hidden side door before the final amen.

--

Lexa finds her behind the chapel a few minutes later after the choir and school complete their exit procession. The sounds of girls shrugging off their dark red blazers and chattering as they make their way back to House are distant, like the chirping of birds.

The weight of a hand on her back seeps through Clarke’s cloak where she hunches over an unhappy bush but its owner doesn’t say a word. It’s the first time Clarke’s been grateful for it, for the silence that holds no expectations or demands, for the quiet that holds only patience. 

Minutes pass, endless minutes where Clarke tries to stop dry heaving and Lexa just rubs wide circles with her palm. Her ministrations are slow and steady, like the slow ebb and flow of respiration, the undulating rhythm like a lullaby to her overworked abdominal muscles. When the nausea eventually abates and there's nothing left in her stomach, Clarke crawls over to the wall and leans back against the cool of the stones. 

Lexa does the same. The quiet lingers between them like warmth under a quilt.

Clarke keeps her eyes on the identically-clad four feet stretched out in front of them when she finally speaks. “I didn’t go to their funerals. None of them.”

A foot in the middle nudges another middle foot and stays there.

“No one said anything. They asked me if I was sure and then they left me alone.”

A brown woolen knee presses up against another brown woolen knee. 

“I thought if I didn’t go, it wouldn’t feel real.” Clarke sucks in a deep breath but her lungs don’t feel entirely full. “I was right. It doesn’t feel real.”

A woolen-cloaked shoulder leans into another woolen-cloaked shoulder and for a few seconds Clarke doesn’t feel like half a person. She may be a four-footed, brown-kneed, woolen person, but she’s whole and that's more than she's been for months.

For a few seconds it feels like all of the amputated limbs she’d discovered upon waking up from routine surgery in August have finally been sewn back on.

For a few seconds all the anesthesia has worn off and all her senses are back and it hurts.

The spell is broken by the sound of the chapel door slamming shut around the corner and they become two separate girls again. The pain begins to recede and the world slips into its soothing Gaussian blur.

Lexa squeezes her hand as they struggle to their feet.

That feels real.

--

There’s no immediate retaliation from the Headmistress for their chapel coup d’etat and Clarke spends the rest of the afternoon glancing over her shoulder and accepting congratulations and praise from staff and students alike. Several girls tell her that they’d never understood the service before now and one lower-school teacher squeezes her arm and thanks her for the most cathartic Remembrance Service she’s attended since joining the school.

It’s nice—wonderful, even—but it also feels like she's been put through the wringer by the time supper rolls around. She’s already become a bit of a known presence around the school but the amount of time it takes her just to walk back to Brigid House from the main school is already leading her to plot back passages and obscure routes over to the Infirmary so she can procure a note that will excuse her from dinner with a migraine. The nurse dispenses some little white pills Clarke knows would be completely useless against a real migraine and shouts for her to “ste yuj” on her way out the door; Clarke’s responding wince of pain isn’t for show.  

She lies in an empty bed in an empty house, tossing and turning and slamming down unreadable books until she’s simultaneously wired and drained. Her muscles don’t have the energy to move but somehow her heart is fluttering like it’s in the middle of a race. She’s under a duvet but it may as well be a thunderhead, a rolling cumulonimbus about to let loose a flood of sleet and lighting.

And then her mind settles on an eye in the storm, or rather her haven's Sunday night respite from formal dinner, and it’s without a single other thought that Clarke climbs out the window and down the fire escape ladder and across the street and in the back door and up the staircase of Flidais House.

Lexa answers her door in uniform and glasses; Clarke’s heart finally slows.

“Clarke? Are you alright? Why aren’t you at supper?”

“I got excused, don’t worry.”

Her brow furrows. “I’m not asking with regards to the rules; I’m asking after you.”

Clarke attempts a smile. “I’m fine.” She’s suddenly aware that she’s at Lexa’s bedroom door without a single reason to be there except wanting to be and futilely searches for an excuse but Lexa nods before Clarke can open her mouth, stepping back to let her inside. Her room is dimly lit but it’s warm and beckoning and Clarke can’t help but wonder about the phenomenology of moths, whether they interpret this draw to the light as a blessing or a curse.

“You were brilliant today,” Lexa says once the door is closed.

“Only under the watch of our mighty Commander.” Lexa rolls her eyes and their banter, light as it may be, leaves Clarke feeling more grounded again, less like she’s floating among the stars, looking down on herself as a curious figure to sketch. “And thank you for…afterward.”

“Anytime, Clarke.” She means it, she means it so sincerely that the last remnants of Clarke's daze pop like ears returning to the right altitude again.

“We seriously nailed it, didn't we?”

“We got more of a response out of the girls than I’d expected. I can’t imagine the Headmistress attempting any major changes to that tradition anytime soon.”

“God, she was furious though. It was awesome.”

“Aaawesome,” Lexa echoes in an awful American drawl, mischief in her eyes; Clarke cracks up, taking the weight off her legs by leaning against the desk, and Lexa shrugs with a smile pursed on her lips.

“That’s the worst accent I’ve ever heard, Lexa. Ever ever.”

“It wasn’t terrible,” she protests without an ounce of conviction. “I assure you, that’s exactly how you sound.”

“Not even close.”

“It’s not like you could speak properly,” Lexa taunts with a grin, kicking off her shoes and collapsing down on the bed with her back against the wall.

“Properly?” Clarke gasps, affecting the broadest, poshest British accent known to mankind. “How dare you, old chum? I’ll have you know that there is nothing more jolly than my natural brogue. Tally ho, pip pip. Crumpets.”

The Head Girl laughs so hard she actually chokes on air. “That’s an abomination.”

“I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree,” Clarke sniffs, stretching her arms in front of her and locking her fingers together to feel the knuckles crack.

“Never.”

They grin at each other until Clarke drops her gaze. “How much prep do you have tonight?”

Lexa glances at the huge pile of books on her desk. “Not much.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, I could probably take a bit of a break. If you want.”

“Seriously? I never thought I’d hear those words out of your lips.” Clarke curses her choice of words when her attention is temporarily distracted by said body part.

“Perhaps it’s a day of changes and new traditions all around, Clarke.”

“Will wonders never cease.” She scans her eyes over Lexa’s room, taking in yet again of how much empty space there is, the lack of personal effects or even clutter. “So what does the head girl do for fun around these parts?”

Lexa opens her mouth and then closes it, pulling the immaculately-ironed cuffs of her white shirt down over her hands. “I read?”

Clarke doesn't have to look to know there are nothing but text books on the bookshelves. “Oh. Cool.”

Lexa hums in response. There's a lengthy pause.

“But, I mean, reading’s probably not most social thing for us to do together.”

A small smile breaks out across Lexa’s face, part-relief and part something else. “Perhaps not. We could watch telly in the Common room?”

The idea of stepping outside this safe little bubble of Lexa’s tower bedroom makes Clarke’s heart start to speed up again. “Nah. I'm tired of those same five stupid channels.” She eyes Lexa’s ancient laptop. “How about a DVD?”

“There are DVDs in the Com, I believe."

"Can we watch one in here?"

"My laptop doesn’t play them. Sorry.”

Clarke thinks about her massive stash of movies in her room, about how often she watches them when she’s exhausted or bored or even just to procrastinate studying. And then she wonders how many times Lexa’s had the luxury of being bored, of sating her fatigue, of deferring her duties. 

“Cards?”

Lexa bites her lip. “Maybe the Housemistress has some. I’ll check.”

She’s crossed the room before the words are fully out of her mouth and the door is left open for less than a minute before she's marching back in, a deck of cards in her hand and a triumphant grin stretched across her face. “Success!”

The sunshine beaming out of those eyes is so bright that Clarke almost squints.

“Nicely done.” She pushes herself off the desk and plops down onto Lexa’s bed. The springs groan in her vigor and she barely catches the pillow before it slides onto the floor.  “What games do you know?”

There’s a long hesitation. “Go Fish?”

“We’re not four, Lexa. What else do you know? Hearts? Spoons?”

The head girl remains in the middle of the room, fiddling with the frayed ends of one of her girdles. “I am unacquainted with those.”  

“Bullshit?”

For the second time this evening Lexa chews on her lip and for the second time Clarke’s gaze drops. “Pardon?”

“What?” For some reason Clarke forgets what they’re talking about.

“Clarke.”

“Mmm?” She snaps her eyes back up to Lexa’s.

“You spaced out there for a second.”

“Oh, right. No, I was just trying to think of other games.” Lexa nods. Clarke begins thinking. “Okay, how about Gin Rummy?”

“I don’t—”

“I’ll teach you; it’s easy.” Clarke shuffles the cards and deals them each a hand, explaining the rules as she goes. Lexa rolls up the sleeves of her school shirt and lowers herself gracefully to the bed, pulling her legs up so that she’s mirroring Clarke’s cross-legged position.

Obviously Lexa picks up the game like a hustler, the look of surprise on her face when she wins each of the first two rounds the only reason Clarke's not suspicious. Sometime during the third hand the head girl takes a long time deciding which card to discard and Clarke takes the opportunity to study her face as she contemplates, a tongue peeking out the corner of her mouth every time she hovers over the discard pile. There’s never any evidence of the dark rings under her eyes and the sag of her shoulders in the daylight when she’s Heda but it’s like they return with a vengeance behind the closed doors of her bedroom.

After Lexa slaughters her two more times, Clarke gathers up the cards but doesn’t shuffle the deck, laying them aside instead. She knows what she wants to suggest but isn’t sure how to phrase it so it doesn't come across as weird.

“It’s been a really long day,” she starts and Lexa nods in agreement as if every day isn't this long, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “I’m exhausted.” 

“You should go to bed then,” Lexa suggests with a hint of concern, pushing down her sleeves and dropping her legs over the side of the bed to get up.  

Clarke huffs. “No, I mean— Do you remember when we were four years old? And how much we hated naps but everything was always better after them?”

“I don’t remember napping.”

“Of course you don’t,” Clarke sighs.  “But in any case, I think we should take a nap. As our next break-time activity.”

Lexa blinks. “Oh. If that's what you wish to do. Enjoy your evening nap, Clarke,  I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you for stopping by, I enjoyed the game.”

“No, that’s not—I think we should both take a nap. Right now.”

Lexa stares unblinking.

“Like a…group nap. Like we used to in kindergarten. Didn’t you guys ever do that in pre-prep or whatever it is here?”

“No. It isn’t our way.”

“Come on, it’s fun.”

“Clarke, I’m not sure—”

“Like a slumber party?”

“We had a ‘slumber party’ the other day,” Lexa observes dryly. “You did very little slumbering.”

“But what I did sleep was high quality.” She can see Lexa weakening but not enough. Right. Time for the big guns. “I don’t usually sleep that well. Not for awhile. But that night you dragged me across the entire room and I didn’t even stir. Do you have any idea how rare that is for me?”

Green eyes widen and Clarke thinks she’s won but then they narrow with a gleam. “Do you usually experience nightmares?”

Damn. The Head Girl is crafty. But so is Clarke when she’s on a mission and she evades the topic with a deft sidestep. “I certainly didn’t that night.”

Lexa sighs and drops her chin to her chest, a few wild strands of hair curtaining her face.

Victory.

“Fine. You may have your ‘group nap’, Clarke. Even if it’s 7pm and it makes no sense.”

“Muchof. Your devotion to your lowly subjects is commendable.” Clarke fluffs the single pillow and scoots over to the side of the bed closest to the wall before flopping down prone. When Lexa doesn’t move from her spot she sighs with playful exasperation and pats the mattress beside her.

“Someone told me stubbornly clinging to old ways is a weakness, Lexa.”

“Mockery is not the product of a strong mind, Clarke.” But Lexa carefully eases herself down to the bed, curling up on her side at the very edge of the bed and tucking an arm under her head rather than pull the pillow closer. It’s impossible for their bodies not to touch in the small space and Clarke can feel the rigidity of Lexa’s back against her own.

“Mockery is not the product of a strong mind,” Clarke imitates in a bad American twang and the most beautiful peal of laughter rings out beside her.

Everything is quiet for about thirty seconds before Lexa starts fidgeting, re-adjusting her arms and tucking and then untucking her legs. “Do you have enough space?” she whispers.

“Yep.”

“Do you want a blanket? Or for me to turn off the lamp?”

Clarke hides a grin into the crook of her elbow. “Go to sleep, Heda.”

There’s a long sigh but the Head Girl says no more. She's clearly still resisting sleep, her spine remaining tense, but after a while her breathing begins to even out until all at once her muscles fall slack as if she’s fought so hard against relaxing that she’s violently passed out from the exertion of it all. Clarke lets go soon after.

When they wake with shuffling noises and small sighs they’re still facing away from each other, in the exact same position they started and yet not at all. Two girls fell asleep but for a precious few minutes before they sit up and go two separate ways their physiology has harmonized into one anthem, each breath shadowed by the descant of another until there’s no telling who is leading and who is following.

For a few minutes Clarke turns and everything is soft and blunted except the curls at the nape of Lexa’s neck, crisp even in the blur of sleep-saturated vision.

For a few minutes all the anesthesia has worn off and all her senses are back but as long as she keeps her eyes on those tiny spirals, Clarke feels only pangs of relief.

--

At breakfast Octavia and Raven joke that Sunday's Remembrance service was basically a wedding ceremony and that she’s as good as married to the Head Girl. Clarke snorts and tries to change the subject but a blush creeps up her face and her friends tease her mercilessly for it.

In morning chapel she can’t stop glancing over to the altar where she and Lexa had clasped hands yesterday.

The Head Girl catches her eye during the sung ‘amen’ and she doesn’t let it go until the last note tapers off.

Chapter Text

Michaelmas term marches on.

There are extra seats on the coach taking the U19 Lacrosse team to Nationals and the Sixth Form girls are extended an invitation to cheer them on. Not everyone decides to spend their Saturday on an outdoor pitch in the middle of November but at quarter to four in the morning Clarke finds herself shivering in front of the main doors, waiting with the team and few other brave supporters for the bus to arrive.

Even with the extra girls there’s enough space on the coach for everyone to get a pair of seats to themselves and Clarke settles into the front row across from Lexa, pulling her knees to her chest and watching her breath frost up on the windowpane. She really hopes the heaters are still in the process of warming up because it’s a two plus hour journey and her toes are already numb; Clarke eyes the chapel cloak Lexa’s wearing over her lacrosse clothes with envy, wishing she’d been clever enough to think of bringing her own. The Head Girl looks disgustingly cozy, wrapped up tightly with her back against the window as she takes a book off the large pile at her side and flips to where she’d left off, probably only hours before.  

Coach Indra is the last on the coach, counting up the girls for a final headcount before returning to the front. She raises an eyebrow at Clarke as the bus starts its engine and it takes her a bleary second to realize that she’s not being reprimanded for putting her feet on the seat, rather that Indra needs a place to sit and Clarke is occupying the front area where the chaperones usually sit.

Chaperones and the school officials. She’s not one of those. Right.

Clarke shoots to her feet, gathering her things together and hurriedly picking up the loose items that fall from her lap. She glances around the islands of seats, trying to figure out who’s she’s going to annoy by stealing their extra space.

“Clarke.”

Lexa has scooted over from the aisle seat to the window, her books on her lap now. She gestures to the empty seat beside her and, yeah, Clarke probably shouldn’t suddenly be feeling this ramped up so early in the morning. Especially without coffee to blame. 

“Oh. Thanks.” 

“Think nothing of it.” Lexa flicks on the overhead reading light and opens the top textbook again to a section full of graphs and equations. Clarke slumps down in the seat and curls her hands up into her sleeves, blowing on the ends to warm them. She receives a quick glance from her seatmate but the eyes quickly flit back to the book.  

“What are you revising?”

Lexa closes the weighty tome over a finger so Clarke can see the cover. “Economics.”

“That's one way to send you to sleep I guess.”

The girl in the row behind them lets out a snore and they both burst into muffled laughter.

“Contrary to popular opinion—clearly—it’s not so bad. Perhaps a little out of touch with the real world, but it’s fascinating to see the internal structures and rules that drive behavior. It’s not unlike my psychology course, actually.”

“Huh.” Clarke would actually be vaguely intrigued but she’s also half-asleep so she settles for a hum as she closes her eyes, letting her head fall back against the seat rest. “You’ll have to tell me more when it isn’t four in the morning.”

“Anytime,” her seatmate says, more softly than seems warranted, and Clarke cracks open her eyes just in time to see Lexa’s gaze flicker away and return to bell-shaped curves and income distribution histograms.

The sweet falling sensation comes swiftly but the temperature on the bus seems to fall even faster and eventually the cold overwhelms her body’s exhaustion. She stretches her jumper over her knees and buries her nose into the neckline but that’s just uncomfortable and does little to temper the goosebumps. Eyes still closed, she reaches up and feels the tip of her nose: it’s ice cold.

Beside her there’s a vibration of movement and Clarke peeks open an eye to see Lexa unbuttoning the red cloak from around her shoulders and laying it across both of their laps. The wool is thick, heavier than most blankets, and Lexa’s body heat still clings to the surface. It’s intoxicating, especially imbued with Lexa’s clean scent, and the waves of sleep finally pull her under before she can manage to mumble out her gratitude.

She dreams of fireplaces and sheepskin rugs and when she begins to resurface an indeterminate time later she finds herself curled into the warm body on her left, forehead tucked into a strong shoulder, knees folded into a soft lap. The concentration of fragrance at the nape of Lexa’s neck almost short-circuits her system when she chances a subtle sniff, her nose now toasty from being pressed right into the tiny little curls.

It feels really, really good.  

She doesn’t move a muscle, closing her eyes again and pretending things she shouldn’t pretend for a few minutes before facing the real world again. Lifetimes are lived in those paltry seconds: she’s held in warm arms and she's home, her childhood innocence is safe and sound and shading her eyes. She’s seventeen years old and she stands at the starting line of it all, supporters cheering and the certainty of victory at the finish line. She’s all grown-up and she’s loved and she remembers nothing of an aching void except in the beat between her lover’s first and second morning kiss.

When she eventually stirs and pulls away, she finds the head girl studying her like she's got density plots tattooed across her eyelids. Lexa quickly turns her gaze back to her book and Clarke notes with relief that it’s only a few pages past where it’d been when she’d fallen asleep. She moves back into her own space with an apologetic smile, clearing her throat and wiping the sleep from her eyes, glad she hadn’t embarrassed herself by draping herself across Heda for too long, anyway.

They’re pulling off the ring road around London into the Surrey countryside and it’s been two hours.

--

Lacrosse is savage; Lexa is savage out on the lacrosse pitch.

It’s chucking it down by the time the team competes in the final round and the players are covered in mud and sweat, the rain plastering hair to the back of their necks and cheeks. Lexa’s the muddiest of them all, streaks of dirt across her face like warpaint, and it’s not the only reason that turns Clarke’s mind to Boudica again as she and the other spectators huddle under a single flimsy awning instead of the uncovered stands.

Warrior queen is really the only way anyone could describe the Head Girl out on that field, chasing after the ball with her stick drawn like a sword, her guttural grunts every time she slashes the air and hurls the little yellow Indian-rubber ball across the length of the pitch genuinely intimidating. A shiver rockets through Clarke’s spine every time Heda lunges, every time she twists the shaft of her weapon to anticipate the ball’s position, every time there’s a crack of connection as it lands in the head of the stick.

And holy fuck is Clarke shivering a lot. She barely understands the rules of the game but anyone can see that the Head Girl’s movements are precise and her body nimble as she darts in between her opponents and clashes her stick against theirs to steal the ball. The Commander calls out orders and her regiment obeys, somehow coordinating not only herself but also every single member of her team. The muscles in their bare limbs gleam and flex as they sprint, mouth guards and thick black lines under their eyes imbuing them all with aggressive ferocity even when they’re standing still.

It’s freezing cold outside, even colder with Clarke’s body spontaneously deciding to cycle between flashes of heat and shivers, and her school jacket is long useless against the rising wind. She spies Lexa’s head girl cloak peeking out of her sports duffel and her eyes keep coming back to the enticing crimson even when she tries to block out the cold and focus on the game. When a particularly nasty gust of wind surprises even the players on the pitch though, she gives up the ghost and pulls it out, wrapping the wool around her body and pulling the hood up over her head.

Much better. Even without the residual heat from Lexa’s skin it warms her up immediately and she tucks her arms inside the voluminous folds and pulls it tighter, popping up the collar to seal out the last remnants of the gale.

It smells really, really good, too.

A gong rings out to indicate a halfway break and the girls rest their hands on their knees or clasp their hands behind their necks, breathing heavily before heading for their water bottles at the side of the field. They remove their mouth guards and pull their masks up over their heads as they walk.

Clarke pulls the hood down as Lexa approaches and it takes only a few seconds before their eyes meet, a tentative smile from the Head Girl that falters when her gaze drops to the item of clothing wrapped around Clarke’s body and then back up to her face.

Lexa promptly stumbles over a sports bag.

When she’s caught her balance again, green eyes avoid the cloak and lock on her face instead, a questioning furrow in her eyebrows; Clarke shoots her a shrug and an only passably apologetic tongue-tipped smile. It takes a moment but Lexa eventually returns a weak smile that slowly tips into a bit-back grin before she turns away to find her water, gulping down long swings.

Clarke’s vision promptly narrows to the motions of a certain player's throat.

When whistle blows again Lexa throws her empty bottle in a nearby bin and raises her stick in the air. All the Polis girls gather around and raise theirs against it. “Ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in,” their Captain shouts, her voice louder than the screaming wind.

“Ai ste yuj!” they yell back, popping their mouthpieces back and straightening their rows of identical braids. Brown pleated games skirts flap behind them as they take their places and Clarke can’t pretend she’s not gawping at the contraction and retraction of muscles in a particular player’s long legs more than others. Lexa scores a goal right away and Clarke shifts her weight before widening her stance to stop herself squirming.

Nope. Not a kink for leather—just for a very particular Celtic warrior queen.

The battle wages on, the score close in the second half of the game, and she watches Lexa and the team fight tooth and claw for every point, dodging and twisting and feigning blocks from their opponents. St. Mary’s fights back hard though and after a few minutes they band together in a terrifying offensive against Polis to take back the lead.

Lexa seems to finally be slowing down, her strokes becoming slower and her strides shorter and Clarke lifts her nails to her mouth, watching her Heda bear the brunt of a fair amount of hits that must already be bruising up. It’s been a long day of matches and Clarke’s chest aches to watch the exhaustion begin to assert itself, Lexa having played every single minute of every single game rather than being substituted out for an occasional rest like the other girls.

The ball is intercepted by a St. Mary’s midfielder and the girl darts left, twisting and rocking it inside the net of her stick in a protective cradle until passing it to a teammate closer to the goal. Lexa ducks her head and rushes the offensive player who catches it but they decide to take a straight run for the goal rather than protecting the ball as carefully as they usually might, noticing the way Lexa and her team are starting to wear out.

With only seconds left on the clock, Lexa lets out what can only be described as a war cry and all at once she’s transformed from weary soldier to deadly warlord again, eyes flashing as she snags the ball right from under the unsuspecting girl’s nose. Before any of the other team are able to process Lexa’s feint, she takes a running start and then raises her stick high in the sky, hurling the ball halfway across the field with a mighty yell.

It sluices through the air, right past the goalie and straight into the heart of the net.

The brass gong rings out.

It takes a moment for the events to sink in but when they do, the crowd erupts, screaming and cheering. The winning team does as well, their victory whoops easily heard even over the pandemonium of the spectators. They run at one another, hugging and jumping, shoulders crashing against shoulders and arms clasped together; the St. Mary’s girls stare open-mouthed, panting as they take in their loss (and maybe a little at the sheer vigor of the celebration rituals happening from the Polis clan) until a few walk over to the victory party and shake hands.

Heda stands alone in the centre of the field, glistening with sweat and hunched over to catch her breath. Her eyes are wild and her hair is wild, curls escaping their braids and fanning out across her polo shirt. She’s trying to get her body back under control but her inhalations remain rapid and shallow, focused more on the grass than on the roaring crowd.

After a minute she shifts her eyes up to the stands, hasty and between breaths as if it’s just an incidental eye movement on its way back to the ground, but Clarke is waiting for it. She captures Lexa’s gaze and holds it captive.

The girl’s lungs seem to falter for a second until Clarke's lips surge into a beam so wide she can feel them cracking. Lexa doesn’t return the smile with her mouth but her eyes clear a little and Clarke watches her square her shoulders back and take a long deep breath. Clarke takes a deep breath too, not sure if she’s leading or following Lexa’s lungs; for a few beats it’s more like she’s sucking in oxygen for them both and the head girl is exhaling their carbon dioxide.

And then Heda lifts her chin higher and after a final pull of air she nods once and breaks their eyes’ communion to jog over to the captain of St. Mary’s and shake her hand. Drawing the Polis team together for a final clang of their warrior’s swords in the air, she clasps forearms with the girls, checks shin scrapes, and echoing their triumphant words back at them with a genuine smile.

Yep. Clarke’s definitely a lost cause.

--

After the award ceremony the team goes off to shower while the other girls return to the bus, tucking into their pre-packed bagged dinners the kitchen had prepared the night before. Clarke’s all the way through her soggy tuna and sweetcorn sandwich and partway into her Mars Bar by the time they return, all droopy adrenaline and clean faces.

Lexa’s hair is dry and pulled into a simple bun now and it’s a startling sight, the Head Girl without her perfect rows of braids. Clarke tugs her into their pair of seats before she can start stammering offers to sit elsewhere and she's tense for only a few moments before settling in. Her upper lip is swollen with a small cut Clarke can’t do much about but she can do something for the gash on the head girl’s palm. She hunts down the first aid kit despite Lexa’s protests, unsurprised when she grits her teeth but doesn’t make a sound as Clarke digs deep into the cut to remove the remnants of dried mud and pours hydrogen peroxide over the wound. Wrapping it up with the long roll of gauze once it’s all clean, her fingers linger against the weight of Lexa’s hand in hers and there may or may not be more layers than strictly necessary by the time she lets go.

Indra surprises them with a stop at a Starbucks and buys everyone on the bus a hot chocolate to celebrate their win. A dollop of whipped cream clings to the tip of Lexa’s nose after her first sip and Clarke stares at it a long time, long enough that several questions have to be repeated before she can continue their idle conversation. Her hand twitches to brush it off, her tongue twitches to lick it off, but sadly her brain wins out, teasing Lexa about it with a smirk and nudge of her elbow. A flush creeps along the Head Girl’s cheeks as she wipes it away and Clarke can’t help working out how she’d duplicate the pallet with her oil paints.

When night falls and they’re back on the motorway Clarke tugs the cloak around them again, tucking it up under their chins and slouching down in the seat. Lexa follows suit after only a single glance down to her books, now stacked on the floor beneath their feet. The overhead light remains off and headlights and street signs reflect in their eyes and skate across their faces; the girls’ murmurings quiet down and a blanket of quiet spreads across the coach.

Clarke takes Lexa’s uninjured hand under the cloak and squeezes it hard. Their fingers entwine like an inevitability, slipping between spaces and into grooves until they’re tied together like one of the intricate knots Clarke’s father had taught her on one of their camping trips. A blood knot maybe, the one for joining two ropes without sacrificing the inherent strength of each on its own.

They don’t move once their fingers are bound together and Lexa doesn’t let go when she closes her eyes and tilts her neck back against the headrest, throat bared to the world. “I’m glad you came,” she murmurs.

“Me too.”

Clarke doesn’t let go either.

And it’s with entangled fingers an hour or so later, as the rest of the bus dozes and they huddle under the cloak like thieves in the night, that the words that have been caught in her throat since August finally become dislodged, if only in a whisper.

“It’s my fault they’re dead.”

Bless her, Lexa doesn’t betray a muscle twitch of surprise or shock. She only tilts her head slightly to indicate that she’s listening. Her hand remains warm in Clarke’s and the stable pulse beating under her thumb helps keep her grounded.

“We were on vacation, my family and my boyfriend and I. In our house in Martha’s Vineyard. It was the perfect summer and we were on the beach every day, digging up clams and—” Clarke can’t continue for a moment, has to take a few steadying breaths.

Lexa waits without saying a word, moving her eyes down to where their hands rest so Clarke isn’t pressured by her eye contact.

“He was cheating on me. I found out the last day we were there. I was furious, I— I thought it was the worst possible thing that could have ever happened to me.” Her watery smile is met with the slightest flattening of lips.  “I took off in my Jeep and left Finn to catch a ride back to Manhattan with my parents and uncle—or rather I didn’t really care what happened to him. I just had to get out of there.”

“I was still so angry when I got home after the five-hour drive that I barely noticed the police car in the driveway.” Her throat is tight but somehow oxygen keeps finding a way into her lungs. “They’d been dead for hours by the time I found out—hours. All of them. T-boned only a few minutes away from the beach house. If I hadn’t stormed off, if I’d been able to control my temper, even for a few minutes, they wouldn’t have…” Clarke clears her throat and clenches her jaw so tight it hurts; Lexa squeezes her hand. “If I’d been stronger, they wouldn’t have died. It’s my fault, even if I wasn’t the one running a red light on the side of a cliff.”

She can’t look at Lexa for a minute, dreading the pity. Everyone pities her. As if they can’t see that she’s the villain here, as if they believe her to deserve even a modicum of sympathy.

But when she finally meets Lexa’s steady gaze, she sees something else. She can’t even begin categorise it; there’s no word in her emotional lexicon, no colour in her paintbox for this shade of understanding and fortitude, the look in Lexa’s eyes that makes her feel like maybe she’s not alone in this, like they’re bearing it together. Like she’s lifting off some of the burden and draping it across her own shoulders like this woolen mantle they're now sharing.

Lexa's carrying half her load and yet it’s the nearest Clarke has come to tears since the policewoman sat her down in the foyer and her tear ducts were welded shut.

“I didn’t cry. I didn’t even cry.” She swallows the lump in her throat but her words still come out ragged. “When will I figure out how to cry?”

Lexa tilts her head against Clarke’s and sighs, temples meeting and hair brushing along cheeks. “It takes as long as it takes, Clarke. No more and no less.”

The cloak gets pulled higher across their bodies and Clarke isn’t sure whose hand tugs it up even though she watches its path. It doesn’t matter; even if it’s hers, it’s not mutually exclusive with it also being Lexa’s.

She thinks about the ancient belief in the vena amoris, in an unbroken vein that traveled straight from the ring finger to the heart. It’s only a myth—the vein structure of all the fingers in the hand is exactly the same—but in this moment that doesn’t matter either. In this moment it only matters that their circulatory systems feel linked where their fingers join, as if they're two parts working together to increase the efficiency of a single complex. Whether it’s by a blood knot or by blood vessels or by something less physical is entirely inconsequential.

Lexa doesn’t let go of her hand under the cloak for the entire trip home.

--

Chapel on Sunday is a morning service and it’s with the final verse of ‘Shine Jesus, Shine’ echoing in her head that she makes a stop over in the archaic computer lab and finally replies to Wells’ twelve emails with a brief promise that she’s fine and that she’d made the right decision coming to England. He writes back so quickly that she’s still in her inbox when the reply comes, a smiley face and a plea to keep in touch.

okay. i’ll try. love you W. ~Clarke

That evening she ventures into the Brigid storage room and retrieves a framed picture of a twelve-year old blonde girl engulfed between the arms of her smiling parents, the sky behind them set alight with pink and orange. She lets her eyes roam across its details, the clutch of her father’s fingers into her shoulder and the string her mother had adapted to hold back her hair after their toiletry bags had been lost by the airlines. A minute, maybe two minutes go by and then she tucks the photo back into the lining of her suitcase next to a silver wrist watch.  

Clarke uses coloured pencils to create ultra-realistic drawings of stethoscopes and windmills on Monday morning and it’s not time that marches forward around her today. Today, she’s the one marching on, even if it’s only a single step.

Chapter Text

After the lacrosse game Clarke can’t be bothered to pretend that she doesn’t want to be around Lexa all the time and she’s met with no complaints from the other end. There’s always an excuse to duck out of her free prep periods to check if the light is turned on in the Head Girl’s private study room and after a few days her friends can’t be bothered to ask where she’s going anymore.

She joins the debate team, not even regretting the sudden necessity of finding arguments in defense of fox hunting because it means she and Lexa have to huddle over the lone computer in the Sixth Form Annex to research it, noses crinkled and shoulders pressed together to see the screen. They win the mock debate and then they huddle together over the computer again, this time on the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty of Animal’s website, drawing up plans for the next term’s charity drive.  

She agrees to Lexa’s suggestion to check out the Amateur Radio Club on Thursday night even though she knows absolutely nothing about ham radios and when she knows even less by the end it’s more than alright. Because Lexa is a total nerd about ham radios and the sparkle in her eyes as she explains the history of Morse code and how close everyone is to their licenses and her dorkiest of dorky puns about call signs and frequency allocations make every second of the hour worth it.

She proposes a Big Sister mentoring programme between the lower school and the upper forms and it’s really fine that it means long sessions of drawing up schedule templates and sitting in meetings with the Head of the prep school together.

(She makes a valiant attempt to accompany Lexa for a morning jog but they both agree that Clarke has other strengths)

So on one of the rare afternoons when the Head Girl is busy with administrative duties that don’t make sense for her to attend, Clarke makes an effort to spend some time with Raven and Octavia, convincing the Head of Sixth Form that she needs them both to come with her to town for poster-making supplies for the Big Sister initiative. Safety in numbers and all that.

They strip off their jumpers and apply a few sneaky layers of mascara once they’re out of sight of Dr. Peters’ sharp eye, running by House for their denim jackets. They’re required to stay in uniform on town visits during the week but there’s technically nothing in the uniform guidelines about outerwear so they take every opportunity to look less like the 'posh tossers' they know the townies call them and more like all the other teenagers wandering around high street after classes let out for the day. It doesn’t make much of a difference—the village is small enough that everyone recognizes them as Polis girls even when they’re entirely in home clothes—but there’s something to be said for making an effort, anyway.

It’s warm for November but even better it’s sunny, actually sunny, and it imbues a scent of freedom in the autumn air. They swing their arms and ride the kissing gates and jump over fences instead of going around. The town center is a half-hour walk or so, a distance that can seem insurmountable when they’re feeling lazy, but today it whizzes by almost as fast as their chatter. 

“Are you going anywhere for Exeat?” Octavia asks once they’ve exhausted their usual topics of boys (or at least hypothetical boys and their hypothetical babies’ names) and school gossip and the surprise housemate in Celebrity Big Brother. The sun is low in the sky and since none of the girls thought to grab sunglasses, they’ve all got their hands up over their eyes as they walk

“Octavia’s coming to mine for the weekend,” Raven adds when Clarke bites her lip. “My parents would be happy to have you round, too—we can turn it into a proper house party!”

“Because every weekend isn’t a house party in a boarding school?” Clarke asks wryly.

“A house party without lights out at 10pm. It’ll be wild.”

“All joking aside, you should come, Clarke,” Octavia urges. “Raven’s got horses and riding trails and her mum and dad are so lovely… Plus, her house is near the train line so it’s easy to get into Newcastle for shopping.”

Clarke’s touched and she has to smile but she also has to decline. She probably wouldn’t have accepted in any case, obstinate parts of her heart not done rebelling over anything even vaguely interpretable as pity, but it’s a moot point because she already has plans for the upcoming home weekend.

“Thanks, that’s really nice of you but I’ve actually decided to visit my guardian. I think he’s in…Lancashire? Am I saying that right? Why is it pronounced differently than Lancaster? Is Lancaster even in Lancashire?” Clarke’s well-aware that this is more information about her ‘home’ life than she’s ever shared with her friends and the distracting questions leave her lips reflexively. It is the first time she’s regretted the defense mechanism, though, at least theoretically.  

Raven nods as if she expected that answer. “Oh, cool.”

“Yeah, that’s great. Lank-a-shur,” Octavia contributes, correcting her offhandedly. “Pretty part of the country.”

The probing questions don’t come—of course they don’t—and not for the first time she’s grateful for Octavia and Raven’s quiet approach to friendship, that they wait for her to come to them rather than prying. At least with regards to her life before starting at Polis. They don’t even bother answering her other babbled queries, brushing right past them.

“Maybe in the Lent Exeat we can all do something.” Raven squints at the road as they wait for the cars to slow down at the zebra crossing and then back at Clarke. “I’m going to bring my car back from home since I’m finally legal, so we could road trip or something. That’s an American cliché, right?”

 “We could be the three Thelma and Louises!” Octavia squeals, rubbing her hands together at the thought.

The buildings of town begin to appear in the distance, blocking the low-lying sun, and Clarke’s finally able to lower her hand from over her eyes. “I’m not sure we want to model anything on Thelma and Louise, O.  But yeah, maybe. Sounds like fun.”

Theoretically.

Maybe even realistically.

(There would be room for at least one more person in the car, right?)

“Really? Huh. Maybe I should actually watch that movie.”

“Octavia!” Raven and Clarke exclaim with a laugh, shaking their heads at the Prefect. She shrugs and links arms with them both.

“Whatever. It’s not like Bell and I watched a lot of movies as kids. Foster families don’t tend to prioritise vintage cinematic educations.”

Clarke sucks in a breath between her teeth and almost trips on the curb, pulling her friends down with her, joined as they are at the elbows. Raven and Octavia look at her quizzically and she manages to arrange her face back into a neutral expression before they see it. “Sorry. There’s a reason I’m not on any of the sports teams.”

Raven snorts and Octavia laughs, nudging Clarke in the side and launching into a story about the time she’d tripped into the swimming pool in full uniform at her first swim meet. Clarke manages to nod along and laughs in the right places but she’s really more focused on beating herself up.

It’s almost ironic: she’s been so focused on suppressing her feelings and burying her past, thinking that she’s being selfless, that she’s avoiding being a burden, but it’s left her more like a dog with a bone. She digs it all up and then covers it up again, over and over and over while there’s an entire barbecue and crowd of friendly hands over on the patio. 

How does she know nothing about Octavia’s home life? From the casual way she mentioned foster care and from Raven’s unsurprised expression, she’s clearly not closed-lipped about it or anything. Now that she really thinks about it, she’s been fed the clues the whole term: she knows that Octavia’s brother sends her money every week even though he’s in army training and the jokes about him taking the ‘my sister, my responsibility’ thing way too seriously are probably less figurative than she’d assumed. And she never talks about her parents. Never. Just because Clarke is mum about her own doesn’t mean that it’s a normal boarding school thing. Raven’s always going on about her dad’s job and most of the other girls have at least mentioned a mother or father in passing.

God, why has she never taken the time to fit together the pieces or even consider their existence – what kind of friend is she? No wonder Octavia never pries into Clarke’s back story. Suddenly she has a million questions, like how Octavia ended up in Polis at such a young age and whether she’s one of the ‘high-risk’ background students with a full scholarship Lexa had told her about and what had happened to her parents and how young she and Bellamy had been and—

“Clarke?” There’s a gentle prod at her ribcage and it snaps her out of her increasingly rapid ruminations.

“Huh? Oh, sorry. What was that?”

“I asked whether you thought WHSmith would have the supplies you need,” Octavia repeats.

“Is Princess daydreaming about her Prince Charming?” Raven teases, roving her eyes across the busy high street and spotting a pack of state school boys. “Ooh, is it one of them? I don’t know, the tall one is okay I guess but they’re all so greasy and spotty.”

Clarke glances in their direction; the boys have noticed them now and they’re starting to nudge each other with gawky expressions that are probably trying to appear cocky. “Nah. You know me; my candle burns only for Mr. Wallace and his wobbly chin.”

Octavia gags and Raven pretends to vomit. They bump her shoulders and Clarke sighs dramatically behind a grin, tugging them away from the posturing teenagers and into the stationary shop.

“By the way, what've you done to Lexa?” Octavia segues once inside and Clarke’s entire body goes on high alert. “Ever since you guys started working together on everything, she’s—”

“She’s what?”

“She’s all… smiley suddenly. She made an honest-to-god joke in history today. Not one that any of us had any clue about but it cracked up Mrs. Villier.”

“Really?”

“Mmm. She was always a serious kid but it’s like she’s been on a different plane of existence the past few years. So when she suddenly starts laughing at Mr. Rowland’s corny puns it’s unusual, to say the least. And it’s not just that, she’s also been more laid back in our prefect meetings and—oh my god, you guys, yesterday she actually let some of us take over planning the team building retreat in January. Like, actually delegated. I’ve never seen her do that.”

An unsanctioned smile begins to spread across Clarke’s face and she has to bend down to study a box of permanent markers with intense scrutiny before her friends spot it. “Yeah? Good for her.”

“My thoughts exactly. So I ask again, Clarke Griffin: what have you done to her?”

“Ohh, have you been drugging her?” Raven cuts in before Clarke can figure out a response. “Because I’d support that. She could use it.”

“Are you guys shooting up weed?”

“I don’t think people usually shoot up marijuana, O,” Clarke responds dryly, extremely interested in the tray of poster paper. “I think it’s activated by heat. Anyway, do you guys think plain old white or will pink—”

“Princess is positively shite at trying to change the subject,” Raven comments to Octavia and she hums in agreement. They cross their arms across their chests and wait.

“What?” They raise their left eyebrows in unison. “I’m not drugging the Head Girl!”

“You know very well that’s not what we’re asking.”

“Although your caginess about it is suspicious…”

Clarke sighs. “Look, I don’t know what I have to do with it! It’s not like we— We only really talk about school stuff. I’m glad she seems more chill though.”

Octavia finally hums in acceptance of her explanation, at least for the time being, and Raven becomes distracted by a display of bulk ink refills. With a sideways grimace she goes to follow her friend but leans in to Clarke’s ear as she brushes past. “Maybe she just needed a friend. You’re good for her, Clarke.” Her voice is so soft, cracked even, and Clarke whips her head around to meet her eye but she’s already gone, pulling Raven’s hand away from where it’s sneaking over the display case and telling her that no, she can’t build an exploding fountain pen to hide in Dr. Peter’s pencil case and destroy his decrepit laptop once and for all.

--

It’s mostly true, that she and Lexa only really talk about school-related business, or at least it is from Lexa’s end. Clarke’s long memorised the feel of the head girl’s fingertips, the loosening of her shoulders when she’s in her bedroom, her secret predilection for the colour pink even though she never wears it in public, the slope and intercept of the smile she reserves for the youngest toddlers in the nursery school when they cross the quad in their orderly lines. But when it comes to her life either outside the school property lines or inside the girl’s skull, she knows about as little about Lexa as she does about Heda.

Clarke genuinely doesn’t know what she could possibly have to do with the Head Girl’s lighter disposition. Quite the opposite, actually: most days it feels like she’s the one passing her burdens off to Lexa, leaching up the girl’s strength and warmth whenever she so freely offers it. If nothing else, surely Clarke’s now-nightly visits to Lexa’s tower room the hour before curfew are cutting into precious work time. There hasn’t been a single night Clarke’s woken up in the middle of the night and leant out the window not to see lamplight flickering in the top floor of the house across the street.

That evening, Clarke loses track of time after supper as she designs the posters promoting the Big Sister initiative, noticing the late hour when there’s only forty minutes before the curfew bell will ring out. She tells herself that Lexa would probably appreciate a night to herself rather than having to babysit the new American girl, turning the clock away from her line of sight and going back to her acrylic paints. The fact that her chest is tight and each breath seems to take a little extra effort is something she doesn’t probe, focusing instead on the sound of idle chatter and giggles from the hallway outside.

The paint is drying on the last posterboard when everything goes preternaturally silent. Clarke cocks her ear toward the door for a moment before rolling her chair backwards so she can crack it open and peer outside when the noise doesn’t pick back up.   She’s met with the sight of shock-still girls and she opens the door wider to figure out what they’re staring at.

No wonder: it’s Heda in all her glory, striding down the corridor in full uniform and perfect posture while the other boarders slump half-asleep in their pajamas and hair still wet from showers. The fearful awe and self-consciousness in the hall is almost palpable; it leaves a crackle in the air and a metallic taste on her tongue. The Head Girl’s eyes are piercing but she’s not making eye contact with anyone as she sails through the corridor, probably because every single eye is fixed on her straight back and the cloak flowing behind her.

Clarke’s mouth goes dry.

The Head Girl freezes when she catches Clarke’s eye through the crack in the door. For the briefest of milliseconds her shoulders almost seem to curl forward but if it happens it’s gone in a blink. She raises her chin high. “Clarke.” Her eyes shift toward the rest of the mute girls and she swallows. “May I come in?”

“Um, yeah, yes, of course,” Clarke stammers, opening her door wide and gesturing the strikingly beautiful interloper inside. “Come in.”

The hall is still quiet when she closes the door behind them and Clarke closes her eyes a second before turning around.

Well, it had certainly been Heda marching into her room but suddenly she’s no longer anywhere to be seen, replaced by an awkward little noodle of a girl with her hands pulling her sleeves over her hands and her arms limp at her sides. Clarke’s room is little more than a closet but Lexa looks small and lost inside it, like she’s a child dressed in her mother’s heels and pearls.

“Pardon my interruption. I expected you at your usual time and you didn’t— I wanted to make sure you were alright.” It’s a herculean effort for Lexa to say these words aloud, Clarke can see, she knows, and her ribs decide they’ll help out by squeezing her heart in an air-tight vise. 

“Sorry, I lost track of time with these posters and—”

“You need not apologise, Clarke. You are not required—I only wanted to check that you’re okay. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Heda’s fighting to reign in this unarmored side of herself and it occurs to Clarke that she may be witnessing the first time the Commander's been met with such a bitter defeat. Lexa’s so vulnerable right now that it hurts to look at her, like her chest is cut open and all her organs exposed, like she’d equally welcome a surgeon’s scalpel as she would a knife.

“Sorry,” Clarke croak out again and immediately clears her throat. “I’m fine.”

“That is…good to hear.”

“But um…thank you. For checking. I appreciate that.”

“It is my d—” Lexa swallows whatever words were coming next. “You’re welcome, Clarke.”

The hands on Clarke’s wall clock tick tick tick along. Lexa pulls her hands behind her body and quickly releases them again. Clarke shuffles her weight between her legs and searches for words that might be hidden in the crevices of the chapel cloak hood or in the Monet canvas on her wall.

Spying the bandage still wrapped around Lexa’s palm from the lacrosse game last week, Clarke lets out the breath she’d been holding in relief, stepping forward to run her fingers along the site even though there’s no way it’s still weeping or in need of any type of medical attention. “Sit down. Let me change that for you.”

Lexa’s eyes flicker between their joined hands and up at Clarke and then back again.  She nods once.

Crammed in the corner of Clarke’s bedroom is a basin sink and she lets go of Lexa’s hand to rummage through a shoebox tucked in the space between the porcelain column and the wall. Lexa remains standing as Clarke retrieves the tube of Neosporin and a bandaid from the first-aid kit she’d brought from home—from New York.

(she remembers her mother’s steady hands over hers, guiding the pudgy little fingers over a favorite doll. peaches. ratty yellow hair with more bald-patches than anything else, her cloth body naked and stained with evidence of toddler spills and attempts at sharing food with her babies. ‘if your baby has a wound on her skin make sure you clean it. make sure your bandages are clean as well. it’s a good idea to put some antibiotic cream on it, too. and always make sure your baby tells you everything that hurts. you don’t want to miss anything, do you? if she won’t tell you at first—some kids don’t— you can try telling her something that hurts you. sometimes people find it easier to share that way.’  peaches is covered in sticky bandage adhesive for the rest of her days on earth and so is Clarke for the next three weeks.)

“Have a seat, if you like,” Clarke says over her shoulder as she washes her hands, watching Lexa gingerly lower herself to the edge of her bed in her peripheral vision. The bed’s unmade—of course it is—and Lexa shifts uncomfortably for a second before reaching under the covers to pull out the offending lump.

“Midnight snack?” Lexa enquires with a twitch in the corners of her mouth as she studies the dirty mug in her hand.

Clarke frowns at the tea cup. “That’s where you went. I’ve been looking you for days.”

The heavens open and light streams down and Lexa grins. “You’re hopeless.”

“I’m just…organizationally-challenged. It’s a disability, don’t be insensitive.”

“You’ve been sleeping in this bed. How could you not notice it?”

Biting back a smile and going for broke, Clarke flings back the other side of the comforter. Hidden under the linens is a shameful trove of random items: a hairdryer, her other school jumper, some folded laundry, a couple of DVD boxes, a laptop charger.

“I kinda…tote these things from my desk chair to my bed depending on the time of the day.” Lexa huffs out a startled guffaw, as if lungs are just as astonished to be laughing, and Clarke crosses her arms across her chest in mock affront. “What? It’s a tiny room! There isn’t enough room for everything to have its place.”

“You’re special, Clarke.”

“It’s always nice to be appreciated. Now give me your hand.”

She holds it out and Clarke clears a space on the mattress beside her and sits, tucking a leg underneath her as she sinks down. “It’s all yours,” Lexa murmurs and then her eyes widen a little.

“Good to know,” Clarke teases as she peels off the bandage. Lexa doesn’t bandy back at her cue though and when Clarke pulls back to look at her she’s startled to find the head girl clenching her jaw. “Am I hurting you?”

Lexa shakes her head, looking down at the floor, and Clarke gets back to it, checking the scrape for heat around the wound and for red lines radiating out, but like she’d suspected it’s practically healed. She dabs some antibiotic cream on it anyway.

“It’s looking good. It could probably do with airing out by now, though. I think you’ll be fine without a plaster.”

Long fingers curl up inside Clarke’s hand testingly and she drops her hold, letting her hands fall back into her lap while Lexa does the same.   

“Thank you. You’re going to be a brilliant doctor one day, you know.”

“My mom was chief cardiothoracic surgeon at Mount Sinai and my grandfather was the Chief of Medicine there so it’s in the family. I’ve been taught this kind of thing since I was a kid.”

“Mount Sinai is a hospital in New York?” Lexa runs a finger around the inside ring of the cup handle as they sit side by side, both facing the wall that the desk takes up.

“Yep. It was a couple of blocks away from where we lived, right on Central Park, we— Anyway, yeah.”

“Do you want to do your training there? Post medical school, that is— I know you said you were planning on studying over here.”

Clarke sighs and unscrews the lid of the Neosporin again and then threads it back on. “It does seem to be my legacy. I grew up with the staff there, first in the daycare and then I had to hang out there after school until I was old enough to stay home alone. They’re kind of like my people, I guess.”

(they’re also the people who witnessed her mother’s chest rise for its last time, who heard the last beat of her dad’s heart through a monitor. she’s not sure if she can ever step foot inside those front doors again, if she can ever pretend she’s holding herself together in front of the people who have known her since she was a screaming newborn.)

“Family is family, blood or otherwise,” Lexa agrees quietly.

The words hover in the air between them and Clarke takes a deep breath, remembering her afternoon revelations with Octavia. “I'm visiting my guardian for Exeat. Are you going anywhere?”

Clarkes heart sinks as light dims in the Lexa’s eyes and her face restructures itself. She inhales as if she’s about to answer but closes her mouth and shakes her head instead.

“Lexa,” Clarke begs. There have been breathtaking moments when it feels like there isn’t a single atom of space between them, times when it’s only the thinnest of membranes that maintains the barriers between their neurons. And then there are times when it feels like they’re shining carnival-prize flashlights across opposite sides of a black hole.

Right now feels like both.

The object of Clarke’s plea stays quiet. Her gaze remains fixed on Clarke’s but it feels like the last desperate display of strength in a dying creature.

Clarke waits patiently. 

“I never leave for Exeat,” Lexa finally admits in a whisper, eyes on where her shoe scuffles against the grain of the carpet, and it feels like an admission, like something she’s held back for so long that she trips over the words.

Clarke nudges her bare foot against a brown Mary Jane. It stills.

“I wouldn’t have anywhere to go.”

Clarke scoots closer and lets her pajama-covered knee fall across one clad in woolen tights.

“The school is my family.” Lexa’s voice is thick. “I have no other.”

Their shoulders come together and Clarke pries open Lexa’s hand from where it’s clinging to its twin in her lap, entangling it with her own instead.

Tonight is one of those times when their chests rise and fall as if a single body but maybe it’s the opposite scenario, too. Maybe they’re not diametrically opposed at all. Maybe light can make it through a black hole if you wait long enough. Maybe it just takes a lot of flashlights all pointed in the right direction.

--

Clarke has only met her legal guardian once even though he’s been a part of her life since before she was born. Marcus Kane is technically her godfather, the product of an old pact between her mother and a childhood friend, but they’d never laid eyes on one another, hadn’t even interacted other than the perfunctory wooden crosses he’d sent her as a child and the annual air mail deliveries of female empowerment coloring books and biographies of female historical figures. Until one day it was three coffins and her parents' last will and testimony being delivered and he was the one signing for them.

Clarke wasn’t forced to move miles away and start a new school in a new country with a new bedroom and new rules and an entire year’s worth of coursework to make up in addition to the usual workload. Plenty of her friends and distant family members had volunteered—begged, even—for her to come live with them, Wells and his father presenting the strongest case for staying with them at least through her final year of high school. Thelonious had gone as far as to solicit advice from the family lawyer about being appointed guardian before they’d approached Clarke with their proposal. Marcus had been nothing but supportive as well, letting her know he'd do whatever she wanted and even offering to move to New York temporarily so she could continue living in her own house; he’d been on sabbatical from his faculty position at the University of Bath to write his latest book on social reform anyway.  

--

Lexa has only met her legal guardians once, too. She’d been five years old, drowning in an ill-fitting black dress ironed as stiffly as the hands folded in her lap and her hair pulled into two tight plaits down the back of her head. They’d glanced at her when they’d entered the Headmistress’s office after the funeral, sitting silently in the high-backed chair etched with the fading names of past girls. It was the first and last time they’d bothered looking in her direction. Sighs were uttered, watches checked and eyes rolled. Forms were signed, hands swept in her general direction. Her grandparents didn’t utter her name once as they scrawled careless signatures that granted Polis in loco parentis over the tiny child in the grown-up chair, scrawny legs not nearly long enough for her feet to touch the floor.

Lexa had been found in the empty office three hours later, long after Headmistress Wynwood had begrudgingly walked the grumbling pair back to their town car before being called to take care of a minor school emergency. Her hands were still folded together, her little legs still motionless in the uncomfortable chair.

--

Clarke chose to leave. She chose to run away from all her friends and family and people who loved her because she couldn’t handle the burden of acting like she was unbroken in the face of sympathetic enquires and piteous faces, because she couldn't cope with the stillness of a once kinetic house, the burn of guilt, the ice of knowing she’d never be wrapped in the warmth of her parents’ arms ever again. It'd been the coward’s way out, hiding away in the wilderness of an English boarding school where cell phones are contraband and internet connectivity is dodgy at best, but she hadn’t been strong enough to do anything but run.

-- 

Lexa’s mother had been nothing but strong. She’d been so strong when she’d gotten pregnant before the end of her first year at university. She’d been so strong that she’d kept the baby despite her parents disowning her for it, she’d been so strong that she’d accepted help from her old headmistress and she’d been so strong that she’d worked three jobs so that she and her daughter could live in a rented room close enough to Polis that they could walk over every sunrise and walk back long after the stars had come out. She’d been so strong that she’d accepted financial support so her daughter could attend nursery school from the age of two.

Lexa’s strong mother had died of a meaningless case of the flu. She’d been twenty-four years old and she’d won every single battle life had thrown at her and she’d still died in her bed of a meaningless little virus. Her last words had been the nightly reminder to her curly-haired daughter to stay strong, tucking her into a secondhand bed and holding off on a forehead kiss so that she wouldn’t pass along any germs.

Lexa’s mother’s body had only been discovered when a pre-prep teacher had insisted on waiting for someone to pick up the little girl rather than let her cross the quad alone like she’d been allowed to do the past two evenings after supper. The five-year-old had arrived with red-rimmed eyes on Monday but her prep work had been complete, her hair neatly combed and her plaid smock clean. When the police entered the flat a few hours later that Wednesday night they barely noticed the soapy cereal bowl upside down on a dishtowel or the fresh load of laundry hung to dry across the radiators.  

--

Two hands remain as one until the brass bell rings out and maybe Clarke's been thinking about this all wrong. 

It might take extra time and it might take extra power. But maybe their beams of light don’t actually have to make it all the way across that black hole to reach each other.

Maybe they meet somewhere in the middle.

Chapter Text

After the death wails of Tiffany Chen’s violin finally gasp their last breath in Friday assembly and the girls clap hard enough to drown any remaining signs of life in the reverberations, the Headmistress stands up and reminds the girls going home for Exeat that they represent their school wherever they go.

“Remember that you’re ladies. I’ve seen more than I’ve ever wanted to see of the town-girls that my sons insist on bringing home on the weekends and while I understand that midriff tops and skin-tight trousers are ‘trendy’ these days, there’s no need to prove your femininities to the general public, please.”

The Headmistress waits a few seconds too long for a response from the seated girls. When the reaction is little more than some squirming at her awkward attempt to connect she puts her glasses back on from where they’re hanging on a chain around her neck and resumes her notes, her tone rigid and formal again. She quotes the proverb that a virtuous woman is worth more than rubies in her closing prayer.

The Head Girl twitches in her seat on stage and Clarke looks up just in time to catch the briefest of nostril flares escaping her usual impassive expression.  

Her call to arms at the end of the prayer is oddly clipped. “Ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in.”

The school’s reply is oddly muted. “Ai ste yuj.”

They file out of the gym and when the girl walking a pace ahead of Clarke tugs down her skirt and adjusts her ponytail in the glass, Clarke is oddly compelled to do the same.

--

Raven’s parents pick her and Octavia up in their car when lessons end early that afternoon and they convince Clarke to squeeze inside for a lift to the train station since it’s so grey and miserable out. It’s all giggles and elbows and knobby knees as they wedge themselves into a backseat overflowing with far too many suitcases for only two nights away and the ride to the town’s tiny train station goes far too quickly.

Professor Rayes is enchanted by her daughter’s American friend and gushes about their latest trip to San Fransisco, asks her opinion on the upcoming election (and only laughs understandingly when Clarke confesses that she has no clue), recalls that yesterday had been Thanksgiving stateside and wishes her a happy belated one.

The other Professor Rayes is equally enthusiastic, jumping in with an anecdote about his Yankee colleagues on visiting professorships from NASA flying all the way back to Washington D.C. or even further for a single meal with their extended families and then back again the next day.

They all get out of the car when they reach their destination even though there’s no parking lot. Clarke receives a kiss on each cheek from four bustling blurs of movement and life, a hug from Raven’s mum, and an exaggerated smack on the lips from Raven who also slaps her ass as she slings her backpack over her shoulders and walks toward the sliding doors of the train station.  Everyone is so vibrant, so bright and luminous and happy and it takes Clarke a few moments to catch her breath once they drive away, arms flung out the window until the car is out of sight.

It feels good, all that family and laughter and warmth, and Clarke feels good as she purchases her ticket from the machine and punches in her PIN. It’s been a good day, too, from her morning Art lesson to the knowledge that she’d usually be in the dreaded triple-Chemistry period right now to the heavenly appearance of the new discovered ambrosia of the gods at lunchtime. She’d even somehow managed to avoid Dr. Peters discovering the bowl she’d hidden under her jumper when he’d cornered her in the hallway with his common reprimand to tie back her hair and had made it all the way to Lexa’s private study room without being caught.

And oh, the way those jade eyes had lit up and the way those straining shoulders had relaxed when they caught sight of the contraband sticky toffee pudding…

(Clarke’s still not entirely sure if the dinner ladies had outdone themselves on that particular batch or if it was the lingering taste of Lexa on their shared spoon.)

It’s been a good day and it’s been a good week and she’s good—she’s good—so the fact that her legs won’t move any further than the turnstile comes as more of a surprise than it should.

Tapping the ticket against her lips, she watches the weekday shoppers and unlucky Friday night workers dash past her and onto the train right as the bells ring out and the doors close. The train pulls away from the platform and Clarke watches it coast off into the distance. And then she escapes out of the station through the side door.

She escapes across high streets. She escapes up soggy hills and around wooden fences and through metal gates. The shops fade into houses and houses fade into woodlands and the woodlands fade into lacrosse pitches and stone cloisters.

Her back is sweaty and her vision blurs with raindrops and her legs keep moving past the main building, past Brigid house, past the backdoor of a House with a tall tower and a light in the highest window. A light that shines out against the unnatural darkness of the afternoon thunderstorm.

The white door at the end of the passage seems more golden in the amber sunset glow and it swings open before she’s across the landing.  And there she is, there's the goddess of wild things and of the beautiful hair. She appears with lamplight ablaze at her back and yet her face drains of its blood like she’s the supplicant animal sacrifice instead of the imperative.

“Clarke?”

The cold begins to register when Clarke can’t unclench her jaw to answer, her arms crossing over her chest and her body caving in on itself. She stands unmoving in the stairway entrance, huddled and wretched and aching for a full breath that won’t come.

“What happened? Are you hurt?” Lexa’s eyes are wide as she furiously zig-zags them up and down Clarke’s likely piteous appearance, stepping forward and gripping her arm when she gets no response. “Clarke, answer me. Did someone hurt you?”

There’s a strange clicking sound as Clarke finally shakes her head and it’s only after she’s being guided through the door and herded over to far corner of the room that she recognises it as the chattering of her teeth. Lexa’s jaw is tense but her nudges to get Clarke to perch along the top of the radiator are gentle.

Clarke sits and stares.

The girl in front of her clenches her hands into fists and then relaxes them several times before tentatively raising them to Clarke’s shoulders and sliding the backpack straps down her arms, banishing the waterlogged thing to the hearth of a long-unused fireplace.

(there’d been a fireplace in her apartment in New York, too. her father had been useless at lighting it, leaving her mother to the task every time. clarke would watch her mom set up the kindling and strike the match until all at once there would be a blazing fire, just like magic. and then one day there was a magic switch on the wall that lit the pilot flame every time. somehow the roaring fire was never quite as magical.)

“Clarke,” she tries again. “I just need to know if you’re okay, if I should send for help.”

Clarke’s neck swivels back and forth but her eyes don’t stray from their fortress.

The ridged fixture under her bum is warm—hot, even— but it only manages to send new waves of shivers down her spine. She watches Lexa pull a pair of neatly folded pajama bottoms and a lacrosse team hooded sweatshirt out from her wardrobe as if it’s being played out on stage, as if they’re two characters in some ridiculous tragedy.

She’s run so far that her body still hasn't caught up.

Drips of water ping against the painted metal as Clarke looks at the clothes in Lexa’s outstretched hand and then up at her face, lowering her eyes in acknowledgement but making no further attempt at voluntary movement. The involuntary shakes are more than enough. Her jeans are plastered to her skin and her jacket is heavy with English clouds and the dry clothes remain extended out from the hand in front of her. 

With a bite of her lip and a glance back at the door, Lexa seems to come to some resolution since it's clear that Clarke isn’t going to be moving. “I’m going to take off your jacket, okay?”

She waits until Clarke nods before reaching out and carefully slipping the toggles out of their loops, starting at the top and working her way down. The wool must have swollen up in the rain because it takes her a long time to get to the bottom; the buttons keep slipping out of her grip and she’s flushed with effort by the time the coat has been pulled off.

Lexa has really beautiful fingers. All long and slender and soft.

Clarke imagines their softness against her lips.

“Clarke,” the owner of the fingers whispers and ohh the owner of Clarke’s brain plummets into a fantastic montage of new fantasies.  “Clarke, you need to take off your top, too.”

She closes her eyes and indulges the images playing out behind the curtain of her eyelids.

“You’re really wet, Clarke, I need to get you into my— Clarke. Clarke.”

It’s at this point that Clarke loses any sense of reality verses fantasy.

She opens her eyes and lets them rove lazily over the motion of Lexa’s lips; there’s a dull roar coming from somewhere deep in her skull but it means she’s able to appreciate the stretch of those pinkened nerve-endings only inches away from her face, their rhythm and beauty when she's not distracted by the words they're forming around. It feels like she’s watching the pretty lips from inside a tunnel. Or maybe it’s a dark cocoon and she’s a moth to the honeyed light that seems to glow from inside the goddess’ skin.

There’s a shaky inhalation and then Clarke feels her t-shirt being peeled from her sides. The air from the other girl’s metered exhalation turns to ice on her stomach and she hears a whimper. Lexa shushes her softly with a purse of her mouth and a shake of her head. The top keeps coming off and her arms get raised into the air over her head. Her entire torso erupts into a fresh set of goosebumps like a shock of electricity. 

Arms fall back to her sides and her vision goes dark. But the light comes back and Lexa’s face is there, forehead furrowed as she maneuvers Clarke’s arms through the sleeves of her crimson hoodie with as much care as if she was dressing a newborn, as if Clarke is nothing but delicate little bones and tissue-paper skin.

The jersey material is still bunched up over her chin and oh god it smells like Lexa. Clarke inhales and tries to bring the scent closer, slouching her chin down and tugging the neck of the garment over her mouth. It feels safer this way, hidden away in Lexa’s jumper, but all too soon her hermitage is stormed when its owner yanks the hem down to cover her bare abdomen.

Clarke scowls.

“It’s alright, you’re alright,” Lexa half-pleads. “But Clarke, your jeans, you have to—just stand, okay?”  

Lexa grips her forearm and pulls her up from the warmth of the radiator; Clarke sways forward like a limp puppet but a hand is instantly on her bicep. Her head is on a steeper collision trajectory though and for one glorious moment her nose grazes the side of a warm neck.

“You smell good,” she slurs as her head lolls back to her own body space, letting her eyes begin to inch shut. A sharp movement from the body kneeling in front of her compels them open again and she lays her gaze down at the crown of Lexa’s head and all her neat braids. Plaits.

“Are you drunk?” Lexa gapes in disbelief, halting whatever she’s doing and tilting her head back to stare up at Clarke.

Clarke shakes her head but wonders if maybe she is when the world inside her eyelids undulates slightly. A hand flies to her hip — maybe the world outside her eyelids is rocking with waves, too. Maybe it's not just her. The fingers disappear and that scent is back. She hears a sniff near her face and peeks open one eye to see Lexa peering worriedly at her, standing now.

“I’m just cold,” she manages, her mouth muscles not quite as lithe as they’ve been in the past. “I’m really cold.”

Clarke is cold.

(she’s cold like on that disastrous camping trip with her father when she was seven. when the temperature had dropped overnight and their summer-weight sleeping bags were no match for the whistling wind. when she’d woken up shivering from dreams of snow only to discover that nightmares aren’t always pretend. when she learned that her father may not be able to light a fire but he was perfectly gifted at zipping two sleeping bags together and conquering both the dream- and the real-world cold)

“I forgot about Thanksgiving. I forgot about Thanksgiving and Raven’s parents are so lovely. And warm—they’re so warm, Lexa.”

There’s a beat and then eight fingers rise to her face, carefully combing back the mess of wet hair from her face and gathering it at the base of her neck with a hair bauble from around one of their wrists. They’re as soft as the expression that settles on Lexa’s face. She smooths down Clarke’s eyebrows with both thumbs on their way back down, grazing her cheekbones for all-too-brief a second. The touch lingers on the surface of her skin long after the fingers are gone though, fizzing and bubbling like a freshly popped magnum of champagne.

Clarke draws in a long breath and then another.

“How could I be happy—even for a little bit—when they’re gone?” There’s a truth she never wanted to know and she learns it now. The strongest stabs of pain occur twice for those left behind. The first one comes when you realise they’re not coming back; the second one comes when you realise your pain is starting to go away.

“Stedaunon don gon we en kikon ste enti. Do you remember what that means?” Lexa’s words are so soft that Clarke has to hold her breath to make them audible.

“No… Something about going away?”

“It’s from the Remembrance Day ceremony. It means that the dead are gone, Clarke. That it’s the living who are hungry. There's nothing you can do about their happiness anymore but there is something you can do about your own.” Lexa’s words are so quiet. She’s so quiet and Clarke hears every syllable.

(her mother taught her how to light a fire after they come back from that camping trip with matching sniffles and she can do it now, she can do it but it was never the same. she’d wondered at the time why she needed to learn at all, wondered why her mother couldn’t just always do it for her. She liked her mother’s fire and her father’s body-warmth so much more than rubbing those sticks together, over and over and over until it felt like her arms were going to fall off.)

“I miss them. I miss me, the me that I was when they were here. There’s something missing inside me now, it’s like a gaping, infected wound where part of me has been amputated away. And it hurts.”

“It hurts. I know. But pain isn’t a weakness. Being happy or being sad—they’re not weaknesses. And neither is asking for help.”

“Feels like it.”

Lexa pauses and the green of her eyes seems to deepen. “I know.”

The wind picks up and there’s a howling sound from where Lexa’s window is cracked open. She moves to close it, pulling the draft-stopper across the warped frame. Her lips flatten when she turns back around and Clarke looks down to see her arms wrapped around herself, shaking.

“Let’s get you warm, okay?”

Nodding, Clarke allows her hunched shoulders to retract infinitesimally.

“Can you take your jeans off by yourself?” There isn’t a hint of sarcasm or judgment in Lexa's question.  

 “Yeah. I think so.”

The Head Girl lowers her chin and turns away to give Clarke some privacy. And she tries, she really tries, but her fingers are trembling and still a little numb and yeah, those buttonholes do seem to have shrunk. But she keeps fighting and then when it’s clear she can’t do it on her own, she clears her throat.

“Actually, um, I could use some help,” Clarke admits and Lexa turns around and helps. 

There’s no good place for either of their eyes to rest as Lexa tugs the waistband of the jeans away from Clarke’s waist a little and has to slide a pointer finger inside a fraction of an inch to guide the button out of its loop. Her nail scrapes down the sensitive skin under her navel and Clarke sucks in a gasp that she hopes sounds more like a hiccup because of how much she’s shivering.

Lexa’s eyes eventually settle on her own hands after sustained eye contact proves light-years too intimate. Clarke tries to keep her eyes there too but the sight of those long and slender and soft fingers unzipping her jeans are revving up those fantasies again and she has to shift them to the bookshelf behind their owner’s head. The denim is of course suctioned down to her legs and Lexa drops to her knees again, peeling the sodden trousers off Clarke's hips and rolling them slowly down her legs.

Blood has returned in full fury to Lexa’s cheeks and Clarke’s starting to feel a little less cold.

“Thanks. Sorry,” Clarke mutters, watching the top of Lexa’s head and trying to ignore the familiar sensation coalescing between her legs in response to a very novel stimulus. The threads of words and feelings are beginning to knit together into a concept, a category, a definition but she doesn’t let them knot together, doesn’t name them. Not yet. It’s inevitable, she knows it is, but for now she’s content to let the strands braid together as slowly and as carefully as the plaits in her golden idol’s hair. “I didn’t mean to get all emotional on you.”

Lexa looks up and locks on tight to Clarke’s stare, jeans only halfway removed. Her gaze is piercing and its recipient loses a breath to the sands of time. “Oso gonplei ogeda. We fight together, Clarke. You never need to apologise for asking my help. You’re my friend—your needs are my needs and your sorrows are my sorrows.”

Clarke’s throat thickens. There aren’t any words to respond to such a vow of fealty even if air could escape over her vocal cords, so she just gives Lexa a wobbly smile and extends a hand down to help her to her feet, kicking off the trousers along with her shoes. The damp sock on her left foot remains plastered to her skin though and she leans on Lexa a little as she bends over and pushes it off. Their hands are still clasped together and they stay that way, Clarke managing to step into Lexa’s dry pajama bottoms and pull them up one-handed without too much trouble now that there’s a hand to steady her.

A wave of icy fatigue crashes into her once she’s dressed and a violent shiver rocks up her spine.

“Right. Get under the duvet,” Lexa instructs, leading her over to the bed and pulling back the covers. Clarke’s already half-drugged with exhaustion and she makes no protest as she crawls into the safe haven other than holding tightly to the hand entwined with her own.

When it’s clear Clarke won’t be letting go, Lexa sinks down onto the mattress too, tucking the duvet around them both and curling herself around Clarke’s back because quite frankly she has no other choice given the way her hand is held captive. Their knees tuck together and curves line up with curves.

And this is it.

This is the moment Clarke stops running.

Or at least it’s the moment she stops running away. She’s running toward now, toward something in the distance that may be only a mirage and her pace is little more than limping but it’s something. It’s an end, a goal, a destination. It’s warm and it’s light and it smells really, really good.

Clarke cries.

She finally cries and when she does it’s on another continent altogether. A pair of strong arms are wrapped around her and the first silent tears she sheds for her dead are soaked up into the jumper sleeve of a girl from across the ocean.

The rhythm of Clarke’s already overworked heart speeds up as their joined hands come to rest on the pillow beside her and she can feel the vibrations of Lexa’s heart accelerate against her spinal column in response. But the head girl’s breathing remains steadfast and their circulatory systems begin to slow down as well, their muscles going limp, their physiologies influencing and being influenced by one another in an endless cycle until they’re both asleep.

Chapter Text

The first time Clarke wakes up, it’s to a body beside her jolting to life like its been shocked through with lightning, all hard edges and wide eyes and shakes to her arm. Clarke only grumbles and burrows further under the duvet. It smells as warm and soft as it feels under her palms, beneath her feet.

“Clarke. Clarke, wake up.”

“Noooo,” the logs whines, content to grow moss forever in this tropical paradise. She covers her eyes with the crook of her elbow, as if the room isn’t pitch black dark already. “Sleeping.”

The bed dips as Lexa raises herself up onto her forearms and suddenly it’s cold on this sunny beach; Clarke shivers at the loss of body heat and tries to follow it, rolling over like a leaf seeking the sun.

“Does anyone need to know you are here? Where are you meant to be, are you supposed to be with your guardian? Is anyone looking for you? Do I need to report your presence to your housemistress for the weekend? Clarke?”

The only thing to do is to use her bedmate to block out the droning noise and Clarke wraps her arms around the body, burying her face in the warmth of she’d guess to be a midsection. Her new pillow turns rigid, pulsing under her cheek, but it’s a problem easily solved when she flings the other girl’s arm over her own ears and a leg over her calves. The body beneath her becomes squirmy but just when she’s about to let go it lets out a long breath and all the sinews lengthen.

Clarke sighs happily. “'s better.”

“Clarke—”

“Shhh.”

“You—” There’s a final swan song of a muscle contraction and its release and then Clarke feels the air of a defeated huff on the top of her head.

Much better, Clarke decides, humming and kneading her fingers into what may be the flesh under a shoulder blade. She hears a squeak roughly simultaneous to her head being ejected off the smooth plane it’s resting on but she keeps rubbing deep circles and the body she’s curled around turns as plaint as the clay on the art studio pottery wheel.

She falls back asleep and the body she’s koala-bearing around keeps softening.

--

The second time Clarke wakes up, it’s with her body wound as tight as a coil, tongue dry and head aching. There’s something warm and very much alive in her arms—it’s not her old teddy bear, that’s for sure—and her first thought is a wager about how much she’s going to regret imbibing last night. It’s dark and she’s disoriented when she peeks open an eye. It isn’t until she inhales a deep breath that she recognises that the pangs in her stomach aren’t from drinking at all. Nope, that’s a very different type of swoop, one that her body plays out like a broken record once her brain finally puts the pieces together.

She’s in bed.

With Lexa.

Curled up around Lexa.

(Squeezing the life out of, more like.)

More of the previous few hours begin trickling back and she can’t help but wish she could blame it on alcohol. There’d been Raven’s family and the realisation that she’d been so caught up in her new school family that she hadn’t even noticed her country’s national day of family. And isn't that fucking symbolic. Or metaphorical or emblematic or something.

(Lexa would probably know.)

Her heart begins to speed up and Lexa purses her lips, emitting a tiny noise in her sleep. As gingerly as she can manage, Clarke frees the girl’s arm from under her own far-too-heavy head where it must be going numb and moves it to the mattress instead.

It leaves her with an ideal vantage point from which to observe Lexa and she does. The line of her jaw, the jutting of her cheekbones, the way her eyelashes contrast with the pale of her skin, the plump of those lips when they’re fully at rest. Her hair is pulled back in the usual braids, the sides smooth and shiny while the ends erupt in wild fireworks of curl, and Clarke has to clench her fingers together before they wander over to the strands too little to conform to the plait at the nape of her neck.

And yet they wander anyway, dipping into the hollow of her neck and up toward the downy hair along her temple.

It’s soft. Lexa’s hair is so soft. She strokes it again, slower this time, and the Head Girl lets out a sound not unlike the purr of her childhood housecat.

Clarke’s head is throbbing and her shoulders ache and it feels like she’s been parched for weeks.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even blink.

Carefully, she attempts to extract Lexa from her clutches, biting her lip in apprehension as she pulls one arm from under the girl’s ribs and easing her hips away from where they’re probably jabbing into her stomach under the covers. For just a second the sleeper digs her fingers deeper into Clarke’s side as if in protest, a tiny whimper pressing past her lips, but she makes no other fight than that and lets them drop away. The bed is too small to map out entirely sovereign territories but with some careful shuffling, at least their limbs are no longer hopelessly entangled.

No amount of tugging can unknot other organs and Clarke doesn’t bother trying. She doesn’t even pretend.

Lexa’s face still fills her entire visual landscape and Clarke splits the shadows and the moonlight into their components, mentally blending charcoal lines when she really wants to smudge them with real fingers until her own skin is coloured with this girl’s night and her day and her entire chiaroscuro.  The rhythm of Lexa’s lungs is all that’s reminding Clarke to breathe and she stays silent, watching each cycle rise and fall and rise again.

After a few minutes the head girl’s mouth begins to twitch, her nose scrunching up, and she draws her legs closer to her chest, curving her body inward and tucking her head down into the empty space. Two arms cross each other as if in prayer, as if she’s a child who has never owned a teddy bear, a child who has learned to make do by hugging herself to sleep.

Something stirs deep down in Clarke’s heart, a low pang of loneliness almost drowned out by the clangor of the higher-pitched bells, bells that cry defiance, others that ring out psalmodies of self-reliance, strength, temperance. It’s only here in the sacred vestry that the quietest bell can be heard, the one that echoes across the walls and through the floor and into the very tips of her toes.

It doesn’t take a genius to know that the song isn’t her own.

She snakes a hand between their bodies and takes hold of Lexa’s hand, interweaving their fingers and tugging them to the space between them. Lexa’s body follows reflexively after like it’s forgotten that at least one of the hands in question is firmly attached to her arm, rolling onto her stomach and trapping the joined digits beneath her shoulder.

Lexa’s eyes flutter open a few seconds later, blinking at the sight of Clarke’s eyes only inches away. She stares at Clarke with the languid reverence of one who still has one foot in the dream world; Clarke stares at her with the hushed reverence of one who wonders if this could all be a dream.

“Are you feeling better?” Lexa whispers after a few moments, words cracked with sleep, and somehow the spell doesn’t come shattering down.

Clarke nods and their foreheads touch for the most fleeting of moments. “Much. Thank you.” She doesn’t apologise again, not behind the walls of their tented fortress, dragging the duvet further up their bodies instead.

“You are always welcome. I meant it before, Clarke: it takes as long as it takes. Sometimes two steps forward means one step back — it's still a forward trajectory.”

"Yeah. I guess so." She pushes her hair behind her ears and sighs. 

Noticing their hands pinned under her arm, Lexa wets her lips and shifts onto her side to allow them their freedom. Clarke's eyes drop down and then back up to Lexa. 

Lexa shuffles herself a little closer to the middle of the bed.  

Clarke’s already doing the same.

Their fingers remain connected in the centre. The wind picks up outside and Clarke takes the time to catalogue every inch of where their skin touches, every square centimeter of warmth that burns beneath tights and cotton pajama pants, stockpiling it away for the next winter storm.

“What does your badge mean?” Clarke asks to draw out the time, using her other hand to toy with the silver Head Girl pin on Lexa’s shirt collar. She runs her fingers across it like it’s Braille, like there are secrets in those dips and curves that can only be revealed by touch.

Two lips turn up into a lazy smile at Clarke’s movements and she looks down only briefly before returning to their shared gaze. “It’s an old Norse symbol. Ægishjálmr, it means helm of awe. It was worn as a protective talisman, eight tridents all radiating outward. The traditional placement is between the brows, as a kind of third eye.  It’s supposed to strike fear into the heart of one’s enemies and to defend the wearer against attack.”

“That’s…pretty intense for a Head Girl badge,” Clarke drawls with a small smile. “Do you often need that kind of protection?”

“We all have our battles, Clarke. We all need protecting sometimes.”

Clarke runs her fingers across the pin again and only nods when a lump appears in her throat. She burrows down deeper into the sheets, letting the top edge of the duvet cover her mouth.

“When I was younger I believed it to be a gear,” Lexa continues with a muted smile. The moon has risen over the trees and the tiniest of slivers is visible in the corner of the window. “I prefer that interpretation still. A reminder that we’re all cogs in the great machine of the school, each contributing and each vital in its own way. If a single piece is broken, the machine is broken, but when all the cogs are in place and we work together, there’s nothing we can’t do.”

The words settle between them and it's a few beats before Clarke lets go of the pin, letting her fingers trail down Lexa’s arm before returning to her own body space. “I like that interpretation, too. What do you need talismans for when you have an entire army of schoolgirls at your back?”

Something in Lexa’s smile falters but it doesn’t fade entirely. “What makes you think I need an army at all? You’ve never seen me fight.”

Her words are cocky, smug even, and it’s supposed to be a joke—Clarke even laughs at her cue—but there’s something heart-wrenching about it, something she can’t quite pinpoint. There’s a long moment where they do nothing but breathe, quiet and indolent between the sheets, but the spell’s already started to fade away and the sounds of outside begin intruding again: the creak of a window opening, the closing of a car door in the street.

“I should probably call my guardian,” Clarke sighs, turning her face and planting it into the mattress. “What time is it?”

Lexa doesn’t twist around to check the alarm clock on the nightstand immediately, groaning a little when she has to drop onto her back and reach her free hand behind her head to grapple for the device.

“Twenty of eight,” she reports, squinting at the bright LED light before letting it fall to the carpet.

“Crap. He’s expecting my train to arrive at nine.” Clarke doesn’t move and Lexa turns on her side again.

“Will he be angry that you’re still here?”

“Nah. I doubt it.”

“Good.”

"Yeah." 

They lie in the dark, fingers unknotting and tying themselves right backup again. Clarke’s never been so aware of the sensitivity in the nerve endings in the tips of her fingers, of the valley in between them, in the dip between her index finger and thumb. Of the sensation of those nerves against the rough pads of someone else’s fingertips, of the difference in texture between the palm and back of the hand.

“We missed dinner,” Clarke murmurs, barely listening to the content of her own conversational bids other than to utter the right things to provoke Lexa to answer. She loves Lexa’s voice, loves the lithe rhythm and flow of their words volleying back and forth.

“It's alright. There was no formal supper tonight anyway.”

“What do the girls who stay here over Exeat do, then?”

“They eat in House, usually takeaway or pancakes or something fun like that. It’s not much fun being stuck here while all your friends are home with their families so the housemistresses usually try to make it a bit of a party for those left behind.”

“That’s nice of them.”

“Yes. They’re wonderful: all the staff here are.” Clarke thinks about how Lexa must have more memories of these women than she has of her own mother; she thinks about how these women devote their whole lives to these girls who always leave them in the end. She squeezes Lexa's hand and the head girl squeezes right back, her eyes unwavering from Clarke’s.

“They do a great job. Mrs. O’Brien still gives me a hug every single morning and she always notices when I’ve missed a chunk of hair in my ponytail or if I have a run in my tights.”

“We are very lucky to have them.”

Clarke traces along the hills and dips of Lexa’s hand with her finger, running along the outline of each digit in line until she’s charted its entire perimeter.  “You have very pretty hands,” she comments lightly as she finishes charting her atlas of the stars, slotting her fingers back through long slender ones.

“Shouldn’t you be ringing your guardian?” Lexa asks, rolling her eyes. A touch of pink and a flash of sweat to her palms belies her indifference.

Groaning, Clarke flops onto her back. “Yeah yeah yeah.” Lexa flicks on a bedside lamp and Clarke sighs again, louder and more dramatic this time. “I’m comfy though.”

“Take care of your duties and tell your housemistress that you’re here this weekend after all and then we can rustle up some food before curfew. Alright?”

Nope. Nope nope nope. Even the thought of her empty room and empty bed in Brigid turns her blood cold.

“Lexa?”

“Mmm?” Lexa’s eyes have drifted closed and her breathing is evening out again and she’s so beautiful Clarke can hardy stand looking at her. 

“What if I didn’t tell anyone I was back?”

“Pardon?” The Head Girl’s eyes fling open as if Clarke’s just suggested they go naked sky-diving in the morning.

“What if I just…stayed here? We could have a real slumber party and, I don’t know, pretend to be normal teenagers for a night. I miss that.”

“Clarke—”

“I can paint your nails—”

“Nail varnish isn’t permitted under school rules.”

“Your toenails, then. How would anyone ever know? And I’d braid your hair but, well, you have that covered. So you can plait mine! And we can laugh over bad advice columns in horrible magazines and…I don’t know, play truth or dare?”

The Head Girl and Lexa clash swords for a long minute, eyes wide and fingers tapping along the edge of the bed where it meets the wall. Finally, she blows out a long breath from where it’s collected between her cheeks.

“It’s against policy. And it’s a bad idea.” But her voice wavers and Clarke knows she’s won.

“Duly noted, Heda.”

“I don’t own any nail varnish.”

“And why would you?” Clarke laughs and nudges her with an elbow. “I’m sure you can borrow some from one of the younger girls.”

“That would be a poor example to set, Clarke,” Lexa replies primly and then the ghost of a smile finally takes hold of her lips. “Besides, I think they’d fall over in shock if I asked. I don’t want to be responsible for any head injuries.”

Clarke snorts. “They probably can’t even imagine you using the bathroom," she agrees, "I’m not sure I can.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I, though?”

“Completely. In fact, I will visit the loo now. Perhaps even perform some normal bodily functions.”

“No!” Clarke gasps, smirking when Lexa scrunches her little face up and prepares her comeback. She pushes her off the bed instead, unable to stop giggling as the Head Girl lands in a tangled mess of duvet and flailing limbs. It takes her a fair few seconds to sort herself out but when she does, she stands haughtily and swivels on her heel toward the door with all the dignity of an incumbent monarch. 

“Make your call, Clarke. And then we can see about all these childish notions of yours.”

Clarke salutes. “Yes, ma’am. Oh, and Commander?”

Lexa sighs. “Yes, Clarke?”

“Untuck the back of your skirt from your tights before you traumatise the goufas.”

She whips her neck around and then blushes. “Shof op.”

Chapter Text

The second floor common room is entirely deserted since it’s reserved for the sixth form boarders only and they’ve all gone away for Exeat. Lexa pilfers a leftover box of pizza from the kitchen downstairs and they eat cold slices cross-legged on the couch, or at least they do after Clarke manages to convince Lexa that eating her pizza with a knife and fork is not only impractical but forbidden under official slumber party rules. She receives an eye roll but otherwise little argument so she only waits a few minutes before telling Heda that she has tomato sauce on her chin.

All five channels on the television are uninspiring, as always, so Clarke starts thumbing through the DVD collection on the weathered old entertainment console shelves. She calls out titles but Lexa hasn’t heard of most of them, despite Clarke naming classics like Pretty Woman and The Notebook. It means that each option requires a lengthy synopsis and a barrage of questions from the head girl, lounging back against the tired old cushions and threadbare arm of the sofa.

“You know what? I’m just going to choose,” Clarke finally decides with exasperation, wavering between two possibilities: Braveheart or Love, Actually. She's certain the head girl would enjoy pointing out the historical inaccuracies of the action film but she's suspected for some time now that Lexa's a secret softy for romances and she really wants to know if she's right. Plopping it into the DVD player, she settles back against the sofa, eyeing the stained pillow that’s seen better days with a wary eye and pushing it to the floor.

God, she really hopes she’s right; Clarke watches Lexa out of the corner of her eye as the opening scene in Heathrow airport starts up and tries to see if she’s already bored out of her skull.

Clarke is 100% correct. Lexa eyes are welling up within the first thirty seconds but she’s smiling—she’s smiling. She looks ridiculous, to be honest, all snotty-faced and big dopey grin, her pizza slice frozen halfway up to her mouth. The swelling in Clarke’s chest, on the other hand, has very little to do with the movie playing out on screen.

The empty pizza box occupies the space between them but it soon loses its position when Clarke requisitions it to the floor and scoots closer to Lexa. She glances sidelong at the invading body but says nothing, only grumbling in distracted confusion when Clarke sidles up behind her and maneuvers her to the floor as well. 

“Clarke, I was comfortable,” she complains but she doesn’t even try to fight against Clarke’s seemingly random de-sofacation, her eyes glued to the telly and her back against the sofa.

“And you’re not comfortable now?” Clarke asks coyly, raking her fingers across Lexa’s scalp and beginning to untwist the plethora of plaits. The other girl goes rigid for a second and Clarke almost withdraws her hands but then a smattering of goosebumps breaks out across the back of her neck and she realizes that it’s just a shiver down her spine.

“Feels really good,” Lexa says, her words almost slurring together, and Clarke leans forward to confirm that her eyes have indeed fallen closed, the movie forgotten for a long minute. She proceeds slowly, pulling out the hair ties (hair baubles, apparently) delicately so as not to snag any waves in their grips. There's something that feels sacred about this act of releasing Lexa's hair from Heda's diadem of braids, of the incense of shampoo and warmth that fills the air with every tug. When she gets to the sections closer to the scalp, her head falls back, chasing Clarke’s fingertips. Lexa's eyes are still closed and her throat is exposed to the stars, vulnerable and never so beautiful.

Every strand of hair is eventually freed until it's a wild chaos of curl but Clarke doesn’t pull her hands away, continuing to comb her fingers through the locks and massaging her scalp like she’s petting a cat. She’s not far off, either, going by the noises escaping Lexa’s lips. Lexa rests her neck in the cradle of Clarke’s crossed legs and she can feel via the sides of her calves when all those weary muscles finally go limp. 

They’re at the scene where the American woman asks the hot Brazilian guy to dance when Lexa stands up and gestures for them to trade places. In a few seconds Clarke's the one on the floor, leaning against Lexa’s calves and having her hair finger-combed. She doesn't bother with any pretend grumbles but that's partially because her cheeks are hot and she doesn't want to call attention to them.

Once all the tangles are smoothed out, Lexa begins separating sections and weaving them into tight plaits running from her middle parting to the back of her head, the tugs rhythmic and steady. Each pull against her scalp seems to elicit a thousand sparks of something warm and tingly above her skull. The sparks accumulate enough that they catch the kindling of her nerve endings ablaze and it lights up her entire body, from the tips of her fingers to the ends of her toes. It feels like the time she’d broken her arm at thirteen and had been given high-dose painkillers in the hospital—bubbly and slightly loopy.

The American woman gives up love (and the hottest guy Clarke’s ever seen) for duty and Lexa murmurs “All done.” Clarke runs a hand along her head, feeling the circlet of braids she’s twisted into her hair. It seems to be plaited together where it joins at the back, the strands running together in an endless loop.

“There,” Lexa says softly as Clarke rises back up to the couch, crowding onto a single cushion with her and leaving the other two untouched. “The queen has her crown.”

“You’re good at this,” Clarke notes after a pause, fingers still in her hair like if she moves or speaks the taste of Lexa’s quiet words might fade away.

“A previous Head Girl taught me. She used to do my hair when I was a child until I could do it myself.”

As if Lexa isn’t a child still, as if she’s ever been a child at all.

“What was her name?”

“Anya.”

Clarke hums. "Where is she now?”

“Adelaide, last I heard. Have we fulfilled enough slumber party requirements?”

 Sometimes Clarke forgets that this is such an international school because no one ever makes a big deal out of it. They’re all Polis girls, that’s all that really matters, and it’s easy to forget that it’s only the school binding them all together.

One day everyone leaves. One day they’ll be legal adults and they’ll scatter across the globe again like this epoch never happened. One day all this and all it means will be only a sepia-toned memory, blurry around the edges.

Clarke forces a smile, pushing the dreary thoughts out of her mind. If here and now is all they get, she’s going to savour it. “Pizza, movies, and hair braiding? Not bad. I’ll make a teenager out of you eventually.”

“It’s not awful, I suppose,” Lexa admits.

“Your stoic suffering is commendable.” Their bent legs press closer together and Clarke pushes until they fold together against the arm of the sofa. She taps Lexa’s foot with her own. “Still haven’t painted your toes.”

“I’ve never painted my toes. I’m not sure they’d take well to it now, so late in life.”

“So late. We’re practically pensioners.”

“Precisely.”

Clarke’s feet are bare but Lexa’s still in her school tights; she reaches over and plucks at a piece of pilling near her knee. “You should be in your pajamas though. It’s a cardinal rule of sleepovers.”

“You’re in my pajamas: does that count?”

Grinning, Clarke knocks against the arm already pressed into her own. “Can’t get by on a technicality, Lex.” Not that she minds said technicality. Not that she dislikes the idea of wearing the other girl’s clothes.

Lexa doesn’t seem to mind it either, nor the nickname that left Clarke’s lips unplanned. “Rules are very important.”

“Exactly. What kind of leader would you be if you didn’t follow the rules?”

She arches an eyebrow. “One who makes the rules.”

“Fair point. But I’m the ruler when it comes to sleepovers and my word is the law.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yep. And I order you, by royal decree, to go change.”

With an exaggerated groan, Lexa drops her head onto Clarke’s shoulder. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

They hold each other's eye for a long moment until Lexa finally puffs out a breath. “Fine. You may have your pajamas, Queen Clarke.”

“Your compliance in these matters is much appreciated, fair subject.”

Lexa stands, narrowing her eyes, and for a second Clarke may have glimpsed a flash of tongue. She starts to walk out of the room but hesitates halfway out, glancing at the television and then back at Clarke. “Will you pause it? Until I’m back?”

“Go,” Clarke laughs, pointing toward the door and fumbling through the cushions for the remote. 

--

Lexa comes back in a second pair of plaid pajama bottoms and her glasses, fiddling with the knob on the radiator for a moment and Clarke watches her with more interest than she's paid to the entire movie thus far. Her hair is still unwound, wild around her shoulders and long enough that it almost hits the small of her back. Clarke winds a fingers around a curl and tugs when she sits down on the other side of the couch, only letting go when they’re tucked together again.

With the door closed and the heater on full blast, the common room heats up quickly and Clarke pushes the sleeves of her (Lexa’s) jumper up her arms and cuffs up the legs of the pants. There’s a glimmer of sweat on the Head Girl’s forehead as Clarke does the same for her, taking each hand in her own and sliding the girl’s long-sleeve grey t-shirt up her forearms, allowing her fingertips to trail over downy hair.

She pulls Lexa’s feet up to her lap and there’s some squirming and vague protests but not really. Mostly Lexa just twists herself to fit, even if it means one of her arms is jammed uselessly between their bodies and she has to crane her neck to see the television. Clarke twists herself a moment later so they’re both in good viewing positions and they pretend to watch the movie, or at least Clarke pretends to care about the plot while really plotting the lines between the freckles on Lexa’s calves. She traces them with a light fingernail and she has no problem keeping her eyes fixed on the screen while she does, the exact distance and angle between them already embedded in her brain cells.

Lexa tugs down her sleeves but there’s no missing the goosebumps that rise along the skin of her legs.

“Clarke,” Lexa groans and for just a second Clarke’s got a crop of her own.

“Hmm?”

“My legs are all pins and needles.”

“Ah.” Clarke releases her legs with a start. “Sorry. You can have them back I guess.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she drawls and fuck, Clarke loves nighttime-Lexa.

“I will of course demand restitution.”

“Naturally.” Lexa stretches her leg out in front of her and rotates her ankle around in a circle.

“Blood must have blood. Eye for an eye, leg for a leg.”

The head girl opens her mouth but seems to re-think whatever she was going to banter back. “Pardon?”

Clarke grins and before Lexa can do anything else, she reaches over and snatches the glasses right off her face.

“An eye for a leg. Blood has answered blood,” she announces with the utmost solemnity.

“Clarke,” the Head Girl whines, reaching out to take them back but Clarke evades her grabby hands and slides them over her own ears instead.

“Nope, they’re mine now. God, Lex, you’re blind as a bat—I can’t see anything through these.”

“Hmm, we’re both visually impaired right now, however shall we fix that?”

Clarke snorts and turns her head further from Lexa’s reach. “Alright, Snarky,” she teases, lifting the glasses up and down over her eyes to test the difference in acuity. Turning back to the grumpy girl with her hands crossed across her chest, she holds her hand out in front of herself and wiggles her fingers. “Seriously, how blind are you? Can you see me at all right now?”

There’s a long beat, longer than Clarke would have expected before she hears Lexa clear her throat. “I see you,” she says quietly. “You’re close enough to see.”

Pulling the sleeves of her sweatshirt down over her arms, Clarke hands over the glasses just as Mr. Bean comes on screen and Lexa’s face lights up like a Christmas tree.

--

Lexa’s toenails get coloured in with an old red marker and her eyes may be broken because they seem stuck in a rolled position the whole time. Undeterred, Clarke moves on to the tops of her feet, drawing swirls and patterns like an elaborate tribal tattoo.

She learns that Lexa is ticklish—like really ticklish—and it’s the best discovery ever. The top of her knees are sensitive, too. And the sides of her ribs. Under her arms. Lexa erupts into a full-body shiver every time Clarke rakes a nail up her spinal cord.

It’s glorious. And addicting.

“Clarke, you’re making me miss this entire movie.”

“We can re-watch it some other time.”

“Clarkkkke,” she grumbles, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. Her cheeks are rosy and her eyes are the brightest Clarke has ever seen them.

What Clarke finds most endearing is that Lexa has, like, a billion more muscles than she does; she could put an end to the torture at any point.

But she doesn’t and Clarke loves her even more. Nighttime-Lexa, daytime-Lexa, quiet-Lexa, sarcastic-Lexa, warm-Lexa, Heda, Commander— she loves every single version of this girl.

And love is really the only way to describe this balloon that inflates in her chest every time she thinks about those green eyes or those tiny little ears or the way that mouth puckers up when she’s deep in thought.

It’s no realisation—not really.

Knowing she loves Lexa is the same as knowing she loved her mother or her father for the first time. It’s always been there, a part of the body as intrinsic as the spinal cord or the aorta. Words have power but they don’t give rise to what they describe; Clarke had fully functioning kidneys before she learned the name for them, before she knew there was anything hidden beneath her skin, and so she loved Lexa before she attached a four-letter sound to the sensation.

This particular variety of love may be slightly different to the way she loves her mother but maybe it’s not categorically distinct. It comes with the same urge to seek comfort in hugs and touch, to protect above all else, and its melody plays in an endless loop—quiet at times and roaring at others, but it’s always there, crouched and ready to leap at the slightest provocation. It’s contented in itself, satisfied and warm like sitting by a fireplace or closing her eyes in a warm bath.

But when Lexa lays her hand on Clarke’s thigh, her lips curled into a smirk as she teases a retaliative knee-squeeze of her own, edging her fingers closer and closer to their target, Clarke finally allows the chaos of her thoughts settle into another shape, another word.

Love may be love may be love but there’s another dimension, too—one that’s becoming more and more hopelessly knotted with that love until the dancer is indistinguishable from the dance. It’s that old familiar security-blanket love mixed with something else, something that burns, that aches and craves, that urges and hungers and gasps for more even as it remains insatiable. A summer’s storm, the flash of lightning and roll of thunder at the eve of a sunny day. A dimension that crumbles Clarke’s tickle-defenses because she’s otherwise preoccupied with the shape of pink lips, of how plump and soft they look, how she imagines how they’d feel under the pad of her pointer finger.

A dimension that she definitely doesn’t associate with her mother.

Clarke snags Lexa's hand and holds it tight, effectively ending their tickle war in a truce.

--

Clarke and Lexa go to bed.

It’s late, later than curfew but it’s Exeat and it’s not like any of the housemistresses would think to check up on Heda, much less check the silent common room for her. The movie has been over for hours but they hadn’t moved from the sofa, curled up together and talking. It’s not about much, not at first anyway, mostly playful quibbles and talk of teachers and classmates. But as the moon rises and the house goes quiet, their words grow looser, whispered low between tangled fingers and legs so twisted together that it’s hard to differentiate the owners, clad as they are in identical pink pajama bottoms. The borders of their sentences become fuzzy at the edges, too, slipping together and finishing where another started.

They tiptoe back up to Lexa’s room in the tower and brush their teeth in her sink. They wash their faces and they dry them on a towel and they crawl into bed. Lexa ties her hair up and Clarke doesn’t unweave the braids from her hair.

Clarke and Lexa sleep.

They sleep together, four eyelids closing as if strung up to the same puppeteer.

“Reshop, Lexa,” Clarke murmurs right before she falls under but she gets no response—Lexa is already deep into her dreams.

Chapter Text

Clarke learns the hard way that Lexa doesn’t go gentle into that good night, or at least she doesn’t stay that way. It’s clearly another of her feints, a wartime strategy to lure her enemies into a false sense of security, and it works because Clarke’s indeed dazed and more than a little confused when she’s awoken by a swift jab to her arm and an even swifter kick to her shins. They’re not strong attacks, more like half-hearted flailings from a floppy drunk, but they’re unexpected and they come at her fast.

Once she figures out what’s happening, Clarke releases her grip on the sleeping girl, assuming she’s must be getting warm or something, and shifts a little closer to the wall to give her some space. She should probably let go of Lexa’s hand but she doesn’t, leaving them clasped together in the tiny space between their bodies. Syrupy dream air is just starting to coat her lungs when the assault resumes again and Clarke narrowly misses a punch to her stomach by clamping down on the offending arm.

Lexa struggles, a hiss and something approximating a dozy growl being emitted by the dreamer as she kicks out with both legs. Her head is tucked inward as if it’s preparing itself for an attack.

Clarke retreats further away and receives a languid head butt to her sternum.

Ah. Not preparing for an attack. Preparing itself to attack.

“Lexa,” Clarke whispers urgently, shaking Lexa’s shoulder, barely managing to weave her hand around the one batting it away. “Lexa, wake up.”

The relentless warrior only grunts, launching herself at Clarke with a leg and rolling on top of her, capturing the hand she’s not already holding and raising both above her head onto the pillow. Her lungs are working overtime and Clarke can feel her pulse racing where sweaty skin presses into her wrists.

Well, damn. It seems Lexa can defeat her even while entirely unconscious and slightly sleep-paralyzed.

Seems about right. It’s not like she’s really fighting back, anyway.

“Lexa.” She doesn’t respond, only holds herself still above Clarke, breathing heavily. Her eyes are still closed. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just a nightmare, Lexa. It’s just a dream. You’re safe in your bed.”

The logistics and success-probabilities of flipping them around race through Clarke’s head but all at once Lexa sags, her arms collapsing from under her. She falls prone, draped over Clarke and all limp and hot and sweaty.

Clarke wraps her arms around her back and brushes damp hair away from the nape of her neck, pulling her braid up and away and blowing lightly on the heated skin. “You’re okay, it’s okay,” she murmurs over and over again, low and quiet in the still of the night. “You’re safe. I’m here, it’s okay.”

With every minute she can feel Lexa relaxing even further, loosening and sinking further down onto her body until it feels like any further and she’ll melt right inside. The weight of her feels good, it feels really good, even as she tries to school her wandering mind away from that thought for the present, and Clarke’s glad Lexa’s asleep because there's a lot of tachycardia going on in the carotid artery just under her lips.

As her breathing begins to slow and become more regular and the puffs of hot air on her neck become just a little too warm, Clarke rolls Lexa onto her back, mindful of sudden movements so she doesn’t wake the weary fighter. Lexa whimpers once but otherwise she seems to have settled back down into a less violent sleep.

Her hand fumbles in the space between them just as Clarke’s drifting away herself and Lexa manages to catch her fingers blindly, pulling them close like a breastplate against her dream world battles.  

--

The next time Clarke opens her eyes it's to sunlight streaming in through the window and a sight that seems too ethereal to be of the real world. Lexa’s hair is set ablaze by the light—there’s no other way to describe it—all its shadows and dusk vanquished in favour of shades of gold and orange, almost tawny in its morning glaze.

Lexa blinks awake and a lazy smile breaks across her face as if it’s breaking across the horizon. The beams of light do something to the green of her irises, too, gold flecks shimmering around the edges like a corona or a halo. Clarke says nothing, only breathes in the glow until it feels like she’s swallowed the sun.  

“I don’t see you in daylight very often,” she remarks when she’s finally gotten her fill for awhile, mirroring the easy smile that hasn’t left Lexa’s eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this early in the daylight,” Lexa says, the corners of her mouth curling up even further. “Not in my bed, in any case.”

“It’s nice.”

“It is.”

A bird begins its matins offertory outside the window, another joining in and then another. Clarke and Lexa pause and listen to the warbling hymns, their liturgy of morning prayers, but their eyes don’t stray from one another. Their fingers are still linked between them.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yep. You got a little…kicky at some point but I managed not to kick you right back onto the floor.”

“I’m grateful for your restraint.” The smile never leaves her face.

It crosses her mind to do more than just tease Lexa about her nighttime crusades but she’s not sure what good could come of it. She’d probably just feel awful for disturbing Clarke’s sleep. If it happens again Clarke will probably tell her, but for now—for now she’s not going to think about the fact that she’s probably the first person to comfort Lexa’s nightmares since she was five years old.

“Have you always been in this room?” Clarke asks instead, pulling their hands more tightly together, tight enough that there's no fear of them slipping apart.

“No. This is traditionally the Head Girl’s room, I’ve only had it since last year. We usually change rooms after Trinity term; this is actually the first time I’ve been in the same place twice in a row.”

Clarke hums. “That’s a lot of moving around.”

“That’s boarding school life.”

“Were you always in Flidais House?”

“After I moved up from the junior house, yes.” Lexa’s on her stomach, her cheek flat against the pillow, and Clarke can’t imagine a more beautiful sunrise to wake up to every morning.

“What’s Caireen House like? Is it basically the same? I haven’t been over there.”

“Yes, with a lot more rules and structure. The bedrooms are also dormitory-style, so there are four or five girls in each room.”

“Sounds like summer camp.”

Lexa’s eyes crinkle and she rocks her shoulder over to bump into Clarke’s. “Were you a summer camp child? I can just imagine you with a bandana around your head, hiking up mountains and swigging from your water bottle.” She drawls the last two words in her awful American accent.

Snorting, Clarke wrinkles her nose and throws an arm over her eyes. “Ugh, I hated the hiking. I was always more an arts and crafts kind of girl.”

“I like hiking. I love being away from everything; the endless sky and the air and the smell of the trees and the rocks beneath your feet.” Lexa seems to go to another state of being as she talks, her eyes lightening and her fingers stroking Clarke’s as if they’re just as eager to describe the joy of Earth. “I had no idea there was so much beauty out there until I started the Duke of Edinburgh awards and we went on our first outdoor expedition.”

“You do make it sound amazing,” Clarke concedes and it’s genuine, to her surprise. “Maybe I’ve just never done hiking the right way.” 

“You should come with me hiking sometime, here in England. I bet it’ll change the way you think about it.” Lexa offers with a tiny shrug and she turns her mouth into the pillow. She’s not fast enough for Clarke to miss the shy smile that tugs at her lips.

(Polis has changed how she thinks about a lot of things. Words and uniforms and schedules. Singing and chanting and responses. Solidarity and empowerment and strength.)

“I think you already have,” Clarke says softly and Lexa raises her head off the pillow and blinks in confusion before settling back down when she’s met with only a shrug and a smile.

(But Lexa— Lexa has changed how she thinks about everything.)

Clarke clears her throat. “What time do you need to leave for your Saturday classes today?”

“Around 7.”

“I really hope you mean 7pm.”

“Psychology starts at 8 and it’s on the other side of town.”

Clarke sighs, burrowing a hand under her pillow and shifting from her side onto her stomach. Their hands are only an inch, maybe two from her lips and it's all she can do to keep them in their own space.  “What time is it now?”

Lexa holds her gaze for another second before turning her head to find the clock. Fiddling with their entangled fingers while the other girl strains her neck, Clarke suddenly starts laughing when she registers the band around Lexa’s wrist.

“Oh my god. You dork, you’re wearing a watch.”

Lexa doesn’t cease her awkward maneuvering until she’s seen the alarm clock and then falls back onto the bed with an ‘umphf.’ She lets her eyes rest on their hands.

“It would have required me letting go,” she admits quietly.

Clarke doesn’t say anything in return, only squeezes that hand harder. They lie in comfortable silence as the birds finish their anthem and fly away.

“What time is it?” Clarke remembers to ask, the threads of their actual conversation floating back to the front of her head.

“6:30,” Lexa sighs, closing her eyes for a moment and then snapping them back open, the Head Girl’s eyes meeting hers. “Right. I’m up.”

“What if you didn’t go?”

Heda flickers away for a millisecond and there’s a flash of longing in Lexa’s eyes. “I wish I could stay. But I have no choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Clarke argues but she suspects she’s arguing in vain on this one.

But to her surprise, Heda seems to be losing ground. “In some things, that is true.” Lexa takes a long breath and steels herself, flattening her lips and clenching her jaw. “I can skip the morning class, I suppose.”

Clarke’s jaw drops. “Really? You’re actually going to play hookey?”

“If by hookey you mean skive off, then yes. I can do that.”

“Just to make sure, by skive off, you mean miss class, right?

Lexa laughs and it’s beautiful. “Yes. I’ll miss my class. I can get the notes next week.”

“Why don’t you just miss the other class too?” It feels like she’s playing with fire here but god, Lexa’s been so light and free in these last few hours; surely taking some time off from all her duties and responsibilities could only be healthy.

As expected, Lexa shuts down a little at that question, her shoulders tensing and her eyes clouding over. “That one doesn’t make sense to miss. I have to go to town anyway.”

“Why?”

The muscles in Lexa’s legs tense and Clarke’s sure she’s going to avoid the question by getting out of bed but then they relax and Lexa rests her eyes on their hands again. “I have an afternoon job. I missed last week for lacrosse so I need to go in today.”

“Oh yeah?” Clarke rolls to her side again, propping her head up on her elbow.  “What do you do? I thought boarders weren’t allowed to be employed during the term.”

“They’re not.”

“Ohh, a secret job. Got it.” Clarke’s eyes twinkle and she touches a finger to the tip of her nose. Lexa doesn’t respond, doesn’t meet her eyes where she’s clearly soliciting them.

“Come on, it’s not like I’m going to tell anyone,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes at the girl’s solemnity. “What kind of work experience are you getting? I answered the phone in the hospital billing department one summer. Well, when I say a summer, I really mean a week, but it’s not my fault that the system was so complicated that I kept connecting angry bill-payers to the Chief of Medicine. At least I got a few volunteer hours out of it…”

Lexa swallows. “I watch an Old Girl’s children. And do some housework for her, while they’re out. I’ve been helping her since I was twelve.”

“Oh. That’s cool. Are the kids cute?”

“I suppose. The boys are eleven and fourteen.”

Clarke understands now that her duties swing mainly toward cleaning and she struggles to imagine the great and mighty Heda in rubber gloves and a toilet brush in her hands. It’s not like there’s anything wrong with that, of course not. But Lexa’s already so busy with all her other duties and double the amount of exams than anyone else. She’s so busy that she’s usually up until dawn trying to catch up on her coursework, how can she possibly fit in a Saturday job?

“Good ages, I guess,” Clarke fumbles, having no idea what boys are like at that age or indeed if there’s ever a good age for prepubescent boys.

“They’re still learning the utility of antiperspirant, but yes, they’re good kids.” Her face softens for just a second.

 “That’s…good.” Clarke’s getting tired of the word ‘good’. “But, still, Lexa, how do you have time for a job? You already—”

“It’s fine, Clarke. Needs must.”

“But is it a need? If you just want experience for your CV or something, I’m sure your other activities can more than stand for themselves.”

Lexa shifts and twists the tail of her braid around her fingertip. There’s only the briefest flash of embarrassment that passes across her face but Clarke understands in an instant, before the head girl’s answer is spoken. “None of my other activities pay me money, so that’s the need.”

“Oh. Right.” And with that, Clarke feels wretched. Wretched for it not being the first explanation that’d come to mind and wretched for making Lexa spell it out. Money has never played an important role in Clarke’s life and she’s been ignoring it even more so now with heaps and heaps of insurance blood money piling up in a bank account that used to have her parents' names on it. “Sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for. I’m funded by a merit-based scholarship I won when I was ten but it doesn’t provide me with a stipend.”

“But doesn’t someone…I mean, who—” Clarke knows that Lexa hasn’t seen her so-called grandparents since she was five but surely she’s still in their financial care? Surely they must send an allowance for hairbrushes and clothes and other essentials?

“Until I am eighteen I am under the care of the school. In loco parentis for my legal guardians.”

“I don’t understand.”

Lexa sighs but finally looks up at Clarke. “The previous Headmistress agreed to take over my care through the school when I was five. I already had a needs-based scholarship that covered my primary school education so there was no need to bill my guardians for tuition and then I was awarded my current scholarship based on entrance exams for my secondary and sixth form education. I have never asked them for financial assistance and I never intend to do so.”

“But Lexa, I mean… I know the school provides a lot of things but not everything. You can’t tell me that you just went without shampoo or toothbrushes.”

“The junior house provides all that, it’s part of the school fees. You can’t expect the little ones to go to town and buy their own toiletries, Clarke.” She says this all so matter-of-factly that Clarke’s heart breaks even more.

“Fair enough, but you can’t tell me that the Caireen housemistresses buy the girls home clothes or books or birthday presents for the girls’ friends or ice cream cones or—”

“None of those things are necessary. I’ve made do without them.”

Wretched is too happy a term for the tightness of Clarke’s chest and the ache of every muscle in her body.

All she can see is a tiny version of Lexa politely declining treats on field trips and pretending to contemplate items in the shops during school-organised shopping excursions and quietly dreading Jeans for Genes day because she’s the only one in the school who’s going to be showing up in her uniform.  

Lexa must see something the ache in her face because she hastens to continue before Clarke can respond. “Besides, the Headmistress never let me go without while she was alive. She was always ‘finding’ hand-me-downs from her granddaughters although I suspected by the end that she was just buying them. I tried to pay Mrs. Wynwood’s family back later but they wouldn’t accept it. And the other girls insisted on lending me things and Anya always kept an eye on me, even when she moved up to the main school.”

“Lexa,” Clarke chokes out and for a terrifying second she thinks she’s going to cry. Bloody broken dam. “I didn’t know. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I guess I just assumed your grandparents were cold and distant but like, you know, wealthy.”

“They are wealthy.” Lexa looks so unperturbed about all this, like she’s simply narrating a historical event. Except that Clarke’s seen Lexa narrate a historical event—the history of Polis—and there’s nothing of that spark and passion now. She wants nothing more than to engulf the Head Girl into a bone-crushing hug and never let go but she also knows that it would be more for her own benefit than Lexa’s and so she holds off.

Clarke doesn’t find any words and after a second Lexa placates her with a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, Clarke. I’ve survived perfectly well.”

It’s not fine. It’s not fine at all, but a lot of things are suddenly making a lot more sense. Lexa’s relentless need to achieve the highest marks so she’ll have no barriers to getting into university with yet another scholarship, her devotion to the younger girls and to the school, the austerity of her bedroom.  The way she never acknowledges her exhaustion and the way she never complains.

She’s never had anyone to listen to her complaints.

And she’s still so kind. She’s so fucking kind. If Clarke had gone through life like Lexa, she’s pretty sure she’d be bitter and rebellious or something; she ran away to the other side of the ocean when her parents died, for Christ’s sake.

But Lexa still wakes up every morning at six after what can only be a couple of hours of sleep and she still conquers her world. She still puts every single other person first. She still sees the good in others and she still fights for what she believes in, even when she’s the only one standing.

Apparently all Clarke’s emotions are playing across her face because Lexa squeezes her hand. “Don’t worry. I’m lucky, Clarke. I owe everything to this school.”

“I’m not worried,” Clarke says but her voice betrays her and Lexa looks utterly unconvinced. “The least of what I am is worried for you, but it’s… it’s not luck.”

Lexa stiffens and tries to pull her hand away. “I have no interest in your pity, Clarke.”

Clarke doesn’t let go.

“I know. And I don’t pity you, or at least, that’s not—” She takes a deep breath and tries again. “I’m mostly just…awestruck.”

Lexa freezes, clearly not expecting that answer.

“It’s not luck, Lexa, it’s you. You haven't just survived—you've thrived. You’re so strong. You’re strong and you’re fearless and obviously life has made you even more so. But you’re soft, too. You cry at sappy movies and you always listen and know just what to say and you hug the little ones good night—you call them ‘little ones’!— and you wear pink pajamas. You don’t push away your feelings, you control them. You control them with an iron fist in public but you also let your defenses down in private and that’s just....” 

Her words aren’t coming out anywhere as eloquent as they should and she’s frustrated. Lexa says nothing, her face impassive.

“Except now, I guess,” Clarke jokes, trying to lighten the mood and shooting a small watery smile her way, “you’re doing really well at that blank stare.” It falls spectacularly flat. “Sorry. I’ll stop talking now.”

Lexa presses her lips flat and breathes in through her nose. “Perhaps you are just a very difficult person to control my feelings around.”

It feels like she’s saying a lot more than those words. Clarke swallows, looking down at their hands, yet to come apart in the warmth of the duvet.

“You don’t need to.”

“Sometimes emotions are a weakness.”

Clarke nods. “Sometimes.”

Lexa nods back.

“But not always,” Clarke adds after a lengthy pause and Lexa raises an eyebrow, disbelieving. “Sometimes they’re a strength. And sometimes it’s okay to be weak.”

The morning light has moved from around Lexa’s head to the wall behind their single pillow. Clarke watches the shadows from the curtains dance across the sunbeam with the draft from the window and she waits.

“Maybe.”

It’s enough for now. It has to be.

Even if Clarke’s not sure what more might be.

She runs races across the lines of Lexa’s palm and pretends not to notice the shiver that runs down its attached spine in tandem.

“Wait. Even if you’re under the care of the school, surely your grandparents must be under some legal obligation to—”

With a long exasperated exhale, Lexa closes her eyes. “Can we talk about something else?”

Clarke grins. “We don’t have to talk about anything at all.” The eyelids she’s watching flicker open. “If you’re ditching your first lesson, we can go back to sleep, right?”

Lexa grins back, slightly more muted but it’s there and it’s beautiful.

She’s beautiful. Inside and out.

“If by ditching you mean not attending, yes.”

Clarke hums out a laugh and scoots closer to her, close enough that their legs touch. She slips her calf between Lexa’s knees, the pajama bottoms bunching up so that skin is touching skin in places. Folding their hands closer her chest, Clarke rests her other hand on top. After a minute Lexa does the same and they fall back asleep each wrapped around both themselves and one another, like children who’ve discovered that two teddy bears are better than one.

Chapter Text

Lexa slips out of bed around ten o'clock and the bed is abruptly cold without her warmth. Clarke stays huddled up under the covers, letting the Head Girl gather her things and pad downstairs for a shower in relative peace. There’s humming some indeterminate time later and she cracks open an eye to find Lexa running a brush through the ends of her hair in the mirror inside her wardrobe door, the faintest of quirks at the corner of her lips.

Her hairbrush is child-sized, plastic and warped and sparkly-pink.

She’s dressed in black jeans and a long-sleeve black undershirt and Clarke wonders what she’s like outside of Polis, if she’s Heda even for her classmates from other schools. It’s impossible to imagine anyone missing the power in her every step, the stoke of intelligence and determination in her every word, the striking beauty of her cheekbones and the sharp blade of her jaw. Quite frankly, Clarke continues to be surprised that there isn’t a constant beam of light shining down over Lexa’s head.

Without bothering to dry it, Lexa pulls her still-damp hair into a simple braid that hangs down her back and Clarke stops pretending not to stare, stretching out in the bed and lifting her head to rest on the inside of her palm. She watches the movement of those fingers, lithe and efficient at taming the unruliness of her curls into something more manageable, something beautiful and lawful and still so wild. With a bite of her lower lip, Lexa cranes her neck to see the backside of her head, checking for loose strands and bumps, and she accidentally catches Clarke’s eye in the mirror.

Lexa breaks into a smile immediately and it’s in no way subtle or tempered or polite. It may not even be a conscious decision. Clarke knows because she feels her mouth do exactly the same in response.

“You’re staring.”

“Mmm.”

Neither smile dampens. They hold each other’s gaze for a long beat.

“I’ll run down to the kitchen and bring you up something to eat before I go,” Lexa finally says quietly, as if she’s equally disinclined to break the sanctity of the silence as Clarke feels.

“No need. I don’t usually eat much for breakfast. Or at least I never did before. It’s not exactly a choice, here, what with Dr. Peter's hawk-eyes of terror.”

Lexa turns, shifting her weight to one leg and crossing her arms across her chest. “You should eat, Clarke. Breakfast is important.”

“Yeah. I know.”

She doesn’t know.

All Clarke really knows right now is that Lexa’s folded arms press the barest hint of cleavage out of her t-shirt.  And that her eyes have declared their secession from the civilized empire of her brain and are currently invading their southerly neighbours.

What even the hell. Clarke's admittedly new to this whole…not-straight thing but her body’s reaction to a pair of mammary organs—of which she owns her own set! Of which she can look at in the mirror! Anytime she wants!—is surely a little outrageous. She’d be lying if she said she’d never checked out other breasts but this is a whole new fucking ballpark.

(Except that it’s a ballpark free of balls. Just a park. A huge playground full of boobs. Organ music from the merry-go-round plays in the distance. It’s magical.)

She’d always kind of assumed that guys were so attracted to boobs because they’re new and exciting and they’ve been culturally conditioned to associate them with sex. And maybe that's all true but maybe it’s also more than that, maybe there’s simply something inherently wonderful about breasts.

Or maybe it’s just that something in her aches to know every crevice of this girl, every fear and every hope and every inch of skin hiding under that tough-as-nails exterior.

(Clarke wonders if she can switch her degree to evolutionary psychology at this late stage in the game because she’s entirely convinced she could write a 100,000-word thesis on the subject of why breasts are so wonderful. Lexa’s breasts in particular.)

“Clarke.” Lexa’s arms have dropped to her hips and Clarke startles, dragging her gaze back up to where it should be, kicking and screaming the whole journey long. “Where did you go?”

“I…what?”

There’s a deep sigh but it’s full of affection. “I was saying that I’ll bring you up something for breakfast. Since you know how important it is.”

There’s another equally deep sigh with equal amounts of affection. “Fine. But only if you eat with me.”

With a quick glance at her wristwatch, Lexa hesitates and then nods solemnly as if it’s a peace treaty they’re discussing and not an invitation to sit cross-legged on her bed and chow down on cold leftovers or whatever she can rummage up from the kitchen. “I can agree to those terms.”

They eat quickly once food is procured and then Lexa pulls on a blue button-up and wraps herself up in a black peacoat and scarf, pulling her well-maintained messenger bag over her head. “Thank you for the slumber party, Clarke.”

“Thank you, Lex—I mean it. Have a good day.”

The Head Girl opens her mouth and then closes it again, nodding and adjusting the strap of her satchel. “You too, Clarke.”

She turns back to smile at Clarke at the door. Clarke watches her walk down the street from the window, straight-backed and alert and Heda, but the aftershocks of her smile persist at least to the end of the street. 

--

It’s pretty clear that Lexa expects Clarke to head back over to Brigid for the rest of the weekend, check back in with some story about having to come back to Polis early instead of staying with her guardian.

She doesn’t.

Instead she sneaks down to the shower room with a still-damp towel and rushes through a shower so cold she’s actually glad the water pressure is anemic for once. Some girl has left her shower caddy of shampoo by the sink and Clarke pinches a tiny amount for herself. No one spots her as she dashes back upstairs in only the towel and she dresses herself with the clothes she’d packed for her failed visit to Marcus’ estate. Shivering, she puts Lexa’s hoodie back on over her t-shirt despite having a perfectly dry one in the middle of her backpack.

It smells good, even if it’s a mix of her and Lexa’s scents by now.

Actually, maybe that makes it smell better.

There’s a pile of new school-stamped stationary on one of Lexa’s bookshelves and Clarke rummages through the hoard until she finds an unlined pad of paper, snagging a couple of pencils from the wonky clay penholder on the desk and settling down on the bed to get an early start her art coursework.

It’s a busy scene, this image that’s been itching at her mind’s eye for the past few days, and it takes Clarke the larger part of an hour to lay it out, sketching pencil studies and basic shapes to make sure the perspective is right. Once that’s done though, everything seems to just flow as if her hand’s practiced this scene hundreds of times before. It’s still just an early copy, it’ll need to be done in charcoal or maybe colored pencil for the final version, but it's a good start.

Time melts away, the only evidence of its passing the ratio of light to dark on the white page and the increasingly insistent grumble in her stomach.  She hardly notices the fading of the sunlight until she registers the squinting of her eyes and the dull ache in her head. Glancing around, she sees the alarm clock reading 4:30 and the sun almost completely set outside the window.

With a stretch and a crack of her neck, Clarke hauls herself off Lexa’s bed and paws through her backpack for the cereal bar she knows she packed in there yesterday in preparation for a long train ride. It’s gone in only three bites and it only dents the angry gnawing in her stomach. But then again, not all of that is physical hunger.

She has no idea when Lexa is supposed to be back—it's surely got to be sometime before the usual supper bell at 6:30—and it feels like it’s been an eternity since she left for town. The boiler clanks with a repetitive thud and branches tap against the window pane and there’s so much empty space in this room. It’s suffocating.

Right. She needs something to distract herself until Lexa gets back.

There’s nothing. Lexa lives like a monk.

Her bookshelves are filled with a decade’s worth of neatly-labelled school notebooks and binders, a quick peak revealing only what what Clarke could have already guessed, that Lexa’s penmanship was immaculate and careful even at age seven. There are no books on the bookshelves other than textbooks and dusty library tomes with the Polis logo stamped on their spines. She tries skimming through what looks to be a very outdated biological anthropology textbook but gives up when the section on homosexuality makes it seem like an evolutionary aberration. 

There’s a washcloth on the top of the shelves with a row of hairbands and bobby pins—kerbie grips— lined up next to Lexa’s hairbrush and Clarke suspects that the Head Girl may be the only human being to have never lost a single one of either. Her shower caddy is here too, holding only a couple bottles of ASDA-brand hair products, a stick of liquid eyeliner, and some chapstick.

Even the space under her bed is empty (and free of dust bunnies, of course). No shoebox of memories or secret treasures, not even a modest case of all the medals and awards she knows Lexa’s earned over the course of her life. There is, however, a small bulletin board on the back of her door and it’s covered with layer upon layer of drawings and faded strings probably intended to be bracelets. They’re all addressed to Lexa or Heda and Clarke’s not sure if her heart’s swelling or breaking anymore.

Lexa’s laptop is charging on top of a pile of textbooks and Clarke eyes it contemplatively but there’s no internet access in House and she already knows there’s no DVD drive—it’s too old. It probably doesn’t hold any greater entertainment capacities than a typewriter to be honest and while she’s tempted, there’s no way she’s going to disrespect Lexa’s privacy by snooping around on it.

Finally flipping open a red examination book on Lexa’s desk that’s clearly been designated for notes and drafts—not a single doodle or note scribbled to a friend in the margins— Clarke finds a blank page somewhere in the middle. On one she sketches a cartoon of Clarke drawing on Lexa’s toenails, their hair in bows and ridiculous frilly dresses. On another random page she draws a caricature of Lexa sitting on a giant throne made of antlers and bone, hand curled around a knife planted in its wooden arm. By the time she’s finished, there are at least a dozen tiny little scenes and notes in the corners of the notebook, lacrosse sticks and swords and crowns made of stellar constellations. The thought of Lexa coming across these in class or while she’s working late at night, the image of her little smile and the bite of her lip, makes Clarke smile back unconsciously, alone in the room.

She’s just about to consider taking a nap, for no reason other than boredom, when she hears footsteps on the landing and a tired Heda enters, more leaning against than pushing the door open. In the split second before she notices Clarke the lines on her forehead are sharp and the weariness hung under her eyes deep. They vanish when their gazes meet and a completely unconstrained smile grows across her face, taking root in her lips and bursting into bloom in her eyes.

“Clarke. You’re still here.” Lexa’s biting her lip to fight their wild stretch but it’s extraordinarily ineffective. She shifts her weight to one leg and moves a hand to chew on a nail to hide her mouth instead. Her braid is only half-plaited and her other hand is holding the hair bauble so it must have been something she’d tugged out in the stairway.

“I decided we needed to upgrade the slumber party into a house party.”

“It’s always a House party, Clarke. Every single night.”

“Don’t be a smart ass. I mean like a weekend house party.”

“Are those real things?” Lexa begins to move around the room, depositing her bag carefully at the foot of the bed and removing the books and papers inside. She takes in her Lacrosse jumper still on Clarke’s torso and her movements falter but she recovers quickly.

“Of course they are. And if you didn’t know that fact, its necessity is even more urgent than I thought.”

“Is that your medical opinion, Dr. Clarke?” With a smile that can only be described with Clarke’s new favourite British word ‘cheeky’, Lexa sets the books in their spots on her bookshelf and adds the paper and notebook to a growing pile on her desk. She has to nudge past Clarke on the chair a little to get there and Clarke doesn’t move away to give her space. Their arms brush together and there’s the pithiest of seconds when she thinks Lexa might lean into it a little.

Definitely wishful thinking.

Her brain decides to raise her heart rate anyway. Just in case.

“Quite a demotion in power from yesterday’s Queen Clarke,” she comments and Lexa’s eyes sparkle with mirth.

“Who says they’re mutually exclusive?”

Clarke grins. “Good point.” She spins in the chair to watch Lexa sink down on the bed to ease off her boots and peel off her socks. The socks go into a hamper in the wardrobe and the head girl pulls out a shoe leather kit from its top shelf, returning to the bed to rub some sort of dark waxy stuff on the black boots.

“Alright. As long as you being here isn’t hiding away,” Lexa finally says when she finishes one and moves to its twin.

“It’s not. I want to be here.” It’s a little bit of hiding. But only inasmuch as she's hiding from the darkness with the flame to her moth-winged heart.

Lexa ducks her head down as if there’s a particularly stubborn scratch on her shoes, the front strands that have escaped her braid falling over her face. “Okay.”

Clarke watches her fingers’ circular movements on the leather for a long moment, the motion oddly relaxing. The overfilled-balloon of her chest cavity begins to slacken and her stomach growls only in hunger this time.   “I do have to admit something, though.”

Lexa snaps her eyes up to meet hers. Her eyes are wide and there’s a tinge of fear there. It’s incongruous with their playful banter and for a moment Clarke wonders if Lexa thinks she’s going to criticise her or end their friendship or something.

“Oh, um, just that I’m really glad you force-fed me breakfast this morning. Because I’m starving.”

Tense muscles loosen and Lexa returns to her shoe wax with the subtlest of eye rolls. “Ah. You didn’t leave this room at all, did you?”

“Nope.”

Lexa sighs fondly and rolls her eyes fully this time. “And your housemistress is unaware you are here.”

“Nope.” Clarke raises her feet and rests them on the bed, leaning back in the chair. “Pretty sure she wouldn’t approve of the weekend house party.”

“If they find you here, I will pretend I have no idea who you are.”

“They wouldn’t believe that for a moment, Head Girl.”

“Fine,” Lexa concedes with a small laugh. “I’ll tell them you’ve been stalking me and I found you camping out under my bed.

“Fair enough. They’ll believe it, with the way they were glaring at me the other week. Now feed your kindly psychopath, please.”

Gathering both boots up carefully so her fingers don’t get stained, Lexa lays them down neatly beside the radiator and checks her watch. “It’s only half past five and they probably won’t have dinner sorted until a bit later. But I can probably procure biscuits? As long as it’s Mrs. Knutson in the kitchen. Ms. Smith doesn’t let anyone have pre-dinner snacks.”

“Anyone?” Clarke mock gasps. “Not even Heda?”

Lexa laughs. “My power is, sadly, not absolute.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

The smile droops on her mouth and Lexa has to refresh it before answering. “I wish it were not the case.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and in doing so, realizes that her braid is still half-undone. Clarke expects her to just pull the rest out but instead she re-plaits it with nimble fingers. When it’s all tied up she looks down at her bare toes and to the door again before going to the wardrobe and pulling out her school skirt, shirt, and jumper. As Clarke watches on, she rummages in a cardboard box on the top shelf for a pair of brown tights and then glances back at Clarke. “I’ll be back with provisions.”

Clarke wants to ask why the hell she’s changing into uniform on a Saturday night but she already knows the answer. Being Heda is a full-time responsibility. As Lexa shoots her a small smile over her shoulder as she closes the door, clothes in hand presumably to change into in the bathroom, Clarke wonders what it must be like to be so much to so many people the moment she leaves her tower room.

What she conjures up in her mind’s eye weighs so much that she has to forcibly lower her shoulders from where they’ve hunched up.

--

It takes at least twenty minutes for Lexa to return but at least she’s brandishing an entire roll of dark chocolate digestive biscuits. Clarke grabs for them and barely glances up when she hears the chuckling at her frantic mauling of the plastic wrapper. A pair of pretty hands gently pry her fingers from the cylinder and expertly locate the pull tab to free the sugary circles of heaven.

Twenty minutes may have left Clarke a tad ravenous.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” Lexa says once Clarke’s mouth is full of more than one cookie. “Ms. Smith informed me that one of the little girls had her mother cancel their Exeat plans last minute. I wanted to go talk to her.”

“s’okay,” Clarke mumbles between crumbs. Several go flying onto the bed where she now sits cross-legged. Lexa’s eyes follow them but she says nothing, only brushing them aside so she can sit, too. “Poor kid.”

“Yeah. She’s only eight and this is her first term boarding. She took it hard.”

“Eight? Oh, you went over to the junior house.”

“Mm-hmm.” Lexa attempts to take a biscuit of her own and Clarke has to release her reflexive grip on the package. She eats her own biscuit far more politely but Clarke doesn’t miss how she immediately goes for another one as soon as her first is gone.

“That was nice of you.”

“It’s part of my duties.” Lexa hesitates and then adds, “But in any case, I understand how she feels. I was even younger when I started boarding.” She takes another cookie and eats it with a great deal of concentration.

More words hover in Lexa’s throat like a hummingbird, small and delicate and iridescent, and Clarke doesn’t move a muscle in case they startle and fly away.

“No one is supposed to board until they’re seven but the previous Headmistress made an exception for me,” Lexa finally continues, brushing crumbs off her hands and staring down at them, folded in her lap. “She gave me a bedroom in the junior house with one of the older girls there so that there was always someone to look after me and pick me up from the prep school in the afternoon. I don’t know what I would have done without Anya; the least I can do is to honour her kindness by looking after the younger girls as well.”

Clarke’s mouth goes dry and she struggles to swallow the rest of the crumbs in her mouth. It's too easy to picture a tiny version of Lexa in a brown plaid uniform too big for her skinny frame, jaw set and waiting outside her classroom for a ten-year-old schoolmate to sign her out while the rest of the class are released to smiling mothers and fathers, teaching herself to be grateful and strong and the smallest burden a five-year-old can manage. It's easy because she’s the same stalwart little girl now, marching off to extra lessons and cleaning jobs without complaint, making sure Clarke has breakfast but likely not having a bite herself until this evening snack.

“Lexa?”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.” Clarke puts down her half-eaten digestive. “Just…” She trails off and then just leans over and wraps her arms around Lexa instead of trying to string words together into some pretense of meaning.

Lexa stiffens in surprise but Clarke keeps hugging. She keeps hugging and hugging and hugging until Lexa raises her arms to reciprocate, fingers digging into her side as the twilight deepens around them.

Clarke doesn’t let go.

They stay that way for a long time.

--

The housemistresses pick up Chinese takeaway for supper and Clarke and Lexa sit on her bedroom floor struggling with chopsticks, giggling as their noodles keep slithering to the carpet. Lexa suggests another movie in the common room when their stomachs are full to bursting but Clarke’s seen the growing stack of books on her desk and insists they do some work instead, pulling out the sketchbook she’s commandeered and raising her eyebrows like a disapproving line-supervisor until the Lexa stops protesting and sits down at her desk. The head girl pulls on her glasses from their case on the nightstand and Clarke finds herself wondering how it’s possible to look that attractive in a pair of thick rimmed NHS-standard specs.

Drawing lasts exactly thirty seconds, however, and soon they’re both leaning against the wall behind the bed as Clarke dictates Lexa’s notes aloud, inserting random words once in awhile to make sure Lexa’s paying attention to the meaning and not just robotically typing them up. She catches out the head girl a couple of times and there are a lot of shoulder nudges and skin kicks and sidelong glances during protracted pauses.

Clarke unbraids Lexa’s hair when she turns to the side and hunches over her computer screen to write up a practice exam on crowd dynamics for her social psychology module, fingers lingering on her back to rub unhurried circles when she runs out of tangles. It takes her far too long to notice that Lexa’s stopped typing, stopped breathing.

“Sorry. I’ll stop distracting you”

“No, I li—It’s fine.”

“Sure?”

Lexa swallows and then clears her throat, glancing back at Clarke before returning to her keyboard. “I liked it,” she says, oh so quietly.

Clarke buries her smile in Lexa’s hair, brushing lips against her crown for the briefest of infinities before going back to mindful circles she hopes appear more like they’re mindless.

When she finds herself flagging a little while later and she catches Lexa swallowing three yawns in a row, Clarke scoots to the edge of the bed, shaking the bed enough in her maneuvering that a few papers fly off. “How much more do you have to do tonight?”

Lexa looks conflicted, looking between her books and Clarke.

“Okay, that’s my answer,” Clarke says decidedly at her expression. “I’m making us tea.”

“I can finish up tomorrow,” Lexa tries protesting to a shaking head.

“Nope. There’s no chapel tomorrow for once and we’re getting out of here and enjoying the free day.”

Lexa opens her mouth to protest again but then closes it, apparently unable to come up with any duties or activities that would prevent her from taking a day off. “Oh,” she says between lips that can’t seem to stop themselves from turning up at the realisation.

Clarke’s barely successful at forcing her own pleased smile into a smirk. God, she would go to battle for this girl. And more, besides.  “So power through the rest of your prep so there’s nothing hanging over you tomorrow. How do you take your tea?”

“Um, none for me, thank you. But please feel free.” She gestures toward the hallway where Clarke remembers there’s a tea station.

“Wait, seriously? You don’t like tea? Congratulations, you may be the only Brit I’ve met so far to say that. I swear, Raven and Octavia drink like eight cups each night.”

Lexa focuses on her laptop again, brushing off the keypad and setting the cursor in the right location. “I don’t dislike it, I suppose. But I don’t need it. I’m fine.”

“Coffee, then?” That instant crap is pretty vile but to each their own, Clarke guesses.

“No, thank you. But you go ahead.”

 “Are you sure? Caffeine is a wonderful thing. And don’t even try to tell me you’re not tired: I’m pretty sure I’m only yawning because yours are so contagious.”

Lexa shoots her a small smile and shakes her head without looking up. “I try not to let myself become dependent on it.”

Clarke blinks, scrunching up her nose. With all the late nights this girl pulls, she doesn’t even help herself out with a little bit of caffeine? On the one hand, it’s not surprising in the least. On the other hand—

“Why?”

Lexa shrugs, turning the page in her textbook and running a finger along the text until she finds the place she’s looking for. “Because if one day it isn’t available I’ll still be able to function.”

“Why wouldn’t it be available?”

“Who can predict? Perhaps the milk won’t be delivered. Or the tea bags won’t be refilled. The electricity could go out and the kettle would be rendered useless.”

Maybe one day caffeine would leave her and she’d be tired all over again.

“Okay,” Clarke says softly and cracks the door open to check for people in the hall before slipping through and filling up the kettle.

Lexa furrows her forehead when Clarke struggles back into the room a few minutes later with three full mugs. “Did you invite others to our wild weekend house party?” she asks with arched brows.

“Nope.” Wincing as a bit of tea sloshes over the side of one of the cups and lands on the carpet, Clarke sets one down on the floor in front of where she’d been sitting and then places the other two on the night stand by Lexa.

“The green one with the chipped handle is decaf. I figured that just because you didn’t want a stimulant didn’t mean you couldn’t have something warm and comforting.” She pauses. “The red one is normal tea. Because it’s okay to depend on things sometimes. Especially when they make life a little better for you. Doesn’t always have to be a weakness. But your choice, I promise.”

Lexa looks long and hard at Clarke, an inscrutable expression on her face.

She doesn’t drink either of the beverages for a few minutes. Clarke returns to her sketch but she can’t help being distracted by the warm body at her side. She wiggles closer until their arms touch; it requires Lexa adjusting the laptop and shifting a little so that her hands are in a good enough position to type but she doesn’t complain.

Clarke adjusts the drawing pad so that it’s propped up on her knees and drops her free hand down to the bed between them as she plots out the perspective for a small detail of the larger scene. She’s never been so glad to be left-handed when a soft hand drops down on top of hers, hesitating before lacing their fingers together. Neither girl says a word about it and Lexa proves to be a perfectly adequate one-handed typist.

The green mug is empty by the time the laptop lid is closed an hour later.

Then again, so is the red one.

Chapter Text

Lexa’s ceiling is covered in glow-in-the-dark stars.

They’re new. Or at least they hadn’t been there the last time Clarke had lay sleepless in this bed, back when she’d fallen asleep on a hard floor and had awoken on a warm mattress instead of with a backache. Obviously she’s been in this bed since (oh, has she) and the fact that she can’t pinpoint when they’d been affixed only serves to illustrate her tunnel vision for the body beside her.

She’s looking at the ceiling now because she can’t look at the body beside her.

The body that’s breathing in a steady beat, the one whose legs are tangled with her and with hair that’s loose and free and spread out on the pillow like a veil. The one calmly asleep. The one doing absolutely nothing to warrant this feeling in Clarke's chest and in her throat and in the tips of her toes.

The one who's setting Clarke’s nerve endings on fire.

Fuck, it’s never felt like this. Like she’s clinging to the edge of a cliff wall, like she’s desperate, like she has to tense every single muscle in her body just to keep them occupied. This may be far from the first time she and Lexa shared a bed but it’s the first time that it hasn’t been novel enough to overcome the actual implications of sharing a bed.

Memories of writhing bodies and sweaty limbs and grunts flash through her head on an endless loop, faceless kisses and the smell of sex on sheets. They’re entirely unbidden, sensations she automatically associates with this feeling radiating out from the base of her spine, abut then they begin to morph into softer shapes that are more fantasy than memory— long dark curls and beautiful fingers and swollen pink lips with the faintest of freckles painted on top, like its artist was too distracted by her beauty to stay between the lines.

Clarke rolls onto her back and then onto her side, barely aware until she’s facing her masterpiece again that it’s been little more than a sneaky excuse for her thighs to rub together. She holds herself more tightly but that only creates more pressure and fuck. Her feet are burning up and she kicks the sheet from where it’s tucked into the edge of the mattress so her toes can gasp at the cool air. And then they’re too cold and she retracts them back into the warmth, taking a deep breath and holding it.

“Clarke,” comes a sleepy croak.

“Hmm?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Clarke says, too quickly. “Why?”

“Because you’re one pascal away from breaking the bones in my hand,” Lexa whispers evenly.

“Oh. Sorry.” She releases her grip immediately and Lexa flexes her fingers dramatically before threading them through Clarke’s again.

“It’s okay.” With a brush of her thumb over Clarke’s, Lexa closes her eyes again. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

Lexa hums and says nothing more. A car passes outside, its headlights flooding the room with filtered yellow light from the gauzy window coverings.

“Lexa?”

“Clarke.” Lexa’s eyelids remain shut.

“Do you ever feel small? Like Polis is great and all, but just… you kind of forget there’s a whole wide world out there. Like…” Clarke sighs and tries to organize these muddled thoughts tumbling out of her brain. “Like one day we’ll be out there. We’ll have degrees and careers and houses, maybe even kids and shit. And all this will be little more than the blink of an eye, a period of life that seems so big and important to us right now. But it’s not. Why does everything have to feel so…giant?”

“Everything feels big when you’re a child,” Lexa says after a minute, just when Clarke thinks she’s fallen back asleep. “Maybe it has to be that way.”

“Why, though—why does everything have to feel like such an immense decision? Why does it feel like everything matters so much?”

“Because it does. To a child everything seems big because it literally is. And even when we grow full-sized, we’re still emotionally small. The brain is still growing, even for us now, still learning its final pattern of connections and response cycles. Choices and decisions we make now set us down our adult pathways. They do matter.”

“What if we choose the wrong ones?” Clarke whispers. Even this careless nighttime conversation feels like it could set an entire galaxy spinning around it and it’s no more than a nanosecond of a pebble on a rock orbiting a single star.   

Lexa keeps her eyes closed. Her chest rises and falls a couple of times before she answers. “Nothing’s set in stone; the brain isn’t a stone. Its power lies in its plasticity, in its ability to constantly change and update and adapt to the world around us. It’s probably not the actual decisions that matter, but rather the process of how we make choices. That we find the strength to make decisions at all. How we respond to their consequences and learn from our mistakes.”

Clarke exhales a long breath, watching as the air sends the top layer of Lexa’s hair adrift for a moment before landing back on the pillow between them.

“Lex?”

“Mmm?”

“You’re going to nail that psychology exam in June.”

Laughter bubbles out from the head girl’s lips and she opens her eyes, finding Clarke’s like a magnet. “Thanks.”

“Yep.”

“Clarke?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to fall asleep any time in the near future?”

“Probably not.”

A smile breaks out across Lexa’s face and she rolls her eyes, whacking Clarke lightly in the shin with her bare foot. “Your self-knowledge is impressive.” She sighs playfully and raises herself up on her elbow.  “Alright. Do you have any more slumber party games?”

“Really?”

“Really. You haven’t led me astray yet.”

“Ummmm. Truth or Dare?”

“Forget I asked.”

Clarke has to laugh and raises herself up too. “Your insight is impressive. But okay, how about this—just ‘Truth’. The catch is that you have to answer whatever question you ask, too. So there’s a check and balance thing going on.”

“My little American,” Lexa teases and Clarke’s heart twists. “That sounds fair.” She lowers her head a little so that she’s resting on the inside of her arm instead of on her palm. Clarke mirrors her position.

“Okay, I’ll start. Umm.” Damn, the few first questions on this game are always difficult. “What’s the drunkest you’ve ever gotten?”

“I’ve never had more than a glass of wine at the Founder’s Day feast. Your turn.”

“A whole glass of wine? Honestly, I’m shocked you even had that much.”

“Our table ran out of water and the duck was over-salted.”

Clarke snorts and Lexa grins and it looks delicious enough to eat.

“Okay. My drunkest was probably my sixteenth birthday party. My friends and I convinced a member of the catering staff to sneak us a couple bottles of vodka from the bar and hid upstairs in the venue’s bridal chamber, drinking it straight from the bottle. It wasn’t the first time we’d had alcohol but our stomachs were empty because of how tight our dresses were and honestly, wine coolers and beer aren’t quite the same as straight liquor. I remember throwing up in the pink bathtub, trying to rinse orange juice out of a table cloth in a fountain, and not much more. As far as I can deduce, my parents found us and got us home. They never mentioned a word about it later, only nodded when we insisted that we hadn’t been more than tipsy.”

“That was kind of them.”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure now that they were hiding smirks and cracking up about it as soon as we left the room. But at the time we thought we’d totally gotten away with it.”

“And one day you’ll probably do the same to your kids.”

“Absolutely. The laughing at least. Probably do it to their faces though.”

“I can imagine you being the instigator. I bet you know far too many drinking games.”

“I do, indeed. And I’ll be making you play those too. FYI.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Good. Your turn.”

 Lexa bites her lip as she thinks. “What’s your favourite colour?” she finally comes out with, her face the picture of gravitas.

“Lexa.”

“What?”

“That’s the most boring question ever.”

“Why? It’s important to know someone’s favourite colour,” she argues and she actually seems incredibly sincere.

“Fine. Green.” It’s not. Or at least it didn’t used to be. “What’s yours?”

“Gold,” Lexa says without missing a beat. 

“Enlightening. Thank you for sharing your deepest and darkest secrets,” Clarke says wryly.

Lexa shrugs. She breaks their shared gaze for the longest of seconds and Clarke follows her eyes down to pillow where two shades of hair are beginning to twist together as if they’re part of one head. “When I was younger, I thought there could never be colours more beautiful than the brown and red of our uniforms.”

Either she’s saying something big or she isn’t saying anything at all and Clarke holds a breath long enough that her lungs burn. What does it mean? Is this a blink of an eye on a tiny pebble? Or is it a gravitational attractor so massive, so dense that it draws billions of galaxies together rather than letting them drift outward with the rest of the universe?

Clarke Griffin continues to struggle with the mechanics of astrophysics.

Lips. The entire world has contracted into the seam of her lips. Clarke forgets everything; this game they’re playing, how Lexa must be able to feel the pounding of her pulse against her fingers, the stars in the sky. Everything except the gravitational anomaly of those lips, drawing her closer and closer and closer.

“Lexa…”

“It’s your turn, Clarke.”

She clears her throat and lets her head fall back down to her arm. “Umm, what do you think your first kiss will be like?”

Clarke regrets the question as soon as it leaves her mouth—it doesn’t even make sense—but quite frankly it’s the furthest distance her fuzzy mind can manage from its internal soliloquies about those lips. It’s honestly amazing she manages that far.

To her surprise, Lexa smiles softly, twisting her hair together with one hand tucking it behind a shoulder. “Null question. I can’t answer it and I’m sure you won’t be able to, either.”

Clarke frowns. “Why not?”

“I have already experienced a first kiss. And so, I expect, have you.”

It takes a last-minute hail-mary to turn her jaw drop into a playful one but Clarke just about succeeds. “Have you?”

“Is that your question?” Lexa’s looking positively smug but there’s just enough flickering of her eyes between Clarke’s to bely a measure of anxiety in her words.

“Yes! Wait, no! Don’t trick me unto wasting my turn on a yes or no question,” she jokes, shaking a finger at the girl whose lips can’t be more than ten inches away, lips that curve into a lazy smirk. Clarke takes a deep breath. It’s just two girls at a sleepover, playing truth or dare and talking about first kisses. Why is her heart beating like she’s in the home stretch of a marathon?

“You’re too smart for me.”

“Yeah yeah. Okay, what was your first kiss like?”

Their palms remain together but they’re clammy now, limp and lifeless. It makes Clarke want to pull away and wipe the sweat off but she doesn’t. Instead she feels every ridge and she tastes metal, her jaw locked like it’s wiring itself closed.

“It was special.” Lexa withdraws her hand from Clarke’s as if it’s imperative she tuck one of the many curls that cover her face behind one ear. She returns it to the bed between them, close but not touching, two sets of empty fingers. “Her name was Costia and it was special.”

Lexa watches her, unblinking, and Clarke knows because every single nerve ending in her body stops responding except the ones purpose-built for the perception of those green eyes. Alarm bells sound in her head or maybe that’s the buzzing in her ears and it doesn’t really matter. She’s frozen and she’s petrified and she’s vaguely worried that the housemistress will find a marble statue in Lexa’s bed come morning.

And so in her mayday plummet Clarke jabs at the autopilot button labeled ‘self-sabotage’. What else can she do? She’s young and this is so big. It’s goliath and she’s no David.

“Heda Lexa,” she gasps with an open-mouthed grin, “I had no idea.” It’s off-beat and after too long a pause and it’s so awkward, her and her stupid American accent and cowardly heart. “Everyone always says that girls give the softest kisses—is it true?”

“I have nothing with which to compare it. But it was very nice,” Lexa says stiffly.

Air that was previously thick with body warmth and calm turns fetid, choking. Even the silence as Clarke flounders too long in her response is suffocating.

Lexa doesn’t ask after Clarke’s own first kiss. She’s gotten the truth she was after and Clarke wishes they’d kept in the dare option after all.   

“Lexa, I—”

“It’s okay, Clarke. You need not say anything.”

“I know but—where are you going?” Lexa’s sitting up, unknotting their legs with a swift tug and setting her feet on the floor. Cold air streams in through the open duvet.

“I will sleep in the common room,” she explains quietly as she stands, hair over her face again and she looks so small with her straight back and balled fists.

She’s so small and she’s the entire observable universe and maybe David had to start somewhere, too.

Absolutely not,” Clarke decides, snatching for Lexa’s hand and yanking her back down to the bed. “I need your ass to stay where it is.”

“Clarke.”

She ignores the pained plea, pulling Lexa closer and forcing their fingers to tangle again. The girl is rigid in her arms but Clarke holds firm until both their cardiovascular systems begin to calm. Two foreheads meet in the middle and it forces them both to close their eyes as they breathe together in the darkness.

“Thank you for telling me, Lexa. I’m sorry I was glib.”

“It doesn’t make you…uncomfortable?”

“Why would it make me uncomfortable? You haven’t said anything that changes how I see you.”

It’s not a lie but it’s also not a truth (and certainly not a dare). Because Lexa is the same Lexa and Clarke is the same Clarke but it feels like everything has changed about the composition of their single unit. There are possibilities and feasibilities now, spaceship hatches flung open and a pair of spacesuits ready for deployment. Everything is so crisp and real, solar wind in her face and stardust on her tongue. 

It’s terrifying.

“Thank you,” Lexa whispers after a beat.

“There’s nothing to thank me for.” Really. Clarke doesn’t deserve an iota of thanks— she doesn’t deserve anything right now. “Telling someone your sexuality shouldn’t be a request for understanding.”

Lexa doesn’t say anything in response but Clarke feels the pull of a small smile in their joined foreheads.

“Do you…do you just like girls, or guys too?”

“I don’t know. But I think just girls.”

“Cool. I assume this isn’t public knowledge?”

The head girl swallows and then sighs. “No. Not really. The subject has never come up. But I’d like to think I’d be truthful if someone asked.”

Clarke sighs too and squeezes her tighter. “Okay.” She presses her lips to that beautiful forehead and watches those beautiful eyes close and listens to that beautiful heart pump blood. "Sweet dreams, Lex," she whispers as beautiful muscles loosen in her arms.

She counts the stars on the ceiling until they go blurry and she can still see them inside her eyelids when they finally shut.

--

They have a long lie-in and Clarke manages to slip out the back door while the Housemistress is occupied with making lunch, dropping her backpack off at Brigid and signing back in before meeting Lexa outside. It’s warm for the November and they amble down to the public gardens right outside the town centre, unzipping their jackets and stuffing scarves into their pockets.

Clarke had grabbed her camera from her room on impulse and it turns out to be the best decision she’d made in hours. Lexa knows the name of every flower and the camera captures her peeking into hanging baskets of begonias and pointing excitedly at autumn crocuses that have somehow survived the early frost and brushing her fingers along the long row of stone columns climbing with ivy.

The garden is packed with running children and sun-starved townsfolk and it feels more like springtime than the last day before December.  They spread their coats out in the grass and sit with their legs outstretched, the sunshine soaking through the denim of their jeans.  Half-expecting the Head Girl to be antsy on a day of doing nothing, Clarke is thrilled to watch her tuck her hands behind her head and lie back with a contented smile on her lips. There’s no wind, not even a cloud in the sky.

Spying a group of children bouncing out of a nearby shop, Clarke leaves Lexa to sunbathe for a few minutes, claiming to need the loo, and ducks into the adjoining gift shop instead. She orders two of whatever a Mr. Whippy is and doesn’t hesitate when the shopkeeper asks if she wants a ‘flake’ in them even though she has no clue what he’s talking about.

The white fluffy stuff is starting to drip down the cones by the time she gets back to Lexa and it’s a sure-fire excuse to force the girl to accept the treat, thrusting it in her hand before she can protest. Lexa has no choice but to catch the melting cream before it gets all over her coat and Clarke barely manages to do the same. The soft-whip is an unexpected combination of marshmallow fluff and frozen cool-whip and the random chocolate bar sticking out the top is stale and oddly crumbly.

Clarke has never enjoyed an ice cream cone more.

Then again, that may be more the result of frozen concoction being paired with the sight of shining eyes and shy smiles and a pink tongue that takes such careful little bites. Lexa treats the cone like it’s so much more sacred than a 99p conglomeration of chemicals and sugar and Clarke watches her like the holy object she is.

As they eat, Lexa teaches Clarke words in Trigedasleng the same way the littlest ones are taught in the nursery school, by pointing at objects and repeating their names until Clarke can point to things for herself, heaps and heaps of praise for saying simple words like grass and moon. She moves on to sentence structure once their cones are gone and Clarke learns more about grammar than she’d ever learned in school. They laze on the grass and their legs barely brush against each other, just enough that they keep moving together and then apart and their awareness of the touch doesn’t habituate.      

Auxillary verbs and copulas.

Prepositions and pronouns. Osir is the pronoun for ‘our’ when the listener isn’t included. Oso is the version for when everyone is included. Yumi addresses just the listener and the speaker, no one else, alone in their little bubble, and this one is by far Clarke’s favourite. She tells Lexa so, taking her hand and interweaving their fingers like a complicated braid. Our hands—yumi meika.

Conjunctions and satellites, adverbs and adjectives.

Plurality and demonstratives. One heart, two hearts, many hearts—won tombom, tu tombom, emo tombom. This heart here, those hearts way over there—disha tombom, dei tombom-de.

Possessive pronouns and this last language structure is all she can think about as they part ways after the sun disappears over the horizon and go back to their separate lives.  Lexa’s cheeks are sun-kissed and Clarke has never felt so jealous of a ball of burning gas.

Yumi won tombom. Dei tombom-de.

Our one heart. The heart way over there.

In another house and another room and another bed.

It’s no longer curious when Clarke’s chest is hollow that night, alone in what feels like the solitary confinement she deserves for her crime of cowardice. She gets out of bed long after midnight and sits out on the fire escape, sketching the universe around her, places she’s never been, places from her dreams, cities of stars and the sun and moon and everything.

There are no stars in the sky tonight, none except her North Star shining in the window across the street and the pages and pages of Lexa drawn in her sketchbook.

Lexa’s so strong. She’s so strong she could probably fell an army of giants with nothing but her bare fists. There’s no way Clarke will ever possess even half her strength.

But maybe David didn’t need to be stronger than his giant.

Maybe David only needed a handful of pebbles and a slingshot.

Chapter Text

The first day of December was always special in the Griffin household because it was the day the boxes of Christmas decorations were brought down from the loft and the three of them would pull out the ornaments and the stockings, unwrapping them from their careful tissue-paper pillows like they were practicing for Christmas day. The advent calendar shaped like a tiny woodland cottage always came out first and Abby would disappear to the kitchen with it while her husband and daughter laughed over preschool handprints pressed into plaster and jagged photo cut-outs of six-year-old Clarke’s head pasted on top of a paper angel’s body.

When her mother returned with the heirloom in hand, she would place it on the mantelpiece in its traditional place of honor and Clarke would ceremonially open the first door. It was always a new piece of chocolate and an old wooden robin redbreast, heralding the beginning of the holiday season. His perch was the tiny chimney of the cottage and he presided over the twenty-four other figurines as they were uncovered through the month — spotted fawns and woolen mittens and blonde angels and other objects lovingly handcrafted by her father for Clarke’s first Christmas—but somehow the little robin redbreast was always the most special, warm and joyful and the protector of all. 

--

It’s the first day of December at Polis and and she sits in the choir pews of morning chapel, Clarke feels like she’s opened the advent door this year to discover that her precious robin has flown away and there’s an angry serpent in its place.  

She’d been just about to commence her usual daydream session during the Headmistress’s rambling sermon—it tends to make equal sense whether she pays attention or not— when Nia steps out from the pulpit and stands the middle of the nave instead, directly in front of the alter.

“In lieu of the traditional inspirational message this morning, I’d instead like to share some exciting news with you girls and with the staff,” she announces.  

The teachers in the back row and along the balcony lean forward, clearly in the dark about whatever the Headmistress is about to announce. The girls notice and anticipation ripples through the pews.

“That’s enough,” Nia says sharply at the murmuring and the voices taper off after a few seconds. “As I was saying. The world around us is entering a new era of technology and globalization. Whether we like it or not, it would be unwise for Polis to bury its head in the sand like a terrified bird.”

Clarke tears her eyes away from the back of Nia’s head and her tightly wound bun and seeks out Lexa’s reaction. The Head Girl is calm and collected—bored, even—but Clarke spies a glint of unease and a spark of fire flash in her eyes.

“I alluded several weeks ago that things would be changing as we progress through the year,” the Headmistress continues, “and I’m pleased to announce the first of many pushes toward modernization of your beloved but ultimately archaic school. While you girls were enjoying your weekends at home, we had a changeover of administration, the esteemed Board of Governors stepping down in preparation for a new advisory body of businessmen, consultants, and former CEOs. They have proven exceptionally successful at streamlining private schools in the past, reducing inefficiencies and needless expenditure, setting in place a structure to maximize growth rather than celebrate stagnancy.”

It’s a whole bunch of unnecessarily verbose jargon but Clarke understands enough for her blood to run cold even if she hadn’t been watching Lexa’s face throughout the speech. Most of the other girls have no clue what the Headmistress is talking about though, judging from the blank looks in the sea of pupils.    

“We worked all Saturday and Sunday,” Nia simpers, “to identify both the financial mires and the potential budget reallocations to more worthwhile pursuits and I think you will all be very pleased with what we left the meeting with. Firstly, we have decided to cancel Founder’s Day this coming Sunday—a longwinded church service and formal feast with the Old Girls that I know none of you bright young things could possibly enjoy—in favour of refurbishing and kitting out the old computer lab with brand new Apple computers, a much faster server and internet connection, and even a few enclosed pods for you to chat with friends and family back home through video messaging. How do you feel about that?”

Predictably, the chapel begins clapping, the girls smiling at their seatmates and whispering excitedly under their breaths. And of course they are: new computers and easier communication with their families is always going to be an attractive prospect. The current computers are beaten up old relics that still take five minutes to boot up each time and are no where near powerful enough for Skype; of course everyone is enthusiastic about Nia’s plans. Even Clarke has to admit she’s a little stoked about the pretty new machines.

It isn’t until she looks back at Lexa’s glowering face that she recognises how easily the serpent has seduced her by shiny plastic fruit along with the rest of them. The Headmistress has no less than staged a clandestine takeover of the administration, ousted the board of governors who’d been mostly made up of mothers and past-scholars, and vanquished a century-old sacred ritual all with the promise of a few pieces of technology that the school should have updated years ago anyway.

“Alright settle down, girls,” Nia orders, moving her hands down as if their chatter is a sound box and she’s silencing the amp. It takes a few tries but eventually they quiet. “We’ll hear more about this and other changes in the following weeks. Let us pray.”

Clarke whips her head around as do a few other older girls. This is always the part in the Monday service that Heda reads out her weekly announcements and reminders and the Headmistress has skipped right over it into the closing prayers. The Head Girl is as composed as ever, however, leading the school in kneeling on the padded knee rests.

“Our Father, which art in heaven—”

“Hallowed by thy name,” the girls chant dutifully. Clarke mouths the prayer entirely automatically by now, peeking open an eye to watch Lexa calmly recite the words. She catches Clarke’s stare and gives her a reassuring smile before bending her head forward once more and closing her eyes.  

“…forever and ever. Amen.”

“Go with the blessing of the Christ Almighty, the Father, Son and Holy Ghost now and forever.”

Lexa takes the tuning fork out of her pocket and rings it, holding it to her ear and humming a single note. The heads of row hum their part of the resulting chord from the leading one and the notes travel down the rows until every girl knows her starting place. It’s a long amen this morning, the melody repeating and tripping against itself as it flows through the four parts before all finishing on the exact pitch of the Head of Choir’s first note.

Heda stands as the music fades into silence and takes a step to the pulpit, her spot in choir only inches away. The girls prepare their Trigedasleng responses, their mouths already half-open, when she clears her throat and executes her weekly announcements instead, as if it’s always been done this way.

“I hope you all had a wonderful Exeat, whether you went home, stayed with friends, or remained here amongst your school family,” she begins, voice stalwart and echoing across the rafters and columns. Nia has a sour expression on her face but makes no move to interject. “Please remember to check in with your Heads of House about your end-of-term plans before Friday. Looking ahead to our week, fencing will be moved to Tuesday rather than today, the choir will be travelling to St. Æthelthryth’s for their annual evensong and carol practice on Wednesday so don’t forget to go to the coaches at four o’clock. House Meetings will take place at their usual Friday lunch timeslot. I have been informed that these have been poorly-attended as of late but I am certain this will not be the case in the future.”

“Finally, in lieu of the Founder’s Day service and feast, we will be holding several events here in school to celebrate the sacrifices that our early women’s rights pioneers undertook to establish Polis and the strife they overcame.  Only 150 years ago it was taken for granted that most girls didn’t attend school, much less university: it wasn’t until 1869 that Emily Davies was able to inaugurate the first college at any university in England that admitted women at all and even then Cambridge tried to instigate easier exams for women—which Emily rejected— because they were considered not to be as capable as the men. And look at us today. Our success comes on the shoulders of giants and it is our honour to pay homage not only to our founding members of our school but also to women across history who have fought for equality, freedom from oppression, and basic human dignity for all.”

The entire school erupts into applause and wide grins. There are goosebumps on Clarke’s hands as she claps hard enough that her palm sting.

The Headmistress has gone from red to white to slightly greyish, the tendons in her neck so tight that Clarke’s almost worried she’s going to have to run outside and call an ambulance. But mostly she’s in awe of Heda and the call to arms she’s clearly improvising on the spot. How does she even know these dates and names?

Allowing the noise continue for just long enough that the Headmistress begins to interject, the Head Girl holds up a single hand. Silence descends instantly.

“Sophia, Charis, Dunamis,” she recites in beautiful and probably flawless Greek. “Wisdom, compassion, and strength is our school motto and it is these three pillars —these bulwarks—that we will celebrate on Sunday. Before the end of Tuesday, I will come around to each form and explain your roles in the event. There will also be a public debate open to any member of the school, not just the debate team. Sign-up sheets will be available on the main bulletin board. We will need help organizing this event as well, so please tell a Prefect or your Head of House if you would like to be involved after chapel lets out. Prefects and other officials, report to my study at lunch.”

And then Heda grins.

“I will fight for what I believe in. Ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in,” she calls out.

“Ai ste yuj!” the school calls back, girls and teachers alike.

The organ blasts out a procession hymn, so unexpectedly loud and jaunty that Clarke turns to look at Dr. Peter in the organ box, and Lexa holds her chin high as she sweeps down the aisle, scarlet cloak billowing behind her. The choir trip out of their rows to follow her and the rest of the school after them, cloaked in brown and led by their Commander out the chapel doors and into the rest of their day.

--

Clarke has absolutely no interest in trudging up the stairs to the art studio after that so she drops her cloak off in the massive cloak room and tries to remember Lexa’s class schedule. Failing spectacularly (that girl has way too many lessons and administrative duties), she’s about to give up when she’s almost rammed into the wall by a furious Nia stomping down the passageway and toward her office. Clarke follows behind at a safe distance on a hunch and barely manages to catch a flash of red wool swoosh through the door in front of the Headmistress before it’s slammed shut.

For a heavy slab of wood, it’s hardly soundproof and Clarke ensconces herself in a window alcove just to the left of the door, easily listening in to the proceedings. There’s a line of plaques above the headmistress’ door and she settles her eyes on the engravings, lists of every Head Girl going back to the 1860s when the school was converted from a boys’ school as part of the female educational reform movement. There are at least two books on the subject sitting in her room in New York, curtesy of her Godfather.

“How dare you hold a meeting of the governing board without telling me? It is part of my rights and responsibilities as Head Girl to attend every single one in order to ensure equitable representation and you are well aware of that stipulation.” Clarke’s heart starts pounding at the vitriol in Lexa’s voice, her nerves sprung to attention as if there are a pair of panthers prowling inside those walls.

“You will do well to remember that I am the headmistress and you are nothing but a girl under my care. You will respect my authority, now and in the future, or you will find there to be consequences for your insolence.” Nia’s words are clipped, her anger more controlled than Lexa’s but equally manifest in every word.

“What you have staged is no less than a coup,” Heda near-snarls. Clarke’s heart leaps into her throat and she begins to wonder exactly how bloody this is going to end up.  “How did the Governors feel about their deposition?”

There’s a long dramatic sigh. “Calm yourself, child. This is a school, not a battlefield. There’s no need to get yourself so worked up. It’s times like these I’m glad I only have sons. They’re not nearly as over-sensitive or irrational.”

“Your gaslighting has never worked on me, Nia. My anger is justified and commensurate: do not attempt to invalidate my objections by equating them to weak emotionality. That tactic is not only illogical, it’s misogynistic.”

“Your naivety is painful. This is a normal part of life, change and reorganization. Modernisation. The Board held us back in many ways and in time they will thank me for the re-structuring. Stop acting like a frightened child and respect my rulings like every other head girl or boy in the country manages to do.”

“I have no objection to modernization, do not twist my words. What I object to is your seditious and clandestine actions with regards to the Board of Governors and your blatant disregard for the school charter and ideals. Founder’s day has been a tradition for over a hundred years at this school and I know that its cost is far less than the price of renovations and computer equipment. We also receive almost 60% of our donations from Old Girls because of this event, quite apart from the morale and cohesion it cements across the generations.”

“One day you’ll grow up and you’ll see how foolish you sound when you make things like this bigger than they are.”

“One day I will be old enough be able to call out weak arguments that rely on emotional manipulation rather than facts without fear of defensive retaliation.”

“Watch yourself, girl. I’m not sure you realize how dependent you are on my good graces. In any case, we will receive plenty of donations once the Old Girls hear that our struggles to kit out the school in a functioning technology lab have lead to the cancellation of their treasured reunion. You will not be following-through with these foolhardy notions of other events on Sunday.”

There’s a long silence and Clarke can only imagine Lexa taking long breaths before she continues. 

“We will be holding our own Founder’s event,” Heda finally states, her voice steady and powerful. “It is within my authority in the school charter to organize extracurricular events.”

Nia’s voice turns colder. “A charter that holds no actual legal standing. But go ahead—call my bluff. You show many weaknesses, Lexa. I see them all. Or have you forgotten the lesson of your precious Costia already? Your relationship with Augustus is embarrassing and don’t think I don’t know about your unauthorised and quite honestly shameful means of making pocket money. You have six months left in this school and exams in June that will no less than make or break your entire future. Don’t bite off more than you can chew, little girl.

“I am more than capable of handling myself. I am also unclear why you are so adamant on cancelling the Founder’s Day event, unless there is something more that you are hiding.”

“The Founder’s Day event is completely unnecessary and archaic.”

“It is indispensable and foundational at every level.”

There’s another long silence and then Clarke hears the screech of a chair being scraped back against the floor. “Fine. Hold your ridiculous feminist ritual—dance around like naked pagans for all I care—but don’t expect any budget for this frivolousness.”

“With the greatest respect, I have no need for your financial support.” Clarke loves Lexa’s polite British contempt.

“Tell that to the bursar. I should have revoked your scholarship six years ago. Had I known what a disappointment you’d turn out to be, I would have. Just wait until you’re out in the real world, Head Girl,” Nia spits. “They’re far less accommodating of freeloading troublemakers out there.”

There’s another silent stand-off and then Lexa says something Clarke doesn’t understand in Trigedasleng but the disdain in the words is universally translatable.

“You are perfectly aware that I do not speak that primitive language of yours. Pettiness is such an ugly trait. But I didn’t mean to offend you," the Headmistress says, sickeningly sweet with the bitterest of aftertastes.

“Yes you did.”

More silence and then the door whips open and Lexa storms through it. “You are dismissed,” the Headmistress calls after her and she rolls her eyes in response. Lexa’s the very picture of a thunderhead, dark and electric as she lets the door slam shut behind her and stands in the hall, nostrils flared and breathing heavy. She’s dangerous; she’s dangerous and she’s beautiful and Clarke has never understood storm-chasers until this very instant.

Pivoting on her heel, her cloak swirling around her feet like a cyclone in the sudden movement, Lexa starts toward the stairway to her study room but then she spots the open-mouthed blonde in the shadows. Her fists unclench and her shoulders drop. “Clarke,” she says softly.

Clarke finds herself speechless. She furrows her brow and shakes her head in disbelief, lips tight and eyes darting between Lexa and the Headmistress’s office.

Lexa follows her gaze and then gestures toward the side hall leading to the kitchens. It takes an impossibly gentle hand on her arm before Clarke turns to follow.

Once they’re out of sight of the main thoroughfare, Lexa leans against the wall and closes her eyes. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Everything.” Clarke’s shock is starting to melt away and she’s left with spitting rage. Her peripheral vision whitens and her body prepares for fight.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorr—why are you—” Clarke has to bite the inside of her cheeks and suck in a deep breath. “What the fuck is her problem? Why is she such an evil bitch?”

“It’s fine, Clarke. She’s nothing I can’t handle.” Lexa is trying to reassure her and Clarke’s rage just grows and grows.

“It’s not fine, Lexa! Actually, you know what, I don’t care why, just…Lexa, she was awful to you! You don’t deserve any of that, we should report her and—”

Clarke’s so enrapt in her righteous fury that the Headmistress should she speak so abusively to anyone, much less the most hard-working, strong, good person on the planet, that it takes longer than it should before she notices the shift to shallow breathing and wide eyes in front of her.

“Lexa, what’s—shit, Lex, it’s okay, shhhh….” Lexa’s torso begins to shake, her respiration ragged like the air she’s gasping in is bypassing her lungs entirely, like there’s a hole in her windpipe or all the oxygen has been sucked out of the hallway and yeah, the latter seems increasingly possible because Clarke’s struggling to breathe suddenly, too.

The daughter of a doctor not for nothing, Clarke is quick to recognise the early signs of a panic attack but it’s useless when she can’t remember what she’s supposed to do. Hazy flashes of paper bags cross before her eyes but she’s also fairly sure that’s an old wives’ tale or something. Fuck, is this the one where she’s supposed to get the patient down to the ground? No, wait, that’s fainting. Fuck fuck fuck.

Lexa turns away, hunching over and resting her palms on her knees. She’s clenching her jaw so hard it makes Clarke cringe reflexively; Lexa sees it and squeezes her eyes shut and looks like she’s summoning every ounce of willpower from every sinew of her muscles and the marrow of her bones. She shoots Clarke a distraught look that might be an apology and begins edging frantically along the wall in an attempt to flee.

Slowly, so as not to make things worse, Clarke steps alongside her. “It’s okay, I think you’re having a panic attack. It’ll be alright, it will pass,” she soothes, raising her hand but letting it hang in the space between them. When Lexa stops trying to escape, she smiles as calmly as she can manage even though the head girl isn’t looking anywhere but at her feet. “Can I touch? Or should I move away?”

Lexa’s eyes snap up to hers but she just looks lost, like she’s drowning, so fueled on intuition alone Clarke clamps down on her arm, rubbing circles with her thumb while her other hand unbuttons the Celtic knot holding her cloak closed. Two green eyes watch on in tangled terror, a hand clamped over her heart like a shield. Clarke eases Lexa’s arms out of the arm holes and then wraps her own arms around the girl, under the cloak and loose.

“Shhh, it’s alright. I’ve got you, okay? You’re safe.” Lexa struggles against her captor for a second and Clarke’s about to back off but then her limbs fall very, very still. She can feel the girl’s hands bunching up the lining of her cloak and then releasing, over and over again.

Her breathing doesn’t steady though—if anything it becomes more dysregulated— and Clarke blows out a long puff of air and restrategises.  

“Here, give me your hands.” Gently prying Lexa’s hands away from the material they’re clutching at, she threads their fingers together and raises all four hands up to the space between their sternums, pushing her up against the wall slightly so that it’s a snug fit. Clarke can feel every movement of Lexa’s chest against her hands and thus against her own chest in this position and she knows the other girl can feel hers, too.  Lexa’s heart pounds under her fingers and she hopes her own is calmer, that it can act as a pacemaker.

“Follow my breathing, okay? In, out. In, out.” Clarke takes a long pull of air and holds it for a second before releasing it just as slowly and then repeating the sounds of her breaths in an attempt to entrain Lexa’s biology into following her rhythm. The difference between their respiration rates is too great though, and it feels like an impossible task.

And then she remembers another of her mother’s lessons.

“Rapport is the most important skill you need as a doctor, Clarke,” her mother says, kneeling beside her at the plastic doll cradle. “Your baby is probably scared and hurting but you can make her feel better even without medicine. Know how?” Five-year-old Clarke shakes her head, mouth open as she waits for the answer with a squirm. She loves magic. “First you need to show her you understand how she’s feeling. If she’s worried, she’s probably breathing fast, like this.” Abby breathes in and out quickly and Clarke giggles at the sight of her mother panting like their new puppy dog. “So what you need to do is breathe just as quickly.” Clarke happily imitates her mother and grins when her mother bops her on the nose. “Perfect. And then once you match, you can start to slow down your breathing. Not all at once, but gradually. Your patient will follow you and soon you’ll both be calm. Show me how you slow down your breath.” It’s not quite magic but Clarke has to admit there’s something spellbinding about seeing her mother follow her breathing like she’s her own reflection in a mirror.

Closing her eyes and hoping, Clarke matches her breathing as much as possible to Lexa’s erratic rate until they’re in sync and then starts an incremental deceleration, slowing down and waiting for Lexa to follow and then slowing down further. Within a minute or so, they’re breathing together, chests rising and falling in metrical tandem.

Clarke stays pressed into her long after Lexa’s breathing is normal again, releasing their sweaty hands and wrapping arms around her into a hug, forehead against the wall and cheek against soft temple curls. She stares at the plaques on the far wall as she waits for the girl in her arms to regain her composure, wondering which names are Lexa’s great-grandmother and her great-aunt and her mother and her mother’s sisters.

She knows that it’s always been understood that Lexa was born for the position of Head Girl, that it’s her legacy, that it’s more or less her divine right of succession. Lexa has always understood it but she’s never accepted it. The only privilege she’s allowed her divine right to bestow is that she’s been able to train herself for the position since toddlerhood, enough that she’s been able to earn it. Her sword has never slept, even when it was wooden and stood taller than she did.

It makes Clarke ache.

Clinks of pans and chimes of glasses wash past them, footsteps and idle hums that slowly come back into focus as they stand at the edge of the service corridor like two stones pushed aside by a roaring current.

Slackening her grip just enough to give Lexa the freedom to step back if she wants, Clarke lifts a hand and tucks the curl that has escaped the Head Girl’s braids behind her ear. “Okay?”

Lexa doesn’t step back but she does stiffen a little. She has yet to meet Clarke’s eye. “Yeah,” she says around a long exhale. “Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“Hey—What did you tell me a couple of days ago? Friendship works both ways, Lex.  Your needs are mine, too. Oso throu daun ogeda. We fight together.”

Two beautiful eyes whip up to hers, so startled that they break Clarke’s heart. Lexa’s looking at her in a way that Clarke doesn’t deserve, in a way that Lexa doesn’t ever deserve to feel.

“Has that happened to you before?” Clarke asks softly. Now that their eyes are connected again, she doesn’t ever want to let go.

Lexa swallows. “Only once or twice.” Her voice is raspy and she has to clear her throat. “Never as bad as that one.” Clarke imagines the Head Girl slipping away to wait out past panic attacks alone, curling herself into a ball in some forgotten corner until it’s over.

Saying nothing, Clarke only nods and waits for more.

“I think I felt…out of control. Nia and her overthrow of the Board and these changes she says are coming… And I had no idea, I should have had an idea but I didn’t. We had a nice weekend—it was so nice—and now the whole world seems to be crumbling. If I’d just paid more attention or checked in with the Governors or—”

“She did it all in secret, Lexa. Deliberately. I don’t think there was any way you could have known.”

Lexa puffs out a long breath. “Yeah. I suppose. It makes me feel powerless though. Weak.”

Smiling through a hum of understanding, Clarke runs her fingers down the small patch of exposed skin where Lexa’s sleeve has been pushed up her forearm. “There’s a lot of adjectives I could use to describe you but ‘weak’ would never be one of them.”

Formidable. Tireless. Indomitable.

(Achingly beautiful and even more so on the inside.)

A tight smile turns up the corners of Lexa’s mouth and she doesn’t disagree but she doesn’t agree either. “You should probably get to your first lesson.”

Sighing, Clarke nods. “Probably. It’s just Art though. All morning. And we need to do some planning.”

Lexa looks at her in surprise.

“What? You think this Founder’s Day celebration you’ve pulled out of your ass an hour ago is going to organise itself?”

“I…” An internal struggle plays out in her eyes and finally Lexa nods. “Okay. Yes, your help would be very welcome.” Clarke’s about to grin triumphantly when Lexa shakes her head, traces of a real smile or maybe even a smirk appearing on her face. “But right now you need to go to Art and I have a lesson with Dr. Peters.”

“Lexaaa,” Clarke whines, bumping her hip into the Head Girl’s.

“Clarke. Go or I’ll write you up.”

“You wouldn’t,” she gasps.

“I would.” Lexa’s eyes are smiling now and it sends such warmth through Clarke’s chest.

She sighs dramatically and reaches up to re-button the loop of the red cloak draped on Lexa’s shoulders.  “Fine. But I’m skiving the second half and we’re meeting in your study at eleven.”

“You will tell Miss Gauthier that the Head Girl has requested your presence at eleven-fifteen and ask if you can be excused,” Lexa concedes with grave magnanimity.

“Deal.”

They grin at each other and Clarke’s breath is the one that feels dysregulated, suddenly. She turns away, prepared to trudge up the stairs to the art studio, but pauses before Lexa’s made it more than a few steps in the opposite direction.

“Lex?”

“Mmm?”

“What did Nia do to Costia?”

Lexa turns around and the echoes of the smile still on her lips turn a little sad but don’t don’t disappear entirely. “She ended the foreign exchange programme Costia was here on earlier than it should have finished. It was the summer I was meeting with the Board and I’d just been appointed Head Girl. I think she saw how close we were becoming and took her retaliation at me at any way she could.”

“She’s a fucking bitch.”

The Head Girl’s lips press together and her eyes crinkle. “Don’t make me write you up for swearing, too.”

“Right. If you’re going to be that way, Heda, I’m going.”

“Good. Go.”

Neither girl moves. And then they’re moving toward one another, arms wrapping around waists and necks. “Thank you,” Lexa whispers quietly and Clarke only nods this time.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I promise.”

“And you’ll take a break if you feel out-of-sorts? Panic attacks have all kinds of after-effects.”

“I promise.”

“Good. I’ll be keeping an eye on you, you know.”

“I know.”

Over Lexa’s shoulder Clarke sees the Headmistress halt in her tracks. She casts a sharp eye over the pair of them, still hugging, and meets Clarke’s eye. A thoughtful look casts across her features and she turns away without a word. It turns Clarke’s blood to ice and she squeezes Lexa until the woman disappears.

--

Lexa snorts and wipes a dried streak of paint off Clarke’s cheek when she enters the Head Girl’s study at the top of the school a couple of hours later and they crowd together at her desk in a single threadbare chair, drafting to-do lists and brainstorming topics for the Founder’s Day debate and drawing up lists of potential guest moderators from the Old Girl community. There’s a draft blowing in from the ancient windowpane and the radiator doesn’t seem to be working but there’s enough body heat and a red woolen cloak to keep them both immune from the encroaching cold.

They stand and perch against the edge of the desk when the Prefects and Heads of House file in at one o’clock on the dot, Clarke at Heda’s right hand side and her Second on the left. They explain the plan for the different years’ participation in the Founder’s Day event, each Prefect being assigned to a different year, and Clarke insists with a sudden burst of inspiration that she and Octavia be the ones to oversee the Sixth Form. She has an idea for their contribution and she wants it to be a surprise.

When the agenda shifts to the debate, Lexa moves her arms behind her back as she listens carefully to the ideas the team generate, nodding admiringly at Adenne’s topic suggestion in particular, and Clarke does the same.

No one notices that their Head Girl and the new American girl are linked by their pinkies for the rest of the hour; as the meeting disperses and their fingers only entwine further, Clarke wonders how she could have ever thought she'd been forsaken by her robin redbreast.    

Chapter Text

It’s a busy couple of days, full of preparations and sewing costumes and wrangling together sponsors for Sunday’s Founder’s Day event. They’ve got only days to pull together this thing but they’re too busy to worry about it. Busy, busy, busy. So busy that Clarke hardly notices her head hitting the pillow on Monday night because before she knows it the alarm is ringing and it’s time to interrogate another day.

(If she wakes up cold and with her entire body wrapped around a pillow, well, that’s just from the stress.)

(Actually, no, Clarke’s too busy to lie to herself.)

On top of all that, sometime between Monday and Tuesday flyers appear on the Sixth Form bulletin board advertising a school disco at the new Boys’ school over in the nearest big city. Apparently Polis hasn’t paired up with Dominicus College for anything before and it leaves quite a few girls’ tongues waggling at the prospect of a fresh crop of new blood, especially since the theme of the dance is ‘Greeks and Romans.’

Clever, really. Polis was named for the city-states of ancient Greece, ruled entirely by their bodies of citizens, and their motto and several other design elements are Greek. The school chapel is even affectionately called the ‘acropolis’. Dominicus, on the other hand, is clearly a Latin name, and judging from what little Clarke knows of etymology, it’s probably testosterone-y.

Clever, except that it’s obviously just an excuse for a toga party, judging from the xeroxed image of a couple of simpering girls in Roman-looking togas so short they clearly economised by using one sheet between the two of them. 

Clarke has been to toga parties. Clarke rolls her eyes.

Still, it sounds like fun and the excitement is infectious. Since she’s the only one who has any knowledge of a real life toga party, Clarke's immediately elected the head of costumes in a lunchtime vote she’s not sure she nominated herself for. She thinks back to the barely-there sheet ensembles in which she and her friends had somehow managed to sneak out of their apartments but something tells her that, modern and liberal though this event appears, her prior experiences may not be all that helpful.

The door to the common room opens and all eyes shift to the Head Girl, who scans the room but doesn’t enter. There’s a general shift in posture, a few cans of contraband soda tucked into jumper sleeves.  

Her eyes finally alight on Clarke, who must be getting strong lip muscles, what with the way she’s always having to push against their resistance and turn a dopey grin into a normal-person smile.

“Clarke," Lexa says stiffly, nodding at the rest of her classmates who have gone quiet and are staring at her.

“Lexa. I thought you had a lesson with Dr. Peters right now?”

The tips of her ears turn pink and it’s like Clarke’s query completely derailed her purpose for a second. Glancing around, no one else has noticed though. “I did, Dr. Peters had a last-minute meeting, he….” Lexa clears her throat and folds her hands in front of her body. “Mrs. Aspythe wanted to know if we could move our phone meeting to 1:30 instead of 4:30. Is that alright? If you’re busy or if you haven’t had lunch yet or—”

Checking the wristwatch she’d finally taken out of her suitcase this morning, Clarke notes that she has about fifteen minutes until then. “Yeah, of course.” She nods down at pile of brown faux-leather material in her lap. “Let me just finish this up and I’ll meet you outside the teacher’s longue in ten.”

“Brilliant.” Lexa hovers in the doorway for a second and Clarke wonders if she’s actually going to come inside—she’s never in here, being in here would imply she was taking a break or something else equally absurd—but instead she nods again.

“Make sure you dispose of your drink cans somewhere inconspicuous when they’re gone,” she reminds them all while staring pointedly at Liza and Mischa and spins around, closing the door carefully so it doesn’t make a sound. One of the Head Girl’s many girdles gets caught between the double doors and she has to open one again to let it escape, but she closes it just as noiselessly the second time, too.

An idea begins to form in Clarke’s mind as she watches the girdle struggle in amusement and she leans in to the other girls.

“Actually, I have a better plan,” she says slowly and then with more enthusiasm as the details settle. “The Romans may have conquered the Greeks but those boys have another thing coming if they think we’re just as conquerable.” A few girls open their mouths in protest but Clarke only grins harder and shushes them with a hand gesture. “Don’t worry. We’re still going in togas—or chitons or whatever Greek togas are called—we’re just going to add a few little historically-accurate details…”

--

Timing is tight because of the choir trip on Wednesday evening and the party being held on Friday in addition to all the Founder’s Day planning, so Clarke drags Raven and Octavia to town that very afternoon, getting advance permission to miss supper so they can have time to buy all the supplies. She doesn’t bother asking Lexa — she’s got like three meetings and a major English coursework essay due the next day—but she leaves a note on her study desk that she’ll pop by her bedroom when they’re back.

If Clarke had thought that a full 48 hours with Lexa last weekend would dampen this relentless need to be around her all the time, she would have been grossly mistaken. Nope, instead she feels like an addict on withdrawal, constantly reminding herself not to bring up the head girl every couple of conversation topics. Or every topic. Every sentence. Lexa.

She mostly manages and she’d be proud of herself except that Octavia and Raven keep smirking or shooting each other indecipherable looks every time the girl’s name is casually mentioned.  Super casually. Honestly.

The shops in town don’t carry everything they’re looking for and they have to take a bus from the central bus station to a party supply store on the far outskirts of town, Raven grumbling that they should have just taken her car in the first place. It’s late by the time they buy everything they need, Clarke’s credit card feeling the burn, but luckily they’ve bought so much stuff that there’s no problem justifying a taxi ride back to school. The plan had been to grab something from town to eat when they were done but somehow they’d forgotten just how heavy forty flat sheets can be, not to mention six jumbo bags of plastic props and an entire haberdashery’s worth of silk rope, so they decide to just forage in House for something to eat for dinner.

Except that the cab drops them off in front of Flidais since it’s on the left side of the street and Clarke swears she catches the scent of Lexa on the icy air. Light glows from the tower window and yeah, Clarke’s rumbling stomach never stood a chance.

“I’m going to show Lexa what we picked up first. Just to make sure she’s okay with the plan. Can you guys manage with the sheets if I take the rest?”

She expects protests, a grumble at least, but Raven and Octavia burst into identical Cheshire-cat grins and nod, pushing her toward the front door while waving over Sophie and Chiyako who've just crossed the road from the main building. There’s a flurry of giggles behind her as she trots up the steps but when she looks back, the four girls are the picture of innocence. Clarke narrows her eyes at them but Octavia only shoos her onward.

Whatever. The British are just weird.

She signs in, this time with minimal scrutiny from the housemistress, and flies up the stairs to the top floor, managing to slow herself to a walk only on the very last flight. It’s the first time she’s been back here since Sunday, yesterday evening taken up by planning sessions in the school building that lasted until the curfew bell. Lexa’s door is propped open, the first time she’s ever seen it that way, but she still knocks to announce her presence before stepping inside.

Lexa’s at her desk and when she turns around, there’s such an open, pleased smile on her face that all Clarke's efforts to slow her heart rate before entering are for naught.

“Clarke.”

“Hey, Lex.” Clarke swings the bag from the party shop in her hand, adjusting her fingers where it’s digging in, and shifts her weight between her legs. “How’s your essay going?”

“I’m almost done, I just have the conclusion—” She cuts herself off, looks at Clarke still lingering like a moron in the doorway. “You can come in, you know.”

“I don’t want to disturb you if you’re working…”

“You don’t disturb me.” Lexa wets her lips and puts the lid on her fountain pen. “And even if you did, I am very fond of your brand of distraction.”

Clarke feels her lips slip into the dopiest of all the smiles and she doesn’t bother trying to activate those slothful counter-muscles. “Good.”

“Good.” Silence swells between them, something almost at its tipping point, a bud just before it bursts into bloom, but it’s not quite there yet. Any day, though. “What did you buy?” Lexa nods toward the bag Clarke’s still clutching.

She kicks away the doorstop to let the door close and flings herself and the bag onto Lexa’s bed, groaning as her tired feet get a break from standing. Lexa loosens her braids as Clarke tells her the toga-party plans, grinning at the idea and giving her full and gleeful blessing.

“It might be a little cold though,” the Head Girl cautions, “but then again, not significantly colder than a traditional toga costume. Just make sure the girls are wearing layers underneath.”

“Sure. You’re coming though, right? I got you a special costume piece.”

Lexa hesitates. “I hadn’t planned on it, but I could do. It strikes me that this isn’t something I want to miss.”

“Why weren’t you going to come?”

“It’s… It’s not really my thing. And something about that school makes me wary — Nia’s a board member and her sons attend.”

“All the better to go and scope it out then,” Clarke says. “And I’ll make sure you have a good time. Even with all those dumb boys there.”

Lexa smiles and Clarke smiles ever harder. She’s packing up the props when her empty stomach gives out a warning growl. “Hey, do you have any of those digestive biscuits left?”

“I put the rest back in the kitchen. Sorry.” Lexa stands up and pulls her hair into a ponytail. “Are you hungry? I’ll go see if there are any left.”

Rolling her eyes, Clarke reaches out and holds her still before she can attempt to change back into her uniform and go down to the kitchen like she’s sure the girl intends to do. “Why didn’t you just keep them up here? I know you like them.”

“They weren’t mine,” she shrugs, “I didn’t want to keep them from someone else.”

“Lexa.”

Lexa looks genuinely perplexed at Clarke’s scolding. “I didn’t need them.”

Sliding her hand down Lexa’s arm until she reaches her fingers, she joins them together and tugs her closer to the bed. 

“Maybe not, but it’s okay to want things sometimes.”

Two lips press together so immediately Clarke can see it’s a habit. Lexa nods after a moment but her eyes disagree.

A question hangs in the space between, a question that Clarke thinks she knows the answer to, a question Clarke wants the answer to, a question Clarke’s still too terrified to ask. It hangs and it hangs and it hangs until it chokes out its final breath and dies.

Instead she unrolls the careful cuffs of the school jumper that Lexa’s thrown on over her pajamas—probably because Clarke refuses to relinquish her lacrosse hoodie— and smoothes down the sleeves until they reach almost to the tip of those beautiful hands. Lexa watches her motions with a quiet eye and allows herself to be dragged down to the bed when Clarke’s done.

They lie side-by-side as if they’re stargazing, two heads on one pillow. Lexa fills Clarke in on the developments in their Founder’s Day plans, about whom she’s heard back from about moderating the debate and the pledge of support from the Old Girls’ Union. The head of the Parents’ Union is still unreachable and Lexa only objects once or twice before allowing Clarke to follow up with it tomorrow. They talk battle plans, strategy and tactics and contingencies and they’re still there when the curfew bell chimes out a couple of hours later, eyes open and fingers closed together.

It’s only when she slips into her own bed, alone and in the dark, that Clarke realises she never found anything for dinner. She’s hungry again, but it’s probably not exclusively for food.

--

Jack Frost arrives in Polis overnight and the girls wake to ice crystals painted along their windowpanes, a sudden shift in the air that’s unambiguously winter. The hallways are too cold to navigate in pajamas not to mention a towel after a shower and Clarke makes a mental note to look into purchasing a big fluffy bathrobe, contemplating whether she could convince Lexa that she’d stumbled across a buy-one-get-one-free sale. In school, the radiators are all on their maximum setting and all her lessons are accompanied by the steady percussion of their thumping. Several girls are wearing their red blazers over their jumpers, a rare occurrence, and Harper confesses in Biology that she’s wearing two pairs of tights.

It’s Wednesday and the choir is excused from the last half-hour of lessons to collect their cloaks and meet the coach in front of the school to travel their annual carol granplei at St. Æthelthryth’s, a few towns away. Sadly, Clarke’s last lesson of the day is only General Studies so it’s not particularly exciting to get out of, but it at least means that she and Raven can leave together and, thus, Clarke can be reminded to retrieve her music folder and find a pencil. She’s genuinely more terrified of Dr. Peters discovering she’s forgotten the pencil she needs to annotate her music than she would be of being found smoking inside school grounds.

The wind whistles between the buildings and around the brick gates but unlike the last time Clarke was waiting for a coach in the cold, she’s got her cloak this time and it’s paradise. Lexa’s already there with an attendance clipboard so Clarke doesn’t bother her when they walk up, only shoots her a tongue-tipped smile when she reaches the head of the queue. Heda melts off her face for the most glorious of moments, a smile volleyed back from the corner of her lips, but her battle armor is back on as soon as the girl behind her panics that she’s forgotten her music and the Head Girl sends her back to her form room to retrieve it.

Unlike on the lacrosse trip, it’s a full bus today, and Raven pulls her toward one of the few remaining empty pairs of seats in the back.

There’s another pair of seats near the front though. Clarke waivers.

Raven raises her eyebrows. “What?”

Clarke looks between Raven and the two seats second row from the front.

“I get carsick?” she tries, weakly.

“Uh huh,” Raven snorts but her forehead slackens and she turns around, edging her way past the steady stream of girls pressing their way up the aisle. “Alright, boff. Up front with the nerds it is. Dibs on the window seat, though.”

“Done.” Clarke clears her throat when they settle in. “Thanks, Rae.”

Lexa climbs on board and deposits her things down on the seats ahead of them but she doesn’t sit yet, instead leaning over to talk to the coach driver and thank him in advance before confirming their destination.

“Don’t mention it, Princess,” Raven drawls back, glancing significantly at Lexa and tucking her elbows up to rest them behind her head. 

Lexa’s head snaps over to them at the nickname and she opens her mouth to say something but something stops her and she closes it again. She noiselessly counts the number of girls on the bus, satisfied only when she’s gotten the same number twice, and then stands in her row, scanning the rest of the bus.

“Thirty-nine, all here except Masayo but she’ll be back momentarily,” she confirms to Dr. Peters when he boards and takes the empty pair of seats on the other side of the aisle.

“Good, good. Forget her music again, did she?”

“Perhaps she simply needed the toilet,” Lexa hedges but she’s smirking slightly.

Dr. Peter’s eyes twinkle, they actually twinkle, and there’s something about this scary-as-fuck Deputy Head and Choir Director that’s almost adorable for a second.  “Dison feikau, Heda. Nou ge ponk klin.”

Lexa clicks her tongue at him and he rolls his eyes up but there’s a certain measure of fondness in their interaction. Clarke’s about to ask Raven what he’d said (something about a trick?) when Masayo dashes up the steps of the bus and the whole choir erupts into applause. The poor girl turns beet red but there’s no animosity in any of it and Dr. Peters lets her pass back to the seat a friend’s saved her without comment.

Once everyone’s seated, the Head of Choir stands and stands facing them all at the front of the coach. It falls quiet the moment her hand goes in the air.

“Rules first,” she calls out, her voice powerful enough that the back of the bus can easily hear her. Clarke notices that the driver has prepared his PA speaker for her but sets it back in its holder when it’s obvious Heda has no need of it.

“Stay together the whole time, please be as respectful of the cathedral’s sacred space of the as you always have been, and listen to your head of row’s instructions with regards to lining up and processing. We will proceed out at the end of evensong as normal—your sharpest 90 degree angles tonight, thank you—and wait in the vestry until the congregation has left. Dr. Peters will passing out your ten pound notes for McDonalds when we’re finished; we’ll walk over together and the coach will meet us there. You can leave anything on the bus except your music and cloaks on the bus. Anyone who leaves either or both of those will suffer the pain of a thousand lashes.”

The girls laugh and Dr. Peters nods sternly in affirmation, a smile quirking his lips.

“And that done, all that’s left is to wish you Happy Christmas. Let’s start the season off right.”

The girls whistle and clap and even Dr. Peters joins in; there’s such a pulse of excitement in the stomping of the feet and the clapping of hands that Clarke finally understands what Raven meant earlier when she said that Christmas is a big deal at Polis and that this carol granplei is the official beginning.

And Lexa—oh, Lexa’s glowing, and not just from the setting sun behind her head. She may as well be the angel Gabriel at this moment.

(For behold, from henceforth: all generations will definitely call Clarke blessed)

“You love this, don’t you,” she teases between the crack of the seats as Lexa sits down and the engine fires up. She flicks Heda’s hood. “Even your cloak screams Christmas, all red and cheery. Like it’s been lying in wait.”

She’s bequeathed the warmest of smiles from the warrior angel before the Head Girl’s attention shifts to the textbook in her lap. Clarke sits back in her seat and doesn’t bother suppressing the tapping of her knee. A squint is directed toward her by her seatmate but she ignores it.

It’s only about a half-hour drive to the cathedral but Dr. Peters is out like a light within two minutes of leaving the school, his snores loud but somehow all entirely unvarying in tone.

“He snores to D flat,” Raven comments, reading her mind. “It’s really quite impressive.”

“How do you know— oh, do you have perfect pitch?” Clarke asks in fascination and receives a smug little smile from her seatmate. “That’s so cool.” She leans forward and nudges Lexa on the shoulder. “Do you have perfect pitch, Lex?”

“No,” Lexa responds with what sounds like interest. She tears off a corner of her exercise book and uses it as a bookmark, closing her textbook on what looks like Politics, judging from the stodgy looking white guys on the front cover. “That’s why I need this,” she says, unzipping her skirt pocket and pulling out a tuning fork. She flicks it against the back of her hand and holds it up to her ear. Turning around in her seat, she raises herself onto her knees, resting her lower arms on the back of the seats so she can talk to them. “D flat indeed. Perhaps you should be the one giving us the base notes in services,” she muses and Clarke can’t believe she’s seeing it but Raven actually blushes.

“Nah, you do a great job,” Raven mumbles.

Clarke stares.

“Thank you, but I bet you could do better. Would you like to try? If not today, maybe at next week’s granplei?”

It’s not often Raven’s at a loss for words but it appears that right now is one of those passing comets. “Um, yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

“Cracking. I’ll tell Dr. Peters.”

Sensing that Raven needs the heat taken off her, Clarke changes the topic. “Did you get Dr. Peter’s laptop fixed the other day, by the way? You said it was looking pretty grim.”

It works; Raven puffs up at the prospect of vaunting herself up rather than listening to others compliment her. “Of course I did. I—” She glances sidelong at Dr. Peters and then leans over Clarke’s lap. “Dr. Peters, I forgot my cloak!” she calls over with urgency.

The rhythmic snoring continues without a missed beat.

Raven laughs and twists herself so that her back is against the window. “Just checking. The problem is that he has a laptop older than Mrs. Winter’s plant fossil collection and yet insists on running the latest version of Windows on it. I finally told him that he’d have to choose between his three million Bach songs and the new update, so I think we’re good now.”

Clarke starts to laugh (and thinks lovingly of her MacBook) but it gets caught in her throat when she sees Lexa frown in response.

“What’s wrong?” she asks quietly, concerned.

“Nothing,” Lexa replies immediately but then takes a deep breath, glancing over at the sleeping Deputy Head and then back at Clarke and Raven. “It’s just that he told me that he was lending me his old laptop. But mine runs perfectly.”

There’s the briefest of silences, an extra measure wherein Clarke allocates a larger piece of her heart to Augustus Peters. Raven jumps in before Clarke can say anything though and even more of her heart is given away.

“You probably treat it properly. The dude lets it rattle around in his bag and I’m pretty sure he clicks on every dodgy download link in his quests to find out-of-print sheet music and live recordings of the Vienna Choirboys.”

Lexa still looks troubled but accepts Raven’s mollifying words with a hesitant nod. “Perhaps. Will you please tell me if his laptop ever breaks down completely? I wouldn’t want him to go without and I suspect he wouldn’t say a word to me.”

“Sure thing.”

Lexa exhales a long breath and nods to herself, returning to her seat and opening the textbook again. Clarke sits back, too, fiddling with the ties of her cloak and trying not to stare too obviously at the Head Girl’s profile visible through the gap in the seatbacks.

God, she really wants to touch her; it feels like it’s been ages.

Clarke hears a snort but when she looks over, Raven’s the model of innocence. Well, smirking innocence.

The bus idles at a roundabout and Raven lets out an over-exaggerated groan and starts rubbing at her left calf, stretching her legs out in front of her and then pulling them back with a grimace.

“You okay there?” Clarke asks, furrowing her forehead and trying to figure out what the Northern girl is up to.

“Sure. No worries.”

Clarke continues to watch her, eyes askew.

“Just a leg cramp. Must be growing pains.”

“Growing pains,” Clarke repeats wryly. “At eighteen years old. Really.”

“What can I say? My dad shot up late in life.”

“Uh huh.”

Raven squirms dramatically in the seat, affecting an expression of pain. It looks more like constipation. “Listen, do you mind sitting with Lexa so I can rest my leg on your seat?”

“Um.” Clarke looks at Lexa who looks like she’s listening in despite her eyes being firmly fixed on the page in front of her. “Yeah, I guess.” She shoots Raven a look, the meaning of which she’s not quite sure but she knows Raven surely must deserve some sort of dirty look. The twist of her lips probably belies any genuine derision. “Lex, is that cool? If I sit with you so this poor child can ease her aching leg? We wouldn’t want her to develop nerve damage or anything.”

Her words are dripping with sarcasm but Lexa gathers up her books and papers with the utmost gravity and indicates to the now-empty seat. “Of course.”

Clarke moves up but doesn’t sit down, pulling Lexa up to kneel on the seats with her again and they chat with Raven about current events and get caught up on the weekend events in the Celebrity Big Brother house and the fact that Clarke is, in fact, a living stereotype when she admits that she’d been a cheerleader at her previous school. Raven almost chokes on her own laughter at the admission and Lexa just almost chokes.

“Short skirt and pom-poms and all?” Raven asks with unconcealed mirth.

“Yep. But no, if it’s your next question, I didn’t bring my uniform to England.”

“Damn. I would have loved to see that. You’re so American, Clarke. I love it.”

“I’ve heard cheerleading is an intense sport,” Lexa finally finds her tongue to say. She’s a little flustered and it’s adorable. Clarke leans in closer so that their arms are pressed together.

“It is, for the varsity team. I was happy sticking with the amateur team and cheering for, like, the boys’ wrestling instead of the football games. Coordination isn’t exactly my forte, if you’ve noticed.”

Raven continues her muffled laughter and Lexa looks like she’s about to say something else but a girl a few rows back gets out of her seat to pass them a notepad with a half-completed hangman game drawn out. “Clarke, surely you can guess this,” Roma cajoles with a grin. She notices the Head Girl a split-second later and pales slightly. “Oh, um…”

Clarke looks at the letters played but doesn’t know and shrugs. “Sorry.”

Lexa glances down at the paper in her hand for no more than a second. “Blow job,” she answers calmly. “Stay in your seat though, please.”

At least four jaws drop and Roma gapes at Lexa with new-found respect. “Nice,” she breathes and goes back to her seat. “Even Heda knew the answer, guys. You’re useless,” she jokes to the girls around her.

Noise levels on the bus skyrocket for the last few minutes of their journey and Lexa stays facing backward as they chatter the time away, a pleased little flush to her cheeks.

--

St. Æthelthryth’s is located in the centre of a cute medieval town and the bus barely makes it through the narrow streets to drop them off in front. There isn’t much time before Evensong starts and the choir is ushered to the vestry by the Warden to don long burgundy choir robes that look like they haven’t been updated since the cathedral was first built. Which was probably before Jesus was even born.

Luckily the rest of the girls are pros at this kind of thing and Clarke’s pleased to find that she’s sung in enough Polis Evensong services that it’s becoming second nature to her, too. They secure their hats with kirby grips and strip off their jumpers and they’re ready to go in only a few minutes.

The cathedral is a popular tourist destination and the mammoth nave of church is packed with shuffling bodies, most of whom are there to experience the ancient tradition rather than for any particularly religious reason. Parts of the two may be indistinguishable, Clarke suspects however as the choir waits in two silent lines in the narthex—there’s something almost magical about the stained glass windows, the arched ceiling, the sense of sheer size in this sacred space.

They sing the Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis, they sing the responses, they even chant the day’s Psalm instead of letting the congregation join in. There are a few hymns but even those are dominated by the choir, most of the congregation simply listening like it’s a concert. It’s all over in less than an hour and then the girls edge out of the choir stands and form two rows to process back to the vestry, crisp right angles at every corner. 

Evensong's close marks the end of visitor’s hours at the cathedral and they don’t have to wait long for the last of the stragglers to exit through the wide arches and the lights to be dimmed. Dr. Peters joins them in the vestry when all the robes are hung up and they’re dressed in their cloaks again, carrying a box of long tapered candles and paper disks. A hush falls over the vestry and they fall into four lines, Lexa standing front and centre instead of in her own row.

He hands one of each to every girl and then takes a lighter out of his breast pocket, the whole room entirely silent as he lights the Head of Choir’s candle.

Lexa cups her hand around the taper to shield it from the draft and carefully passes the flame on to the three Heads of Row and Adenne behind her. They in turn pass it along to next girl in the row until the entire choir has their own lit candle. After a little bit of shuffling to get the disks attached to the bottom of the candle for the dual purposes of catching the wax and displaying the words to the first three verses of their processional hymn, the room falls quiet again, fire flickering and girls’ faces aglow in the light.

“Ready?” Dr. Peters asks and they all nod in unison. “Right. Katherine, up to the balcony.” Next year’s Head of Choir bursts into an entirely undignified squeal and the girls around her whisper their congratulations. Lexa nods at her with a look of pride in her eyes, the decision clearly her own. “Everyone else, come stand to the side,” he continues once the noise settles, “but don’t begin walking until her last note is gone and the organ starts.”

Katherine disappears with her candle out into the cathedral and after a minute or so the rest of the choir follows. They merge into their usual two lines again before pulling their hoods up and over their heads—it’s the first time Clarke’s seen the hoods of their cloaks used like this and it lends to the weightiness of the moment, the timeless feel of the ritual.

A single note sounds out from the organ and every single choir girl’s gaze turns to the stone porch that looks over the entire nave. With a voice that’s at first a little shaky but soon gains confidence, Katherine’s voice rings out and echoes through the cathedral. She sings the first verse of Once in Royal David's City without any accompaniment and the choir join in once the organ starts up and blasts out the introduction to the rest of the verses, processing up the aisle and back into the choir pews. Rejoining the choir at the end of the queue, the soloist gracefully slips into her seat and they all remain standing until the last notes of the organ dissolve.

Dr. Peters pops up from the organ room after the last notes and he’s grinning like Clarke’s never seen him grin.

“Brilliant! Well done. Remember to gently fade out on the last word and end together—we don’t want the audience to breathe for at least a second.”

Lexa flashes Katherine a covert thumbs-up from across the choir stands as Dr. Peters patters down the spiral stairs back into the nave and Clarke swivels her head behind her to see the girl blush and duck her head. They blow out their candles and new music is passed out through the rows like presents on Christmas morning, each new carol or hymn met with excitement or puzzlement or a collective sigh.

They sing anthems as disparate as Jingle Bells and O Holy Night that the choir girls all appear to know by heart, as they always seem to do, and just as Clarke’s wondering if Dr. Peters ever introduces new songs he gives them some Czech carol written all in a minor key and the choir gives a collective groan.

“Now, now. I’ll have you know this is all the rage in girls’ choirs right now – cutting edge material!” Dr. Peters informs them exuberantly, as if it will make up for the discordant chords and bitterly slow pace.

Luckily the next song is one they all know well, even if it’s also new to the Christmas lineup.

“I admit I wasn’t sure about this…American addition to this year’s Christmas collection,” the Choir Director says about it, casting a mischievous eye at Clarke who scrunches her nose and refuses to give Dr. Peters any more satisfaction than that at his constant teasing about her home country. “And you all know my personal feelings about John Williams. But your Heda chose it and who am I to argue with our mighty Commander?”

The girls laugh and Lexa gives him a playful shake of her head and Clarke watches her with so much love pressing against her chest that she thinks she may well burst into supernova.

The song is simple, short and only two parts so all the Firsts sing the same notes for once. It’s a good thing too because it takes until they’re halfway through their last anthem of the evening and waxing on about happy faces and precious moments and candles in the window for Clarke to realise it’s Christmas and they’re abruptly down a singer.

It’s Christmas. It’s Christmas and all those gingerbread feelings and burnt-tongue hot chocolates and messy sugar-cookie angels are only going to be memories for the rest of her life. She’s alone, she’s a fucking orphan and she’s alone. Her throat choses up and a single blink will set free these tears and she can’t blink, she won’t.

But then she catches Lexa’s watchful stare across the nave and all at once she knows why the Head Girl chose the carol. Lexa keeps singing, her eyes nowhere near the sheet music, and holds Clarke’s gaze as she touches the silver gear badge on her collar. It’s a reminder that she’s part of the great machine of the school, that all of her family is home with her and they’re all in it together, right here and right now.

The song ends and Clarke’s memories live on and she has her whole school family and oh, God, does Lexa ever exist. 

--

After all the anthems are rehearsed, Dr. Peters does a quick run-through of the all-school hymns and the choir descants for the final verses of each, and when they get through it all with a few minutes to spare, his eyes light up. He rubs his hands together and double-checks his wristwatch to confirm the time.

“Right. What would you all say to a quick Allegri as long as we’re in this acoustic marvel? Heda, are you up for it?” The choir director is a step below manic in his excitement. It’s only because Clarke’s already looking at her that she notices Lexa hesitate a split second before giving her usual confident nod.

“Allegri?” Clarke whispers to the Lower Six girl to her right. “I don’t have that one?”

“Miserere. We sang it last year for Easter.”

“Ah.” Clarke nods like she recognises it. She has no clue. 

“Do you need a warm-up?” Dr. Peters asks and Lexa shakes her head. “Brilliant. Up to your perch then. We’ll just do the first two verses, make up the words if you’ve forgotten them.”

Lexa slips out of her seat and walks quickly up the aisle, her cloak swooshing in her wake. A chord plays from the piano and the choir immediately finds their starting notes. The Director moves to stand in front of them and they all sit forward, ready for the signal to start.

It’s a pretty song, fairly repetitive and reminiscent of their sung psalms, and it echoes around the cathedral pleasantly enough. If she’s honest though, she’s not any more impressed than she’s been with any of their music—and what is Lexa’s role in all this?

And then a solitary voice rises over the rest. It’s far higher-pitched than the choir’s chant, higher than Clarke can imagine singing ever, and as it sails up to the rafters it turns the music into something else altogether, something bigger than this tiny cathedral and bigger than this tiny island and bigger than the entire universe around them. It’s one voice, one single vibration of vocal cords on a single human speck but it binds everything together so tightly that it feels like the grand unifying theory of all creation might be accessible if one only cared to look.

Craning her head, she tries to catch a glimpse of the singer up on the balcony but from this distance Lexa proves indistinguishable from the marble statues of saints and angels. Then again, it’s only the spot of pink on her cheeks and the stellar nurseries in her eyes that set her apart when she returns.

--

The sanctity of the music and cathedral lingers in the air as the choir packs up their music and stumble outside to meet the evening darkness. Cloaks are tightened and cobblestones are tripped over and the solemnity fades and it fades and it fades until they’re all packed inside a neon-lit McDonalds a few streets away. The girls fish out their dinner money and buzz around in disorderly queues and the cashiers look quite rightly terrified at this crowd of ravenous children in long Edwardian cloaks.

It’s the first time Clarke’s had occasion to eat McDonalds since moving to England and she feels like a tourist, excited about this American experience. All the girls are calculating and collaborating to get the most out of their money, sharing milkshakes and cost-benefit analysis about the value of sharing a two-cheeseburger meal with a friend.

Lexa waits at the back of the mob, ensuring that every girl has received her food before asking for a single hamburger and a cup for water. Clarke’s a step ahead of her though and has already ordered herself far too much for one—much less three—people to eat. She pretends to dislike what she can’t believe are actually called ‘gherkins’ and passes Lexa her pickles after watching the head girl pick off the one on her own burger and eat it with what can only be described as reverence. Raven is far too observant for her own good and gets in on the action, standing in line again to buy the largest McFlurry on the menu, insisting that Clarke and Lexa help her out. Clarke’s threat that she’s too full for the rest of her French fries is genuine by the end of it.

There’s something comforting about this food tasting exactly the same as it does across the ocean—for better or for worse—and even more so is squishing together with Lexa in a seat meant for one, legs flush and shoulders knocking and fingers brushing non-existent crumbs off her cheek and telling her it’s a sesame seed. Raven even manages to hold back her perma-smirk until Lexa goes to check in with Dr. Peters and begins reminding the tables that it’s almost time to clean up.

The coach pulls up long after they’re all finished and the girls are getting antsy but Heda’s cool and collected as always, everyone present and accounted for when she calls roll and finally sinks down in her seat. Raven has, of course, stretched her leg out beside her, leaving Clarke no choice but to sit next to Lexa again. She reminds herself to either kill her friend or treat her to lunch next time they’re in town.

The mood is far more exuberant on the bus on the way home than on the way out and before long they’re all singing cheesy 80s songs and yelling loudly enough that the Head Girl has to edge past Clarke several times to go reprimand the worst offenders. Each time Clarke helps her out in the tight space by steadying her with two hands on her hips and yeah, she should probably just scoot over to the window seat to make this easier for everyone but she doesn’t and Lexa doesn’t suggest it either. By the end of the journey Lexa has given up and is singing Heaven is a Place on Earth just as loudly as the rest of the bus, twisted in her seat and a smile splitting open her cheeks.

Dr. Peters watches them all with amusement and only snaps a cautioning glare once or twice.

--

The coach drops them off directly in front of the Houses and the girls disperse without ceremony, more than ready to get into their pajamas after the long day. The cold is bitter but Clarke waits until Lexa’s done thanking the driver again and has said goodbye to Dr. Peters in his beaten-up hatchback because, well, it feels wrong not to hug her goodnight.

Lexa’s a little startled but her hands come around Clarke automatically.

“Reshop, Lex,” Clarke whispers in her ear before she pulls away. “See you in the morning.” She wants to say more, wants to tell her how beautifully she sang tonight, how beautifully she organised the trip (how beautiful she is) but before she can get out more than a few aborted mumbles, Lexa’s gaze shifts to a point behind her and it’s only then that she notices Raven waiting to the side.

“Reshop, Clarke.” Lexa says gently. “Sleep well. Goodnight, Raven.”

“Night, Heda.” Raven catches Clarke’s elbow as soon as she turns away and veritably drags her across the street. “Don’t look so glum, chum.”

“I’m…what? No, I’m just tired.”

“Mmmhmm. Fuck, it’s cold.”

“Can’t be great for your leg,” Clarke teases but squeezes her friend’s arm. “Thanks, Raven.” She doesn’t elaborate and it’s not needed.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet. Save it up for a huge thank you once we get back. An epic-level thank you. Get ready.”

“What do you mean? Oh god, Raven, what have you done?”

Raven refuses to say another word until they’re on her floor. “Shh, stay here.” She cracks open her and Octavia’s door, holding up a finger when it’s dark and silent and slips inside. When she opens the door again, Raven gestures for Clarke’s hand and it’s with extreme trepidation that she complies. Something cold and metallic is pressed into her palm.

“A…key?” Clarke asks with confusion. “Um, thank you?”

“You need to work on your definition of epic, Griffin.”

“What is it?”

Raven glances up and down the hall. “It’s a copy of my master key. It just so happens to open every single door in the school.”

“Why the hell do you have a master key?”

“Let’s not focus on that. Do you want it or not? You’ve become very…active in school affairs. I thought it might make things easier. You know, last minute meetings, lost property…”

Clarke blinks. She looks down at the key and then at Raven.  

“I…”

“You don’t have to use it,” Raven shrugs and there’s something vulnerable about her again, something unsure and a little awkward but entirely supportive.

Clarke closes her hand around the key and then tackles Raven into a hug with enough force that they both fall to the floor, cloaks tangled and foreheads clacking together. They stay on the carpet, giggling and mock-wrestling until Mrs. O’Brien comes upstairs to scold them for their post-curfew ruckus and points them toward their respective rooms.

“Now that’s what I meant by epic,” Raven laughs as they struggle to their feet.

“Love you, Raven.”

“Don’t be gross, Clarke.”

--

Clarke manages an hour. An hour of being alone in a bed that’s not really hers, in a house that’s not really hers, in a country that’s not really hers.

A beautiful voice haunts her and then a golden key haunts her and she’s haunted and haunted until she decides she’s tired of the passive and wants to be the one doing the haunting. A minute later she’s out window in her pajamas and a hoodie that doesn’t belong to her. She slides down the fire escape and across the road in a feat of effort that seems anticlimactically easy after all the time she’s spent imagining it these past few weeks. Flidais’ kitchen is dark and it’s far too simple to unlock the door and slip up the back staircase, opening the doors between each floor painstakingly slowly so their creaking doesn’t alert any of the staff.

She’s safe once she reaches the top floor and there’s light streaming through the crack under Lexa’s door, but she still taps as quietly as she can manage, just in case by some fluke the head girl’s actually in bed before midnight.

The door opens and her bespectacled Gabriel blinks at her and Clarke’s finally home.

“Clarke? What...?”

She grins. “Lexa.”

“Your pajamas have rocket ships on them,” Lexa states, slightly dazed.

“Yes. Yes, they do.”

Clarke kicks off her shoes and turns out the desktop lamp once she ascertains that Lexa is only studying—nothing due the next day—and tugs her over to the bed, removing her glasses and pulling her down under the covers.

Lexa is pliant in her confusion and doesn’t resist. “But how are you here?” she asks once they’re settled under the sheets, fingers entwined and faces close together.

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Clarke jokes and watches the forehead lines on her Star of Bethlehem deepen.

“Clarke,” she insists.

“Fine. I have…acquired a master key. Through means you need not worry yourself over.”

“But—”

“Say the word and I’ll leave you to your revision.”

Lexa draws in a breath and holds it. Clarke waits, unconcerned.

With a long expulsion of said breath, Lexa sighs and inches closer. “I’ll allow it.”

“Muchof, Heda.”

Lexa only hums in response, letting go of Clarke’s hands for a moment to wrangle her hair into something that doesn’t take up the entire pillow. “May I at least brush my teeth?”

“Hmm. I’ll allow it.”

With an unimpressed noise, Lexa bumps her head lightly into Clarke’s before she sits up and turns on the nightstand lamp. Rising up onto her elbows, Clarke watches her go about her nighttime routine at the washbasin in the corner of the room. She waits until the Head Girl’s mouth is full of toothpaste before she says (some of) the words that have been dancing around her throat for hours, now.  

“Tonight, Lex, your voice… I hope you know how beautifully you sing. I’ve never heard anything as beautiful.” Clarke’s never seen anything so beautiful either but she’ll let those words practice their tango a little longer.  

Predictably, Lexa turns beet red and starts coughing, turning away to sort herself out, but Clarke simply snags her gaze in the mirror instead. Lexa spits and rinses and wipes down the sink before she manages to mumble a quiet ‘thanks.’

“I mean it,” Clarke repeats solemnly once Lexa’s under the duvet again. “And you completely light up, too. Whenever you sing.”

Lexa’s chest rises and falls several times before she replies. Clarke waits. “Thank you. It’s quite…freeing to sing, sometimes. I enjoy it.”

Clarke’s chest rises and falls several times before she’s daring enough to say what she wants to say. “That’s funny because listening to you sing—it’s like being held captive.”

She listens to Lexa’s breath catch, wishing she was brave enough to be the one capturing it. Instead she finds Lexa’s hand in the darkness, listening to the sound of their respiration and the thump of her heart as she gently unfolds the tense fingers and holds on tight.

“Raven told me that the St. Æthelthryth’s service was the official start of the Christmas season but I had no idea how right she’d be,” Clarke finally murmurs, unwilling to let sleep carry them off quite yet. “I suddenly feel the need to decorate my room in twinkle lights and delete everything but Christmas carols from my iPod.”

“Christmas at Polis is properly magical,” Lexa agrees, shuffling her head down the pillow and moving her legs closer to Clarke’s. “Today’s granplei and the school carol service at the end of term…they’ve always been more Christmas to me than the day itself.”

Clarke swallows down the lump in her throat at Lexa’s quiet admission. “Merry Christmas, then,” she whispers and just about manages to keep her voice from cracking.

“Happy Christmas, Clarke,” Lexa wishes her back, her words seeped through with a smile.

“When I was younger, we used to pick out our tree exactly a week before Christmas Eve so that it still looked fresh on the day. My parents were never great at keeping house plants alive, much less pine trees. It was a big joke in my house, that my mother was a surgeon but she couldn’t keep a cactus alive.”

With a small laugh, Lexa shifts her head up to her forearm. “What about you?”

“Hmm?”

“How are you at keeping house plants alive?”

“Oh. I don’t know. I’ve never had to be responsible for one. Can’t imagine I’d be very good at it though. Now you, on the other hand—I bet you’re a natural green thumb.”

Lexa smiles softly and tucks some hair behind her ear. “I don’t know either. But I hope so.”

“I’m sure you are,” Clarke says after an aching moment. “Did…do you remember any Christmas traditions with your mother?”

“They’re mostly school-related, since we lived nearby. So the memories get a little muddled up…” Lexa pauses, clearly wracking her mind for something else. “Um, I do remember that we would make hot chocolate for Father Christmas the night before. And leave carrots for the reindeer. In the morning the carrots were nibbled on and the mug would be empty.”  

“Oh, we’d do the same!” Clarke exclaims. “Except that it was egg nog instead of hot chocolate.”

Lexa wrinkles her nose. “Egg nog? That sounds awful.”

“Oh my god, is that not a thing here? Fuck. Cancel Christmas.” Clarke tangles her legs with Lexa’s and she hears a tiny sigh of contentment; she’s not sure which of them emitted it and it doesn’t really matter.

“Too late.”

“Damn.”

Dropping her head back down to the pillow, Lexa laughs and it’s so beautiful and Clarke loves her so much. She’s so fucking easy to love, this girl.

“You can learn to love mulled wine and mincemeat pies instead.”

“Never. You turn your nose up at egg nog but you eat beef in your pie? Double standards.”

“There’s no meat in mincemeat. Whereas I suspect there are eggs in egg nog.”

“No, there’s—” Clarke pauses. “Wait, is there?”

Lexa only snickers and Clarke knocks her shoulder into the girl.

“What do you do for the holidays?” she asks when quiet draws around them again and hates herself before the question is completely out. The mood changes immediately, all the lightness and mirth suddenly sucked out the window.

“The school stays open for the teachers and staff for all but a few days around Christmas Day. I have always stayed and…helped out with anything that needs doing,” Lexa says stiffly.

Clarke nods but it feels weird, horizontal and all she really ends up doing is create static fly-aways in her hair.  “And what about when the school does close?”

Wetting her lips, Lexa closes her eyes before she answers. “If there aren’t other students who aren’t able to go home so that a House remains open, a housemistress or teacher has always been kind enough to let me board with them. This year, I…Mrs. Rydell, in the junior school, she’s going away for break with her family and she said I could housesit for her. Since I’m over 16 now.”

“Come back with me.” Lexa’s eyes open in surprise but they’re far too guarded, guarded in a way that Clarke rarely sees anymore inside these four walls and under this fluffy duvet. “I mean, I’m just staying with my guardian, it’s nothing exciting. But Lexa… I’d really love to have you there.” Clarke tries to swallow but her mouth is too dry. “With me.”

“Clarke, you don’t need to… Thank you, but I’m fine, really. I always get loads of work done. It’s not a big deal. And you should have some quality time with your Godfather.”

“I don’t want time with him. I want you.” These are the most direct words she’s ever said to the girl in bed beside her and they’re not even close to what she really wants to say. And still it feels like she’s not in bed but on a surgical table, ribs cracked open and heart exposed to the world.

Lexa’s eyes are so pleading when she finally musters up the courage to meet them again, so pleading and Clarke has no idea for what. “It’s fine if you’d rather not,” she hastens to add when the silence keeps marching on.

“Can I think about it? I don’t want to…say yes and have to go back on my word.”

And at once Clarke knows what Lexa’s pleading for — she’s not worried she’ll disappoint Clarke (she’d never), she’s terrified she’ll disappoint herself, terrified that she might inflate her hopes up only for them to be burst, terrified that her presence will be a strain. She wonders how many other offers of gingerbread feelings this girl has politely declined because she would rather expect nothing than be disappointed, because she’s tried not to be a burden so long that she doesn’t know any other way. How much even a few days camping out in the homes of staff members must cost her stalwart little heart.

She has no idea how much light she brings to the shadows, how much people would love to have her at their holiday dinner table.

How much she’s wanted.  

Clarke watches her unblinking for so long that her eyes ache alongside every other organ in her body. “Okay. Whatever you want, Lex. The offer stands, no matter how long it takes you to decide. I know Marcus would love to meet you; I think you’d have a lot in common. It’s not pity, you know. I want you there—I want you there. But only if you want.”

Lexa nods, far more gracefully than Clarke had managed, but she closes her eyes soon thereafter. The air is far too thick to sleep so Clarke fills the emptiness with Christmas anecdotes and descriptions of the Christmas cookies she’s going to attempt in the House kitchen and her favourite carols and she kneads and she kneads until the girl beside her is loose and pliant and tangled up with her again.

--

Maybe she does too good a job—they both sleep through the 6am alarm, blinking awake to the dulcet sound of chapel bells. It’s a nice way to wake up, quite nice, actually, limbs knit together in patches of bright sunshine. Or at least it is until the implications of said bells hit them, Lexa first and then Clarke, but only when she sees more white than green in those beautiful eyes as they snap open.

“Fuck!” Clarke splutters out and it seems Lexa has lost her voice completely. “We have like five minutes before you have to be in there!” She looks down at her stupid rocket ship pajamas. “Um. Fuck.”

Lexa’s already put her contacts on and is in her wardrobe, tossing over a school shirt and skirt. “I don’t have a spare jumper, I’m sorry,” she apologises breathlessly, rifling through a box on her shelf until she finds two pairs of tights. “You can wear mine. I’ve got my cloak here.”

“No no,” Clarke says, shaking her head and turning her back to Lexa to strip off her t-shirt and pull on the blouse. “I can run back to Brigid at Break and grab mine, it’s easier that way.”

She gets no response, not even the sound of rustling clothes behind her, and she glances carefully over her shoulder to see Lexa facing away from her, her hand toying with the hem of her pajama bottoms and looking between them and the door.

Christ, there’s no time for this, but Clarke also understands. There’s only one thing to be done, really.

Before she can overthink it, Clarke drops her pajama bottoms and turns around, clearing her throat. “Tights?”

Lexa looks reflexively over and promptly turns as crimson as the Head Girl cloak on the back of her door to see Clarke standing in only a blouse and underwear.

“Tights?” she repeats, her eyes fixed so hard on Clarke’s face that surely she’s going to have to ice those muscles later.

Stepping closer, Clarke snags the second pair out of Lexa’s hands (pries, more like) and sits down on the bed to pull them on. It takes another long second but finally it works and Lexa clears her throat and springs back into action, peeling off her pajamas and getting dressed as quickly as possible. Clarke keeps her eyes to herself, (luckily it takes a great deal of concentration to get these tights on without snagging them) and slips on her shoes while Lexa hurriedly brushes her teeth after a rueful lip bite in her direction.

(Clarke wonders if she should leave a spare toothbrush over here next time, a spare uniform maybe. The entire contents of her dresser. Those two bathrobes she ordered from Amazon at lunch…)

As soon as Lexa’s shoes are on and Clarke’s head is through the sleeves of the red lacrosse hoodie they’re out the door, Lexa grabbing the entire pile of books and notebooks on her desk and Clarke grabbing her red cloak and tucking it under an arm.

Lexa swerves to avoid running over the patch of grass that stands between them and the chapel; Clarke grabs her hand and drags them both over the Holy Ground, not really caring for a century of tradition when the Head Girl is about to be late for chapel the first time in her entire life.

The choir is all lined up by the side doors, the girls looking around forlornly as if they have no idea what they’re supposed to do if their leader isn’t there. Draping the cloak over Lexa’s shoulders before they’re seen, Clarke snatches the books out of her hands and pushes her toward the head of the line just in time for the Headmistress to sail inside and the choir to follow, Heda leading the way.

Ducking into the empty Religious Studies room just inside the main school, Clarke hides out until the rest of the school is inside and then makes her way up the side staircase to drop Lexa’s things off in her study room. No one will notice her own absence from chapel, not this once.

There’s an ancient speckled mirror on the side of one of the bookshelves that she catches a glimpse of herself in and spends the rest of the half hour attempting to wrangle her bed-tussled hair into a braid and finding her emergency toothbrush before lessons start.

(She’s definitely bringing over a spare toothbrush. At least.)

--

Clarke doesn’t go back to Brigid for her school jumper. She wears Lexa’s lacrosse hoodie all day and she finds herself oddly miffed when no one raises an eyebrow at the ‘HEDA’ on her back, not even the teachers. 

Chapter Text

It’s long before the school day has officially ended but the Sixth Form Annex is entirely deserted, an unnatural silence settling over the abandoned books and empty fountain pen cartridges like the inhabitants have been spirited away in the middle of their Friday prepwork. The halls are quiet, too, and there’s barely a queue for Afternoon Tea despite it being the rarest of the rare Fairy Cakes with coloured icing and Smarties on top.

There isn’t a Sixth Form girl to be found in the entire main building, in fact. Not a single one, barring the one in the Head Girl’s study room and the one who’s stomped over after her shower to bodily drag Heda out from her tower and down to Aveta house.

“Clarke, I just need to finish editing this speech for Sunday—” Lexa murmurs, half to herself, resisting Clarke’s pull on her arm and going back to her pile of papers.

“Lexa. We’re so ready for Founder’s Day it’s a little embarrassing. There are like, contingency plans for contingency plans. Come on, your toga awaits.”

 “Chitons,” she corrects distractedly, turning in her chair and craning her neck up to Clarke. “Do you think there should be a seating chart for the VIP guests?”

“Lexa.” Clarke tugs at her arm again.

The Head Girl resists, pushing her finger up the bridge of her nose as if she’s forgotten she’s not wearing her glasses. “We have to convince the Unions of the importance of tradition. Otherwise they’ll go along with anything Nia says and—”

“It’s going to be perfect. And we can go over it all again tomorrow if you want. But right now it’s Friday night and we’re actually going to get out of this school and have some age-appropriate fun. Come on. You deserve a break.” 

Heda still looks torn but she takes a deep breath and reorients her attention onto the blonde hovering above her. “You…your hair is wet.”

“I can see why you’re getting full marks in all your subjects.”

“It’s cold outside. You could catch a chill.”

“A risk I knowingly took to come collect my stubborn Head Girl from her mire of unnecessary work. Don’t make me regret it.”

Lexa sighs, looking longingly at her notebooks and then equally so at Clarke. “Can I just email Helen and confirm that I’ll pick up the balloons tomorrow?”

“Sure. But I’ll need you to braid my hair to make up for lost time.”

A smile conquers whatever Lexa was already preparing to say next and she nods. “Done. Let me copy my speech over and we can go down to the computer lab.”

“Why? We’ve got plenty of time for that tomorrow evening.”

“I thought I could read it over on the taxi ride to Dominicus.”

“You’ll do no such thing. We’ve been working our asses off all week; I could probably give that speech by heart by now.”

“But Clarke—” Heda starts but Clarke leans down and kisses her cheek before tugging her to her feet and all at once she’s Lexa again and all resistance vanishes from every bone in her body and her tower study room is finally as empty as rest of the Sixth Form Annex.  

--

Aveta has the largest common room of all the houses so it’s been designated the official costuming stage for the dance tonight. The room is clouded in a fog of perfume and hormones, dozens of girls spraying up their hair and doubling down on their aerosol deodorant that Clarke still can’t get used to, and it’s a mess of dress states and nudity statuses. Mischa’s hair is still wrapped in a towel turban as she creams up her legs and Adenne’s frantically sewing the finishing touches to her belt, still in school uniform, and Lexa’s right in the middle of it all, perpetually calm and put together even dressed in only a sheet.

Clarke watches her with a completely obvious smile for a long moment when she returns from helping Amanda dry off a mascara stain in the shower hand dryers and even though Lexa’s facing away from her, she must sense the stare because she’s already wearing a matching smile when she turns.

Totally and utterly fucked. And loving it.

When five o’clock rings out from three separate alarms they all panic, gathering up their props and wallets and trying to shove far too many tubes of lip gloss into their tiny little purses.

Sheets flap behind them as they make their way carefully down the stairs and hold up their hems as they attempt to step across the lawn without their ribbon-adorned sandals slipping in the mud. Taxis have already been called by the Housemistress but they haven’t arrived yet so the girls huddle together in the December cold, bare legs and feet in sharp contrast to their winter jackets and scarves. Several members of staff and other housemistresses have joined them, smiling fondly at their girls and helping fix any last minute wardrobe malfunctions. Lexa—of course—takes the opportunity to do a quick head count even though she’s not supposed to be responsible for supervising this trip.

Octavia reappears from the front door of Brigid, this time with her older brother in tow. He’s tall and dressed in military fatigues but he looks properly terrified when all the girls snap their heads toward him in perfect synchrony, falling silent.

“Um, this is my older brother. Bellamy,” Octavia introduces even though it’s clear most of the girls have met him before. He gives a vague nod and continues to look uncomfortable. Not that anyone would blame him—he’s being stared down by a regiment of forty or so girls dressed in white sheets, winter jackets doing little to disguise the fact that they’re bedecked head to tie in weaponry and war paint, cardboard shields at their sides and rows of braids in their hair.

“Octavia, I didn’t know your brother was a squaddie,” someone drawls.

Octavia’s eyes narrow. “Fuck off, he’s a pilot in the RAF.” The Aveta housemistress clears her throat from nearby and the girl cringes. “Sorry,” she mutters to her feet.

The girls maintain their staring and Clarke shoots Bellamy a pitying smile. She’s considering ending his awkwardness by walking over and introducing herself when she catches a glimpse of the Headmistress exiting the main gates of the school.

Nia stops in her tracks when she sees the throng of girls. She opens her mouth but then closes it just as quickly, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath before turning on her heel and storming back into the school grounds.

The girls crumple into laughter the second she’s out of hearing range, Bellamy all but forgotten in the mirth of the Headmistress’s face. Lexa smirks behind her hand and gives up trying to write down the names of all the girls into her ever-present notebook.

“Hey Clarke, Raven’s giving Bellamy a ride over to Dominicus since he’s meeting some mates in the city tonight. You guys coming?” Octavia nods at Lexa too, assuming they’re a unit and Clarke forgets to affect even a mild eye roll for it.

“Lex? Want to ride with them or do you want to go in a taxi?”

Lexa looks like she’s about to automatically decline the offer but then takes a deep breath. “Sure. If it’s no trouble. Thank you.” She turns to Bellamy and smiles softly. “It’s nice to see you again. It’s been awhile.”

“No, yeah, it has. Nice to see you again too. You’re, um, older now,” Bellamy says in a surprisingly deep voice. Growly, even. Clarke eyes him sidelong.

Lexa only nods her head as if it’s a remarkable observation. “As are you.”

Clarke snorts.

The three girls and Bellamy turn to look at Clarke at her noise and she gives a half-hearted cough to cover it up. “Er, excuse me. Hey, I’m Clarke.”

A light of recognition comes to Bellamy’s eyes at her introduction and his polite smile turns a little more relaxed. “Ah, Clarke. O’s American friend. I’ve heard about you.” He looks between her and Lexa and there’s definitely a bit of a smirk in his grin now.

She narrows her eyes at Octavia but the girl’s saved by Dr. Peters strolling out of the gate and over to the girls. His lips are flat but they’re shaking a little, like he’s trying to hold in laughter.

“Right. Ladies. The Headmistress sent me out here to make sure your costumes are appropriate.”

“It’s a Greeks and Romans party,” Rebecca speaks up and Dr. Peters nods in acknowledgement, his eyes passing over the band of girls in their togas.

“Yeah, we’re meant to be in togas,” another girl pipes up from the back.

“Quite right, quite right,” he says and then the laughter just spills out of him in a loud guffaw. “Well done, girls.”

They all stand a little straighter, their chins just a little higher in the air.

Dr. Peters clears his throat, glancing back toward the main building. “My only objection is to the more realistic of the weapons. We can’t have you scaring those boys too badly and in any case I’m sure it’s against their school policy. The spears are fine I should think, but those swords and daggers will need to go.”

The Sixth Formers let out a collective groan but start removing their plastic daggers and swords from their hilts. Dr. Peters holds his hands out and one by one they all drop their play weapons into his hands, grumbling but not too seriously.

“You’ll get them back tomorrow, young warriors,” he says cheerfully, looking for all the world like he’s loving this.

The first taxi arrives and a few girls get in. Dr. Peters leans over to the driver and sternly tells him to only drive the girls inside to the boys’ school, no matter what they might say, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes. This is the moment it really feels like their Friday night fun has begun and there’s happy chatter and giggles between the rest of the girls as they wait for their cabs.

A white hatchback rolls up to the sidewalk and slows to a lazy stop. The passenger side window rolls down and Raven honks the horn. “Hop in, kiddos!” She doesn’t see Dr. Peters until he taps on the driver’s side window.

“Miss Reyes.”

“Dr. P,” she drawls, crossing her arms and leaning forward on the steering wheel once her window is open.

He indicates toward the pile of plastic props in his arms. “I’ve already taken everyone else’s contraband weapons. I have no doubt you’re carrying. Out.”

Cutting the ignition with a giant eye roll, Raven gets out of the door and hands over the giant dagger at her waist. It looks a little…realistic to be honest. Clarke raises an eyebrow at her friend.

“Mmmhmm,” Dr. Peters hums, clearly of the same mindset. He gestures with his finger for her to turn around. With a long suffering sigh, Raven raises her arms out to her sides like she’s being screened at airport security and slowly spins around. Three more knives are confiscated, including a dagger strapped to the inside of her calf. Luckily those all look a little more plastic.

The girls are cracking up and even Lexa is snickering.

“How will I protect myself against those aggressive boys, Dr. Peters?” Raven asks, tongue-in-cheek, once she’s (apparently) been disarmed.

“Trust me, I’m more worried about the boys’ safety,” the Deputy Head says wryly. He turns and takes a final look at the girls, scanning his eyes over the motley crew. A couple girls adopt combative stances and others thrust their tinfoil-covered cardboard spears in the air. “If I only had my camera. The Headmistress would love this in the School Annual.”

He shakes his head and starts walking back to the school, taking a path right past Lexa.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Heda,” he says affectionately.

“Nou get yu daun, Gostos.”

“I look forward to the day I don’t worry about you girls. And don’t think I can’t guess the final wardrobe step.”

Lexa raises an eyebrow. “And?”

He leans closer so only Clarke and Lexa can hear him. “Jomp emo op.”

Clarke blinks at his retreating form. “Did he just tell us to attack the other school?”

“It would appear so,” Lexa replies, looking at Clarke with such a proud expression at her translation that it takes Raven three times of calling her name before she blinks and looks away from those green eyes.

“Yeah?”

“The car. You. Lexa. In. We’re the last ones here.”

Sure enough, the final taxi is driving away and Clarke and Lexa are the only ones still outside. Even the Housemistresses and staff have wandered back inside.

Glancing into the car, Clarke notices that Octavia has shotgunned the front passenger seat, leaving her poor brother to fold his long legs up in the back. She looks over at Lexa and then at Bellamy and it’s an easy decision to push ahead so that she’s in the middle seat and the head girl is against the window. Chivalrous, even.

Raven performs a perfect three-point-turn despite Octavia’s attempts to psyche her out and then they’re off in the direction of the motorway. Bellamy continues to look uncomfortable, squished up in the backseat, and Clarkes decides that moving her legs off the centre footrest over to Lexa’s side and scooching closer to her warm body is only the polite thing to do. Admittedly, she doesn’t really check back whether it’s helpful because she becomes enrapt by the temporary tattoo she’d patted onto Lexa’s arm a few minutes ago and spends most of the rest of the journey running her fingers along the edge of it now. To make sure it’s properly affixed. Clarke’s conscientious like that.

She vaguely registers when Bellamy gives up making conversation with her and leans forward to talk to Raven instead, finally admitting defeat when the front seat passenger only has attention for his sister. But then he manages to work in a reference to his Open University course on ancient Roman history and suddenly he has the attention of every brunette in the car. (The blonde might listen in a little bit, too. Amid her surreptitious freckle count.)

“Octavia’s actually named after the first Roman Emperor’s sister.”

“Which makes you the Emperor?” Raven asks with a raised eyebrow, flicking the turn signal and tapping her fingers against the steering wheel as they wait at a roundabout stoplight.

“Um. I guess? I was seven. All seven year boys think they rule the world.”

“And few grow out of it. Anyway, I’ll have you all know that Octavia the Younger was known to be far more beautiful even than Cleopatra,” Octavia interjects, facetiously bored with the conversation shifting away from herself.

“She was known for her virtue, too, O,” Bellamy notes seriously in what’s clearly his Big Brother voice but he only gets a scoff in response. He starts going off about other Roman stuff, Clarke’s not really sure what exactly because she becomes fascinated by the feel of Lexa’s bare leg where her sheet has ridden up against her own. It’s so soft and smooth against the back of her own freshly-shaven leg where the faux-leather leg guards are open and then she imagines Lexa shaving her legs in the shower this morning and well, that’s the end of her attention span for the dude to her left. 

They arrive at the host school without any major hold ups and the rest of the girls are just arriving too, all gathering together on the front lawn of the massive modern building taking up the entire horizon, looking around with awe and just a slight case of nerves.

“You guys sure you’ll be alright? Dominicus is Latin for belonging to a master or the Roman Empire and—”

“Sod off, Bell,” Octavia interrupts, rolling her eyes. “It’s a school disco. Nothing interesting could possibly happen.”

“Well, give me a ring if you need anything. I’m only a few streets away at the Weatherspoon’s. Rumors go around about this school. I can protect you,” he says jokingly but still looks vaguely wounded when all four girls snort. Raven reaches back and pats his knee in consolation as she pulls into a prime spot in the giant parking lot.

The girls file out of the car and go over to their schoolmates, Octavia grimacing through an obligatory hug from her brother before he sets off across the street. She’s grinning when she joins them, though.

Clarke takes a moment to tilt her head back and take in the school. Unlike Polis, Dominicus was built fairly recently, within the past few years if she had to guess, and it’s a modern marvel, all glass and angles and abstract shapes. The front lawn is the size of their lacrosse pitch and she’s pretty sure at least three of their main buildings could comfortably fit inside this titan of a school.

“Well,” she finally says to the group of waiting girls. “Good thing we came prepared.” Nervous giggles get lost in the great expanse of space and just as Clarke’s beginning to wonder if this was all such a good idea she looks over at Lexa, placid and beautiful as always, and all trepidation vanishes. “Heda—will you do the honours?”

“Wait, wait,” Octavia interrupts. “First, her chlamys!”

Lexa raises an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“Ooh, I almost forgot—thanks, O!” Grinning, Clarke rummages through her bag and pulls out the crimson sheet Octavia altered last night. She flings it across the Head Girl’s shoulders, letting it drape across her left waist and under her arm before pinning it together above her right shoulder with a gold button. “There. Our Commanding General and Queen is properly attired.”

Their Commanding General and Queen purses her lips and gives Clarke a mildly dirty look; Clarke pulls out a crown of laurel—or, rather, ivy formerly growing up the side of the chapel—and plops it on her head and secures it with a few hair grips in response. The girls wolf-whistle their approval.

(Their Commanding General’s neck smells really good. Really good. If that’s an auspicious war omen or anything.)

“Alright. We’re ready. Lead us into battle, Commander.”

With a final eye roll, Lexa plays her part, pulling her arms behind her body and standing up tall. “To quote Tyrtaeus, ‘Rise up, warriors; take your stand at one another’s sides, our feet set wide and rooted like oaks in the ground’,” she calls out, a smile tugging at the side of her mouth the entire time.

Clarke nudges her when she’s done and they’re waiting for the cheers to die down. “Do you just…memorise military speeches on the off-chance you’ll need them?”

“What kind of Commander would I be if I weren’t prepared for any circumstance?” Her eyes are shining and it feels deliciously like Clarke’s seeing nighttime-Lexa out for the first time in public. She’s even more beautiful out in the fresh air. Clarke bumps a hip into hers but only manages to stab herself with her own empty sword hilt; Lexa turns away to hide her smirk.

The battle cries are just starting to die down when a tall bald man appears at what Clarke assumes to be the main entrance to the school, too silhouetted in the bright light to make out his features clearly. Several other figures appear behind him, trickling out the doors and onto the steps.

“Right. On your marks?” The battalion of girls nods and Clarke grins. “Gird up your loins, ladies!”

It’s less theatrical than perhaps they’d all imagined, the girls having to shrug out of their jackets and drop their spears to the ground, but eventually they all manage to gather up the skirts of their virginal flowing white dresses and twist them in front of their bodies, pulling them between their legs and then tying the fabric in front. Several girls struggle and have to try again and there’s an unfortunate ripping sound that causes them all to look over at poor Philippa (and then quickly pull out the safety pins).

By the time they’re finished, their eyes have adjusted enough to see the band of boys watching them, mouths wide open. They’re dressed exactly as Clarke expected them to be, identical short Roman togas with sandals, a few sporting black belts with gold studs around their middle.

“Kom war!” Lexa cries out but it’s a little muffled by her laughter. The girls thrust their spears in the air and their show of dominance is met with a loud round of applause and echoing whoops from the boys on the steps. The bald dude has a pinched look on his face rather reminiscent of the Headmistress’ but he lowers his head in a nominal bow and gestures the Greek warriors to come inside.

And with that, any final nervous tension is snapped in half and they stream inside like the teenage girls they actually are, chattering and whispering about which boys are particularly fit and adjusting their rope belts for a better fit. Most of their girding work falls down right away, the knots awkward to secure in the stiff cotton sheets, but it doesn’t matter: they’ve made their point. Clarke double-secures her tie into her rope belt and tries not to sulk when Lexa lets her chiton fall back into a skirt again. She’ll convince the Head Girl to re-tie it up after dinner.

They’re led through wide passageways into a large hall that’s been styled to appear older than it really is, dark wooden beams and gilded gold frames of British monarchs like Henry VIII along the wall. Six long rows of tables and benches take up almost the whole room, a high table presiding at the very front up on a step. The Headmaster has already snagged Lexa aside and pulled her to the high table—Clarke now curses the idea of a stupid red cape to set her apart—and the rest of the girls stand around around awkwardly before being gestured to find seats at the tables, pink and blue napkins alternating down the rows clearly denoting that they’re supposed to mingle between the genders.

Spears and shields and gold spray-painted neck plates are deposited on an empty table at the back of hall by the kitchens on top of their coats; Clarke laughs at the pile and wishes she had her camera to document the cardboard weaponry amongst the backdrop of a fake Tudor room.

She finds an open seat in the middle of the room and follows the example of the boys by standing in front of the bench, her body swayed in an odd configuration as she tries to keep her balance between the table and her seat; from the looks of it, everyone else is doing the same, bending their knees slightly to compensate. Across from her is a kid in glasses who looks supremely uncomfortable to be in costume, all bony elbows and hairless chest, and kitty-corner is Raven, already cooing over the bottles of wine on the table. Clarke introduces herself to the guy on her left but she doesn’t even learn his name before another boy is tapping on his shoulder and murmuring something in his ear.

“Thanks, mate,” the usurper says in a genuinely apologetic voice as he requisitions the spot, the other boy shuffling down a couple of spaces, banging his shin into what is probably a table leg as he goes.

“Is there a reason you needed to sit exactly here,” Clarke asks behind arched eyebrows, pouring herself a glass of water from the pitcher and then offering it around.

“Sorry, I hope you don’t mind. I’m under orders to get to know the legendary American girl who’s rocking things up at Polis.” He holds out his hand and Clarke shakes it, still wary of this bloke who’s so muscular that it belies his height, making him appear simultaneously tall and squat. Hairy chest, too. Hair everywhere, actually. “I’m Roan. I’m the Head Boy.”

“Ah. I’m Clarke, but surely you should be at the High Table with our Head Girl? I’m no one, I promise.”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “I’ve never really been much for standing on tradition and it would appear that plenty of people are interested in you” he drawls in his posh-boy accent but something about his arrogance seems a farce. If Clarke could rely on her gut for first impressions, she’d almost trust the guy. “Besides, it looks like old Titty is more than hogging her attention.”

Clarke snaps her eyes over to Lexa, who’s standing straight-backed and mighty next to the monk-like Headmaster, nodding seriously at what looks like a long-winded speech about something she could care less about. For a second they catch eyes and Clarke shoots her a wink and Lexa shoots her back an exasperated press of her lips together before the man notices. He’s barely looking at her anyway, more like pontificating up to the ceiling. 

“You’re awful,” Clarke laughs, taking a sip of her water and then introducing herself to the boy on her other side. (Monty, she finally gets out of him. He looks terrified when she attempts small talk and she redirects her attention to the Head Boy who’s watching her with interest.)

“What, and you guys don’t call your Headmistress names behind her back?”

“I’ve heard ‘Ice Queen’,” Clarke admits, “but that’s pretty rare.”

Roan bursts into full-belly laughter at that. “Ice Queen. I love it.” He unfolds his napkin into his lap and Clarke does the same, smoothing the ends and toying with the bread roll on her side plate. She peers up and down the tables and it seems conversation is finally starting to pick up, stilted and nervous but at least the structured seating is serving its purpose. Raven’s deep in conversation with the boy to her right, something that looks intense and almost certainly nerdy.

“Your costumes are brilliant,” Roan says after a minute. He reaches over to indicate to Clarke’s wrist guard but doesn’t touch, only hovers his hand in the air above the straps. “I’m glad you subverted the cliché, we’d never get away with anything like that.”

“No?”

“They keep us fairly well regimented here. We were all given these standard costume packs yesterday and told that deviations from it were unacceptable, even when we pointed out that they’re not historically accurate. The boy lifts one of his black studded flaps hanging from around his waist with exasperation. “Then again,” Roan reconsiders with a wry smile, “it probably wouldn’t have looked great if we invited a bunch of girls over and appeared in battle gear like pillaging Roman soldiers.”

“True,” Clarke laughs, liking the Head Boy already despite the fact that he’s no Head Girl. “We could have taken you though.”

“I have no doubt.”

A gong clangs out and the boys’ heads all whip up to the high table; the girls follow suit. The Headmaster raises both hands in the air and then lowers them when the shuffling quiets down. “Welcome to Dominicus College,” he starts, a slight accent that Clarke can’t quite place. “We hope tonight will be the start of a mutually beneficial exchange between these two great empires.” He clears his throat and lowers his head and the girls have sat through enough evening prayers to fold their hands together and do the same. “Benedic, Domine, nos et dona tua, quae de largitate tua sumus sumpturi, et concede, ut illis salubriter nutriti tibi debitum obsequium praestare valeamus, per Christum Dominum nostrum.”

Several girls start to echo back an amen when he finally finishes his Latin grace but apparently it’s not necessary because all the boys are already sitting down, pulling the long benches closer to the tables with a cacophonous screech.

“Do you always eat dinner like this?” Clarke asks, eyeing the wine again when she finally adjusts her dress so that she’s not revealing too much thigh. It’s still corked and she wonders if it’s just there to taunt them. She takes another long sip of her water, if only for something to do with her hands. They feel dumb sitting primly in her lap but there’s not enough room and too many things on the table to rest her elbows on the edge like she’d normally do.

“Nah, Formal Hall is just once a month and on special occasions. We usually eat in the cafeteria. It’s far nicer and the food is less pretentious; they’ve just dragged this room out to impress you ladies.”

“Well, that’s nice, I guess.”

“Our Headmaster is really keen to make this connection with your school. I’m not sure why—we had a disco with St. Catherine’s last month and it wasn’t anything special. Sherbert lollies and a CD player in the gym.”

“So serving underage girls wine in this ostentatious hall isn’t a norm? Shame,” Clarke teases.

“It’s legal for anyone over the age of five to drink wine and beer at home or on private premises. I checked.” Roan drops his laidback tone for a moment and looks as if he couldn’t take this more seriously; Clarke’s beginning to suspect he’d get on well with Lexa.

“You’re kidding.”

“Not in the least.” Roan refills her water goblet and then his own. Clarke looks over at Lexa, currently threading her fingers together and looking like she’d rather be absolutely anywhere else but at the Headmaster’s side. The woman on her other side is tearing her bread roll into a million crumbs and Lexa drops her eyes to the roll with what looks like envy.

Roan and Clarke discuss their A levels and their sports (well, the Head Boy’s sports. Rugby is an unsurprising piece of news) and the universities to which they’ve applied. Roan’s just starting to ask her about how she’s finding the transition to England when a small army of waiting staff descend and set down a starter course in front of each of their places.

Clarke blinks at it.

Roan lets out a long-suffering sigh. He picks up one of the printed menus from the table and looks between it and the green-tinged bubbles on their plates. “Pea ravioli with courgette foam and coriander gelée, apparently. Brilliant.” He stabs at the potentially-alive pile of greens with his fork and the whole mess wobbles precariously before falling on its side.

Determined to be brave, Clarke wets the back of her spoon in the jello-like stuff and touches her tongue to it. She’s pretty sure it’s dish soap. Her bread roll is hastily cut open and Roan passes over the butter dish after taking a healthy portion himself.

“Just be glad it’s not the frozen cobb salad we got to enjoy the last time the advisory board came for a visit. We had to stage a larder invasion after it was all done.”

Clarke grimaces and scrunches up her nose, reaching for her water to wash it down. Luckily the waiting staff has uncorked the wine and going around the table asking whether they’d rather have red or white; Clarke’s a single nerve impulse away for asking for them both.

She chats with Roan some more and even manages to tempt the boy across from her into joining the conversation about differences between their boarding houses. When she asks the quiet boy to her right though, he only stammers that he doesn’t know and looks down at his untouched starter again.

“Monty’s a Day Boy. About half of the school is; he doesn’t board, just attends during the day.”

“Oh. Everyone at Polis boards, I didn’t know.”

Roan swirls his red wine around in his glass. “I have it on good authority that it’s more profitable to have a combination of both.” He looks vaguely uncomfortable now and Clarke decides not to probe any further, changing the subject back to university again.

The appetizer plates are taken away and Clarke checks over at Lexa again (she’s still bored out of her mind. Still beautiful out of Clarke’s mind).

When she looks back after hearing a small splash and a few un-manly giggles from the triangle of Y chromosomes around her, there’s a penny at the bottom of her white wine glass. When the boys realize she doesn’t know of the grand tradition of pennying even Monty gets excited, explaining the first new drinking game Clarke’s learned since coming to England (if by new she really means centuries old). It seems there are a thousand house rules and variants and minutiae but the gist is that when someone manages to drop in penny in your drink without you seeing, you have to down the rest of it. To save the Queen on the penny from drowning. Obviously.

Fortunately, since wine is in limited supply they adapt the rules to make it two large sips. Unfortunately, the other important rule, Clarke finds after she flips her hair and gulps down both her penalty sips and more in a single pull and the boys cheer, is that it’s illegal to penny back the person that got you. Clarke gets the penny back, digging into Roan’s glass with her fingers for it in haughty defiance only for the boy to lean back in his seat and smirk, refilling her wine glass to the top. It’s a few minutes until the uncomfortable boy across from her (she really should ask his name but it feels too awkward now?) gets distracted by the main course arriving and she manages to pass off the penny into his glass.

Clarke learns the pain of double-pennying and the empty glass rule and she could swear someone is setting her up but she’s having so much fun that she doesn’t care. It brings out her competitive side and before long she’s snuck across to another table to penny an unsuspecting Roman and has gotten Roan back so many times she can’t keep count. He has to admit that she’s a quick study, the only one quicker being Raven, but it when it comes down to it, Clarke’s really not sure whether the two of them are winning or if they’re desperately losing.

There’s enough wine in her that she eats the main course happily—some sort of unintimidating beef in gravy and potatoes, thank god—and the conversational banter is light and fun even past the dessert—pudding. pudding—that Clarke doesn’t do anything with it except smash it with her tiny little fork. It’s so tiny. She loves it.

She loves this fork and she loves this little spoon and this cup of coffee someone pours for her at the end and well, she kinda loves these boys, they’re pretty cool, but most of all she loves Lexa, still stoic and commanding up at the high table. It looks like she’s finally managed to get a word in and is now talking Titus’s ear off. The Headmaster is starting to look as uncomfortable as Uncomfortable Dude and Clarke loves that, too.

There’s an empty wine glass in from of the Head Girl and Clarke’s almost bouncing out of her seat to go see her. God, she’s so beautiful. All black eyeliner-y and fierce. Clarke wonders how she can find an excuse to feel her calf again. Maybe with her fingers this time. She wishes she’d brought more tattoos.  

Titty stands and makes a speech, one that Clarke tries to pay attention to but fails spectacularly. It’s super boring, to be fair, more like a rant about…something. War treaties? The Palace of Versailles? His post-prandium grace is a much-appreciated short ‘benedicto benedicatur’ and then everyone’s standing, pushing back the benches and clumsily stepping over them to freedom. The sheet-clad students all make for the doorway that must lead to wherever this so-called dance is taking place but Clarke fights the exodus, pushing deeper into the room until she reaches her Athena, presiding over it all.

Athena’s pupils are dilated but her walk is steady. Steadier than Clarke’s, anyway, and it’s only practical to wrap her arm around the Head Girl’s waist when she finally makes it through the crowd to her side. Lexa’s laugh is beautiful—of course it is—and Clarke squeezes her harder as they stumble toward the exit, snagging a half-full bottle of wine along the way and tucking it into the voluminous folds of her sheet sleeves.

“Clarke!” Lexa scolds her lightly but she’s a little tiddled too and makes no further protest other than diverting their course to the back serving table and insisting they both drink what feels like a swimming pool’s worth of water while the serving staff clear the tables around them.

Water is gross but Lexa is beautiful and Clarke attempts to adjust her chlamys one handed, quickly abandoning the water goblet for the greater good of re-pinning the red cape.

“I don’t care for that man,” Lexa pouts in between sips, her face oh-so-close to Clarke’s as she fiddles with the material. “He kept rabbiting on about his pseudo-Buddhist research interests, trying to convince me that attachment is the root of all suffering and that desire is faulty and that nothing is permanent so why bother making friends at all. His extrapolation of the original text was greatly flawed, Clarke. Deeply flawed.” She sighs after Clarke runs out of excuses to be so close and steps back into her own space. “He did not care for my alternative interpretation. Luckily the wine was delicious.”

“The boys call him Titty,” Clarke says sympathetically, glumly drinking her water again.

Lexa is delighted, repeating the epithet under her breath with a slightly loopy smile.

Clarke wants to taste that loopy smile.

She doesn’t. But she thinks that if Lexa had taken one second longer to raise the water to her lips, she would have gone through with it.

Clarke hates that water glass.

They get lost looking for the Ballroom and then become distracted from that particular mission by the need to locate the bathroom—toilets—and by hallway wanderings and awe over the fucking cappuccino machine in the student common room and finger tangling and accidentally falling into one another and a hunt for a lost ivy crown that’s eventually found swimming in the sink. By the time they actually find the damn place, the dancing’s already well underway and they’re starting to sober up, which sucks on the one hand because Lexa’s skin feels even softer when Clarke’s tipsy. Or maybe when Lexa’s tipsy. Or maybe both.

But on the other hand, the alcohol’s wearing off and Clarke doesn’t feel any less brave and Lexa’s smile doesn’t fade and there’s a chance that even though they’ve long lost their spears and shields, they’ve girded themselves up enough to take on anything.   

Chapter Text

The Dominicus ballroom is ridiculous.

The entire back wall is taken up by a painted mural of arched stone windows against a starry night sky, gargantuan gauze curtains framing the scene to make it seem like they’re dancing inside the Coliseum. Rows of lights are strung from the ceiling in cascading waves and the snack tables lining a side wall are propped up on faux-marble columns so that a set of steps is required to reach the refreshments.

(Okay, it’s actually ridiculously awesome.)

A small crowd of Greeks and Romans are using the provided disposable cameras to take selfies and group shots against the mural backdrop, the two great civilizations actually intermingling for the most part. Clarke leans herself against Lexa’s shoulder in a nudge when a few of the Prefects stage a battle scene between the schools and then wraps her hand to around her Commander Queen’s waist and drags her over to the scene. Heda’s urged forward to the front line of the tableau and she raises her fist obligingly in the air for a few shots before laughing and falling to the back of the troop.

Once the soldiers begin to disperse, Clarke manages to coax a few poses of the two of them together, arms around shoulders and grinning like loons, but the Head Girl’s celebrity and red cape demands her presence in other pictures and eventually Clarke wanders over to Raven to wait it out.

“Alright?” Clarke asks as she plops down in the chair next to her friend. A few clusters of teenagers are dancing in the middle of the room, the majority in same-sex groups but certainly not exclusively. Honestly, it’s better than the awkward middle-schoolesque scenario Clarke was expecting.

Raven mutters something under her breath that Clarke doesn’t quite catch and as she studies the slumped girl at her side a little closer, she’s surprised to see frown lines across her forehead.

“Say that again? Are you okay, Rae?”

Raven just looks over at something across the room and then sighs. “Nothing.” She clenches her jaw and then tips her head back to look up at the ceiling where phosphorescent stars hang from string. There’s just enough movement in the room that they sway a little, giving off the appearance of twinkling above the dancers.

“Did you know that a supernova is the death of the star but sometimes it’s also the birth of one?”

Blinking, Clarke wonders if she’s more drunk than she’d thought and has simply missed the segue to Raven’s random astrophysics lesson. “Um, no?”

“Stars consume themselves, Clarke. You think they’re all constant and sure up in your night sky but they’re always in a battle with themselves.  They’re always having to balance between the inward-crushing gravitational force and outward-pushing thermal pressure.”

“O…kay?”

Raven nods as if Clarke understands. “And if they’re big enough, bigger than the sun, they expand and they expand—over millions of years—but then they collapse in a single second. A single second,” she repeats, pausing for emphasis afterward.

Clarke blinks.

“And the implosion is actually an explosion and they release themselves to the darkness and they shine brighter than their entire galaxy, even if it’s only for the blink of an eye. And sometimes they survive as neutron stars and sometimes they become black holes and sometimes their remnants become stellar nurseries. Oh, and the shockwaves they emit can trigger the birth of new stars, too.”

“Like…star reincarnation?”

Raven blinks.

“Yes!” She then reconsiders. “No… No. Let’s stick to the science here, please.”

Okay, it’s probably more that Raven’s more drunk than she’d thought; Clarke grins. She loves drunk Raven. “Yes ma’am.”

“But anyway, you know what? Clarke, do you know what?”

Clarke shakes her head with a chuckle. “No, what?”

“The smaller stars, they don’t explode. They don’t disturb anything when they die. The outer layers slowly drift away and the rest of the star contracts into itself and gets cold and that’s the end. No messy leftovers, no one gets hurt.” Raven furrows her brows. “Well, except for the orbiting planets. Those get stolen away by stronger gravitational fields though, so it’s alright. They’re happy.” 

“Good for them?” Clarke’s barely following this ramble and she latches on to anything that vaguely makes sense, even if there are parts that seem almost comprehensible if she only tried a little harder. God, she’s so glad she chose Art over Physics. This stuff is so fucking complicated.

“Yeah. Good for them.” Raven sighs and looks over at the growing crowd of dancers. “So what should we be, Clarkie? Should we be small and quiet and fizzle away with only a whimper? Or be big and go out with a bang?”

Raven’s accent has become broader and broader until Clarke can barely understand her words over the Northern twang but it’s not like she’d have a clue what the girl’s talking about regardless. 

“Go big or go home,” she finally answers, understanding if nothing else the emotions behind Raven’s words, that there’s more going on here than just a discussion of star life cycles. Her suspicion is confirmed when Raven’s eyes shift again and Clarke follows her gaze to see Octavia dancing with a tall guy—an extremely hot tall guy, at that—all happy and smiley and flirty.

Clarke’s eyes automatically slide over to Lexa. Raven snorts as soon as she notices but she also bumps her arm into Clarke’s in a gesture of support. “Just be careful, yeah? For both your sakes,” Raven cautions after a moment, dropping the weight of her head onto Clarke’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees in a glum whisper and the sudden insight that Raven’s actually fairly sober. “Thanks.”

“You’re stardust, friend—you’re stardust and dinosaur breath and ancient lava particles.”

Clarke laughs even though she still doesn’t have the slightest idea what Raven’s going on about and drops her cheek to the top of her head for a moment. “You too, lukot.”

--

The Head Girl manages to break away from her loyal militia a few minutes later and starts walking over to where they’re little more than draped over chairs by this point. Raven lifts her head and stretches her legs in front of her, rolling her neck and letting out a loud yawn. “I might take off. I think I’m done for the night.”

Clarke nods in understanding, much as she’d like to convince Raven to stay, but then she frowns. “Wait. You can’t drive right now.” 

“Ha! ‘eck as like I’d risk driving my baby after even a single sip of wine. I’ll call someone, don’t worry.”

“That sounds…ominous. Are you sure?”

Lexa steps up to the pair and although Clarke keeps her eyes on Raven, unsure how much she should prod her friend, she also reaches up and rubs a bare arm in hello, goosebumps prickling under the pads of her fingers.

Raven’s determination visibly softens at Clarke’s concern and she reaches into the neckline of her dress, pulling a keychain out of her bra. “I’ll ring for a taxi, I promise.” She tosses the keys at Clarke and then smiles tightly at Lexa.

“We’ll wait with you,” Clarke insists, standing and indicating toward the door.

“You don’t need to—”

“I insist,” Heda cuts in with a tone that allows no dissent. “We don’t mind. It’s rather warm in here in any case; some air would be a relief.”

Clarke loves Lexa. There’s really nothing more simple.

Raven eventually acquiesces, albeit with multiple protests and groans, and they’re walking out the ballroom door when Clarke feels a light touch on her arm. She turns to see Roan with another of his apologetic looks.

“Sorry. Can I talk to you a minute before you leave?” he asks, removing his hand as soon as he has her attention.

“Oh, I’m not leaving, we’re only walking Raven out to her taxi,” Clarke corrects him. She’s not really sure what the dude wants but there’s a serious look in his eyes that she can’t in good conscience ignore. “I’ll find you in a sec?”

“That would be great, thanks. Goodnight, Raven,” he says, reaching over to shake Raven’s hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Right back at you.”

“Actually, Clarke, I can walk Raven to her taxi if you want to talk right now,” the Head Girl interjects as they start to turn away. “It’s no problem.”

Clarke looks between her Greek warrior queen and the hairy—but perfectly nice, she supposes—Head Boy. There’s really no question where she’d rather be. She sighs and only halfway through realises how rude that is and turns it into a cough. “Um, yeah. Sure.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Roan,” Lexa adds, shifting her attention over to the Head Boy. “You’ve gone above and beyond on this event.”

“And back at you, Lexa—or Heda, I should say. I haven’t had the chance to congratulate you on that.”

Clarke frowns, slightly cranky in the way that she knows she shouldn’t be that Lexa just seems to know everyone tonight, but luckily no one but Raven notices before she schools her face back into neutral. Raven purses her lips, probably trying to hold back a smirk.

“Thank you.” There’s a slight wariness in Lexa’s tone that Clarke wonders if anyone else notices. She folds her arms behind her body. “And it seems I should say the same to you.”

“Thanks. Sadly, no cool nickname for Head Boy here. What would it be in Polis-slang? Hedo?” Roan jokes, without a hint of derision. His admiration for their Head Girl seems genuine, too.

“Nouns aren’t gendered in Trigedasleng. You’d be Heda, too,” Lexa replies, quirking one side of her mouth.

Clarke’s mouth quirks, too, and then falls when she imagines any other person with the Heda title. Obviously Lexa’s not the first Heda at Polis nor will she be the last, but Clarke can’t imagine a world in which her Commander isn’t the one and only.

“I like it,” Roan decides with a chuckle, “what are the chances I can get the boys here to call me that, do you think?”

“You’ll probably need a sword,” Raven drawls, pointedly glancing between the spears that have somehow made their way to the dance floor and the unarmed status of the Dominicus boys.

“Lexa doesn’t have a sword,” Roan says with affected affront.

“Lexa doesn’t need a sword,” Clarke finds herself contributing, slightly lower and more growly than she’d intended; she flushes when she hears herself. Lexa only laughs and Roan’s eyes only twinkle though.

“Quite right. Commander,” Roan acknowledges, dipping his head into a subtle bow like they’re monarchs of two tenuously-allied countries rather than two seventeen-year-olds at a school disco. It feels appropriate, somehow.

“Head Boy,” Lexa returns, her eyes amused and her initial distrust apparently satisfied, and then turns toward the door again. Raven links her arm into the crook of Lexa’s elbow as they walk and Clarke watches her look down at the touch and then quickly forward again. Her shoulders relax slightly.

Clarke keeps her eyes on them until they’re almost out of sight, for how long and how longingly she’s barely aware, before a quiet throat-clearing at her side redirects her attention back to Roan.

“Do you want to walk?” he asks, nodding to hallway where—damn it—she’s staring again.

“Uh, no, I’m okay.” Clarke’s starting to get an apprehensive feeling in her stomach and she really really hopes she’s not about to get a heartfelt declaration of love or anything. She’s fairly sure he’s not trying to lure her into an empty room and come onto her but there’s a noticeable nervous tinge to his expression. Ugh. Boys.

“How about over there, then?” he suggests in what appears to be understanding and points to a window seat directly across from the entrance to the Ballroom. “Just so it’s quieter.” Roan appears just as calm as he’s appeared the whole evening but something almost like guilt crosses his face and Clarke’s more confused than anything else.

“Sure.” She perches against the ledge and Roan mimics her position.

The opening lyrics of Cotton Eye Joe and a resounding cheer filter over from the dance and Clarke can’t help but crack up. “Really?”

“It’s an adaptation of an ancient Roman ballad, didn’t you know?” Roan laughs, too, and thankfully it breaks a little of the weird tension between them, most of which was definitely coming from the Head Boy’s side.

“I didn’t. Thank you for educating me,” Clarke teases, hopping up to the seat and letting her legs swing off the edge; Roan does the same, maintaining a respectful distance between them but still close enough that they can talk quietly.

“So how do you know Lexa?”

“I was right, you weren’t aware then,” Roan mutters, half to himself. “Listen, I have a confession.”

Clarke’s blood runs cold; this better not be a declaration of love for Lexa. She’ll fight him. Her blood’s already assembling its adrenaline armies; where’s her spear when she needs it?

“My surname is Gaius. My mum’s your Headmistress.”

Shit. Clarke’s not sure if that’s better or worse.

(Definitely better. Her spear is made of cardboard and spray paint.)

Clarke furiously tries to remember whether she’s insulted the awful women any more than the Ice Queen comment.

“That’s how I know Lexa,” he continues when Clarke doesn’t say anything. “I went home for the weekends more often when I was younger so it was inevitable that I saw her and a lot of your other classmates around.”

“Oops?” Clarke finally tries, not sure what else to say.

“No, no,” Roan insists immediately, “you’re fine. We’re on the same page, in fact. Ice Queen is an apt descriptor.”

“Um.”

“You haven’t heard the rest.” Roan pauses, rubbing the back of his neck once before leaning back on his hands again. “I’ve been under orders to get to know you tonight, if you get my gist. She told me not to bother coming home this weekend if I didn’t at least get your phone number.”

“What.” The information sends Clarke seething, adrenaline turning to anger, pumping through her veins to the surreal beat of a cheesy line-dancing song.

Fucking Nia—what’s she playing at now? She remembers the thoughtful expression in the Headmistress’ eyes when she caught her hugging Lexa in the hallway the other day; is this her petty little revenge of some sort? And if so, what the hell is it supposed to achieve? 

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Roan sighs. “She never explains her stupid little schemes. I know she despises Lexa though, so it was probably to make her jealous or hurt her in some way. I doubt you were the true target. Unless she believes my presence to be the most heinous of tortures, of course,” he quips but something in his eyes suggests it wouldn’t surprise him.

Nia knows exactly what she’s doing, Clarke realises abruptly. It’s not the first time she’s tried to take away what few close relationships Lexa has managed to allow into her life and she wonders how many other friendships and mentors the woman has snatched away behind-the-scenes, how many housemistresses have been shifted between Houses and girls have been counselled to apply for university courses in other countries. Lexa called the Headmistress petty but this is a whole new level.   

But yet again, Nia underestimates her Head Girl. Clarke almost laughs at the idea of Lexa acting out in jealousy or showing a reaction to such losses other than strengthening herself for the next trial. It’s even more absurd than Clarke taking her gaze off the wild forest of Lexa’s eyes for any longer than absolutely necessary.

(It’s humorous in the way that Clarke may never stop being furious.)

“I never had any intention of doing so,” Roan adds gruffly and Clarke knows he’s being sincere. “I just had to sit next to you so that she’d think I was at least trying. She’s got spies everywhere.” He shifts his body weight and folds and unfolds his hands in his lap and holy crap how could Clarke have ever thought this kid was calm and collected. “I mean, you seem cool and I do like you,” he clarifies, “but not like that. Or rather, I’m not daft enough to try getting between you and your girlfriend.”

“My—” Okay, so maybe it only takes a single word to quell the righteous anger thrumming through her nervous system. Her traitorous lips start stretching into what’s probably a disgustingly-besotted smile and she doesn’t even care anymore.

Girlfriend. What a golden string of sounds. Golden; glowing; other sunlight-related descriptors.

And as if she’s been summoned by prayer, Lexa appears around the far corner, backlit and beautiful. Clarke wets her lips and swears she can taste the halo.

“Listen,” she says to Roan, who’s still watching her like she might attack at any moment, probably confused and on-guard by her sudden change in mood. “I appreciate you telling me. Really. Thank you. Let’s keep it between ourselves, yeah?” The Head Boy nods, relief and the re-emergence of his unflappable façade playing out across his features. “And hey, give me your number and I’ll give you mine—go ahead and show your mom and everything—I have a feeling that we might be useful allies in the future.”

Roan lowers his chin in a nod that’s eerily reminiscent of Lexa’s and pulls a pencil and the remnants of a Formal Hall menu from the pouch thing attached to his rope belt, tearing off a corner and writing down his contact information. Clarke does the same once he’s done, tucking the scrap into her bra for safekeeping (with a great deal of envy for the boy’s pocket; it’s getting full in there).

“Watch out for yourselves, alright?” Roan warns as he stands. “I get the feeling she’s planning something. And she’s vindictive when she doesn’t get what she wants.”

“Thanks. We will.” Clarke slides off the window seat and gives Roan a quick hug. He’s taken aback at the affection, something that Clarke’s somehow not too surprised about, but he still manages to lower his head respectfully at the Head Girl as she nears.

Lexa hesitates when she’s level with the entryway to the Ballroom, shifting her eyes between the pair of them by the window and then to the dance inside, and Clarke bounds over and grabs a soft hand, pulling her inside, elated and bubbly all over again again like the skin contact is caffeinated champagne. 

She’ll fill Lexa in on the Headmistress’s scheming later; right now, there’s music blasting and a dance floor under the stars and Clarke’s hand-in-hand with the most beautiful thing in the universe.

--

The lights have been dimmed and a DJ is setting up on stage as the end of what is clearly a ‘School Disco’ CD finally comes to the end of its tracklist. The teachers and other adults who’ve been supervising from their corners begin to thin out and just as the Headmaster exits the dance, strobe lights start up and the bass of a very different type of music thumps out, low enough that the electronic beat vibrates through the hardwood floors and deep in their stomachs.

Clarke’s still holding Lexa’s hand, the rhythm buzzing in the space between their fingers.  “Dance with me,” she yells over the noise and while it’s not quite a question, it’s also not quite a demand. There’s just enough space in the words for them to vibrate, too, something electric in the time it takes Lexa to assent.

It only takes a few seconds for the Head Girl’s shoulders to drop and her hips to sway like they’ve been oiled free, and even in those first few movements she’s perfect grace. Her rhythm is unfailing and her smile loosens and loosens until she’s grinning with all her teeth. Clarke’s her usual slightly-uncoordinated but enthusiastic self, even more so than usual with the girl she’s dancing with being so goddamn happy, and just like in choir she soon finds herself entrained into Lexa’s natural beat. Her hips mirror Lexa’s and her arms mirror Lexa’s and her smile—her smile follows every muscle twitch.

If she’d expected Heda to be preoccupied by her flock as they dance, Clarke’s never more thrilled to be proven wrong. Lexa barely blinks, much less looks away from Clarke. It’s like they’re dancing in a bubble, in a ballroom all to themselves, a distant moon where no one cares that Clarke’s eyes keep dropping to a pair of plump lips or that her dance partner’s eyes do the same. Lips, ears, war paint, neckline, temporary tattoos—she may never drink in enough of the sight in front of her.

It’s therefore a bit of a shock to the system when Octavia joins them as the first song blends into the next, dragging the tall hot boy behind her, but they make room and the four of them mindlessly move their shoulders to the music while quick introductions are made. It turns out that Lexa knows Lincoln from her Saturday Politics lessons in town (of course she does) and they smile stiffly at one another, both pretending that Octavia isn’t patting his muscular chest the whole time.

(Clarke barely manages not to do the same to her dance partner.)

The next song is slightly slower, slightly more…gyratable apparently, judging from Octavia’s hips and Lincoln’s wide eyes, and Clarke and Lexa might as well be on their private moon again. A Dominicus staff member is starting to make her way over the borderline-obscene pair of dancers, smoke and damnation seething out his ears, and Clarke makes the executive decision to take Lexa’s hand again and move away from the scene. They’ve only been dancing for a few songs but it’s hot in here and Lexa’s hand feels damp as well, so instead of fighting through the crowd to the refreshment table, she pulls them back toward the door.

A guy steps in front of her right as they get to the door, his toga half un-done and his face red and sweaty. He attempts to get Clarke to dance with him instead of leaving, blocking her way every time she tries to move around him with a cheesy smirk. Behind her, she can feel Lexa start to pull her hand out of hers but Clarke only holds on tighter, unwilling to let the Head Girl out of touching range again after being separated from her for what seems like the whole goddamn event.

Clarke’s polite smile at the drunken imbecile drops and still he obstructs her path, reaching out to take her arm.

“Come on, just one dance. I promise you won’t regret it,” the boy slurs, eyes slightly unfocused and body odor pungent.

“Get the hell out of my way,” Clarke finally snaps, her voice low and pleasingly growly this time.

The idiot freezes and she can see a thousand defensive retorts flash across his face. To his credit though, he only mutters, “whatever,” and doesn’t pester them any further, stepping aside to let them pass.

“Ugh, boys,” Clarke complains once they’re in the fresh air of the hallway, adjusting the position of her hand in Lexa’s so they can walk side-by-side. She’s not entirely sure where they’re heading but she doesn’t care as long as it’s somewhere away from all the noise and body heat and humanity.

From the noise and body heat and humanity that isn’t Lexa, anyway.

When she turns to look at the girl at her side though, she’s not met with the proud expression she’s anticipating, not even a sympathetic look of disgust or indignation. Instead Lexa’s biting her lip and glancing back at the Ballroom with something that looks almost like guilt on her face. She plants her feet solidly on the ground to stop them venturing any further down the darkened side corridor.

“You should go mingle. You don’t need to babysit me, I’m fine.” Lexa’s jaw is tight and her chin is raised.

Clarke’s heart drops; she wonders how Lexa can possibly not get this, how she still can’t see that Clarke would choose five minutes with her over almost anything else in the world.

“Are you serious? Is that what you think I’m doing? Do you think you’re an obligation to me?”

“You should dance, Clarke. Meet new people. That’s what this party is all about.”

“I don’t want to dance with anyone else, Lexa. I just want to dance with you,” Clarke says, quiet enough not to scare the wild creature standing before her—the one with one hand fisted at her side so tightly it must ache, the other impossibly gentle in her own. 

It feels like she’s repeating herself but if repetition is what it takes to get this through that beautiful skull, that’s what she’ll do. Over and over until Lexa gets it. 

Lexa’s eyes shutter closed and she takes a long breath in through her nose. “Clarke,” she pleads in a broken whisper.

When she opens her eyes again, Clarke has moved to stand in front of her, gaze steady as she can manage given all the butterflies and jackhammers vibrating away in her stomach. She reaches up and links her arms around Lexa’s neck. “I just want you,” she repeats, dipping her head forward so that their foreheads meet.

Lexa stills, her lungs unmoving for a length of time that seems endless, but Clarke waits.

She waits until Lexa’s elbows contract and she waits until Lexa’s knuckles brush against her waist and she waits until Lexa’s fingers finally gain their footing in the cotton of Clarke’s dress. She waits until Lexa drops the tiniest amount of weight against their joined foreheads so that they’re carrying some of each other’s load, even if it’s only the smallest of fractions.

Guitar riffs from a more languid song begin to float down into the dimly-lit hallway where they stand in stalemate, parting around their singular form and then rejoining on their meandering way. Clarke recognises it dimly, as if from a long-forgotten memory that strums her emotions through hazy glass, and she finds her feet moving in time to the beat, just enough that they’re no longer standing still. Lexa’s feet mirror hers in perfect time.  

Two pairs of lungs slow in time to the rhythm and the only sound that passes between them is the faint music and the shuffling of their feet—two warrior girls alone in the darkness, temple to temple and cheek to cheek. They slow-dance the whole song through, hardly making a complete rotation by the time it finishes.

The final saxophone notes of the song fade into something faster but Clarke and Lexa stay folded together long after their quiet beat makes any sense. It’s only the distant noise of giggling students lost en-route to the toilets that eventually leads Clarke to open her eyes and puff out a long breath, one it feels like she’s been holding for longer than should be possible. Lexa’s fingers flex once, sending a wave of shivers down Clarke’s spine, but she soon drops her hands and returns them to her own body.

With a great deal of regret, Clarke pulls her forehead back from Lexa’s, the weight of her head never feeling so heavy. She keeps her forearms resting on strong shoulders though, twisting a loose curl around her finger and trying not to let her eyes drop down to the beautiful lips only inches away from her own.

She’s in no way successful.

Lexa wets her lips and Clarke watches Lexa wet her lips.

“I just want you. Okay?” Clarke asks in a whisper.

She receives only a nod in response but Lexa’s eyes are cavernous and unguarded for several glory-filled seconds and Clarke could devote the rest of her life exploring them without reaching their limits.

“Let’s go find that wine I hid,” she suggests instead, to her own displeasure, taking a step backward and releasing Lexa from her hold.

Lexa drops her eyes in assent, clearing her throat. “Let us drink together, Clarke” she proclaims with a tight smile in what may not be her grandest Heda voice but still sends shivers down Clarke’s spine. “Teach me one of those drinking games of yours.”

Clarke grins a grin that may well engulf her entire body. “It would be my pleasure.” She takes Lexa’s hand again and tugs her down the hallway, snickering when the head girl almost stumbles over her own sandals but getting her comeuppance when she barely avoids crashing into a wall because she’s not looking anywhere but at her Athena, her Greek goddess and common citizen and her everything, all rolled up into one.

--

It takes longer than either of them care to admit to locate where Clarke had stowed the bottle of table wine earlier that evening but after a few wrong turns and dead ends they eventually find it outside the cloakroom. They tiptoe up a grand staircase into a row of slightly-eerie classrooms, the only light coming from the green emergency lighting strips along the walls, and it’s only by chance that they discover a massive two-floor library that happens to have a balcony that looks over the Ballroom. Clarke drags a giant beanbag over from the reading nook and they sink down at the same time, limbs akimbo and at odd angles until they manage to settle into comfortable seating positions.

There aren’t a lot of drinking games that make sense with only two people, or at least few that Clarke thinks would be a good idea to play at the moment, so she decides that they’re just going to take a sip every time the crowd below raises their arms in the air to the music. It happens less frequently than she’d expected and they soon abandon the game to just pass the wine bottle back and forth; it’s more than entertaining enough just to watch their classmates on the dance floor. Most of the boys are decorated with props from the Polis girls’ costumes and vice-versa, spears waving in the air and being used as impromptu limbo sticks. Lexa moves a little closer with each swig and Clarke moves closer with every swig and their bare calves are pressed together again. All is good in the world.

“Do you think the boys are wearing shorts under their togas?” Clarke wonders lazily, more concerned with sensation of Lexa’s fingers in hers than anything else. She gets her answer before Lexa can respond when a breakdance move goes wrong and the whole ballroom is treated to the sight of three identical red briefs, standing out starkly against the ashen legs of their owners. Clarke and Lexa burst out into laughter, one of those delicious laughs that keeps feeding off itself long after it should have died out.

“Those must be high quality costumes, for the colour not to show through the white,” Lexa forces out when they their gasps have lengthened long enough for words. 

“Do you think they all have Dominicus-issued underwear?”

“Maybe it’s their swimmers?”

“I…That might actually be weirder,” Clarke hardly manages to squeeze out between giggles. “Roan said the school handed out the costumes but he didn’t mention that they were ordered to wear their speedos under. Imagine that assembly.”

Several minutes later, they’ve finally gotten their giggles under control and are watching their schoolmates again. It seems it’s Lexa’s turn to play with Clarke’s fingers, careful and curious and far-too-soothing, and the owner soon needs a distraction before her bones dissolve right into these polyester foam beans.

“So you’ve known some of these girls, like, forever. Is that how you know Octavia’s brother—because eventually you end up meeting everyone’s family in boarding school?” It’s a nice thought, actually, all one big extended family unit.

Lexa continues to explore the curves of Clarke’s fingers for a few seconds before answering. “Yes and no. Yes, you end up at least recognising everyone’s family in your year. But in Bellamy’s case, Octavia needed to stay in Caireen house over Christmas when we were nine and the Headmistress allowed him to stay for a few days, too. They were—” Lexa cuts herself off, flattening her lips and looking unsure. “Anyway. That’s the only reason I know him any more than just by sight.”

“Octavia told me about being in foster care,” Clarke reassures her. “We had a long conversation about it the other day, actually; I don’t think she keeps it a secret or anything but I was oblivious for far too long. It sounds like she’s only had positive experiences—probably thanks in a big part to Polis.”

Lexa’s eyes soften and she breaks into a matching smile. “She’s always seemed so warm and happy, even from her first days of boarding. Carefree, almost, except that she cared about her schoolwork and her friends and her brother more than anything.”

The head girl’s smile falters after a second and her eyes drop down to their hands, her fingers stilling in their explorations before looking back up again. “I was a bit envious of her when we were little girls,” she admits like she’s confessing to a priest. “That she had so many people looking out for her, people whose job it was to keep her safe and happy. Even if it was because of blood, like her brother, or by legal duty, in the case of the Crown.” Her jaw clenches for a second and her next words are clipped, like it’s a strain to get them out. “Still. Polis has been great. We were both lucky.”

Clarke reclaims Lexa’s fingers for her own and strokes them with the back of her thumb. Her throat is thick but she puts her all into ensuring it doesn’t reflect in her next words. “The world is lucky, Lex. For the both of you.”

They watch the party below in silence for the next few minutes, but Lexa covers their tangled fingers with her other hand and Clarke beseeches deities she doesn’t believe in that the Head Girl is closer to believing it this time.

--

Octavia joins them a little bit later, shaking her head in disbelief when Clarke enquires how she found their hideaway, informing them with a smirk that their laughter is loud enough to be heard downstairs. “Don’t worry, I closed the library doors,” she adds when Lexa’s eyes widen. “You’re probably good, now.”

“Thanks, O,” Clarke says gratefully. “Wanna join us? Now that you’re here we can play an actual drinking game.”

“Sure.” Octavia plops down on a cushion next to them, also out of viewing range from the room below. “I was looking for Raven but I hereby give up. She’s disappeared right off the surface of the Earth.”

“Ah.” Clarke bites her lip, feeling guilty that she hadn’t told Octavia earlier; she hadn’t wanted to interrupt whatever was going on with her and Lincoln but now she feels bad for causing worry. “She left. Wasn’t feeling the dance, I guess. Lexa made sure she got into her taxi safely.”

Lines appear along Octavia’s forehead and she frowns, concerned. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” Clarke quickly assures her friend, knowing it’s not her place to get in the middle of whatever those two roommates have going on. “She only took a taxi because she’d been drinking; think she was fairly sober though.”

“Oh.” Octavia continues to frown but it seems to be more fueled by hurt and confusion now. “What about Endeavour?”

Reaching into her bra, Clarke fishes out Raven’s car keys and tosses them over to Octavia. Lexa’s staring studiously at a seam in the beanbag when she glances over. “I guess she’ll just take a cab over and drive it back tomorrow.”

“Oh. I wish she would have told me she was leaving.”

Clarke shrugs sympathetically, not sure what else to say, and passes over the bottle. Octavia takes a long sip and then another before sighing and handing it back. 

“Lincoln’s hot,” Clarke comments in an attempt break the somber mood that’s fallen over the room.

Octavia lightens almost immediately, a dreamy look coming over her face. “So hot,” she enthuses, “his six-pack had a six-pack. Thank the holy goddess for thin toga material.”

Clarke steals a side glance at Lexa, thinking of the red underpants, and both girls burst into laughter again.

A game of Quarters is improvised, involving the flicking of a crumpled-up scrap of paper into a plant pot, but it’s mostly for fun since the wine bottle only has a few sips left. Octavia and Lexa are a little formal around each other at first but the Head Girl and her Prefect soon relax as the game progresses, especially after Lexa flicks the paper right over the goal and down Octavia’s bust and she has to shake out her dress to find it.

“Illegal interception,” Lexa insists when the paper has been retrieved. “I demand a do-over.”

“No way,” Clarke snorts, “Octavia was nowhere near the goal and I’m pretty sure her boobs didn’t jump out and catch the ball.”

Octavia, Judas that she is, deposits the paper into Lexa’s outstretched hand. “I rule with the defendant. Ge smak daun, gyon op nodotaim.”

Lexa’s already smiling but it deepens into something even more beautiful with Octavia’s Trigedasleng, all crinkly eye-corners and dimples in her chin. “You remember that?”

“Are you kidding? I live by those words.” Octavia pretends to punch Lexa in the arm to cover up the sincerity in her words but it’s more of a tender pat. “Thank you, by the way. I don’t think I thanked you back then. But I’ve never forgotten it.”

Clarke is clueless as to the past event they’re talking about or what most of the words in that phrase mean, but it’s clearly something meaningful so she doesn’t break the mood by asking. There’s something warm about the idea of all these girls growing up together, about this family that’s no less real than any other. Instead she gives them their moment and then promptly steals the ball right out of Lexa’s still unfurled palm, scoring the most perfect shot she’s ever made.

“Penalty!” Octavia cries, flinging herself on top of Clarke, and suddenly they’re playing some odd mix of American football and…well, that’s mostly it.

--

The clock on the wall reads 10:50 when the lights in the Ballroom flicker and an announcement comes over the fancy intercom system that the dance will be ending in ten minutes. Octavia leaves to go call Bellamy and see if he’s sober and willing to drive Raven’s car back to the school, saving her a trip in the morning. Lexa stands up from her position on the floor, too, stretching out her legs to get coax blood back into her numb feet, and Clarke can’t help but laugh at Heda’s wobbles as she does so.

“Wine get to you?” Clarke teases, perfectly aware that she’s probably wobbling just as much, despite neither of them ingesting more than half-a-glass’s worth of wine in the last few hours. They’re giddy more than anything else and it’s a wonderful state of being.

Lexa holds her arm out in front of her and then touches the tip of a finger to her nose with precision. “See? My cerebellum is perfectly functional, Clarke. I would pass any test of intoxication.”

“Mmmhmm. Do that with your eyes closed.”

That one doesn’t work out quite so well for the Head Girl and Clarke’s at her side immediately, raising herself on tiptoe to kiss better the scrunched up eyelid that’s just been attacked by a smug index finger.

They bury the empty wine bottle under a wad of paper in the bin and make their way downstairs, only letting go of each other’s hands when they’re outside the cloakroom to collect their jackets. Taxis are making their way up the drive at the front of the school and Lexa makes a valiant attempt to do a headcount, but given that others have left in earlier taxis and it’s a little chaotic, she gives up after a few minutes with a deep sigh.

Adenne appears at Lexa’s side with a few Heads of House in tow. “I’ve sent a couple of Prefects to check the toilets, Heda, and Gina is making sure we’ve gotten everything from the Ballroom and Cloakroom,” she reports. “I think everyone is here though except a couple of girls who just popped inside to use the loo. I called ahead to Mrs. Ford and she’ll let the rest of the Houses know to expect us back soon.”

It takes Lexa a second to assimilate that her Second has taken over everything without any instruction, nor indeed any official need to do so, but when the reflexive urge to do everything herself eventually passes, Lexa couldn’t look more proud.

“Good, Adenne. Thank you.”

Clarke swears she elongates the ‘good’ for a beat too long but she’s not going to be the one to point out the Head Girl’s sloppy vocal cord muscles right now. Adenne nods and returns to her group of friends but it’s easy to see that she’s still keeping a vigilant eye over the girls, even now.

Lexa continues to watch Adenne and Clarke’s ribcage continues to be too small. “She’ll make a great head girl next year,” Clarke says softly.

“Yes. She will.” Lexa finally breaks her gaze on the petite blonde girl and looks over at the taller one at her side. “Is Octavia back?” Her eyes snap to a couple of girls meandering out the doors. “And did Jessica not bring her coat this evening?”

“Well done, you kept your chill for a whole minute,” Clarke ribs her with a roll of her eyes. “We won’t leave without Octavia. And I’m not sure, but I’m sure Jess is fine. You’re not responsible for everyone, Heda Maximus.”

With a deep sigh, Lexa finally relaxes, losing at least an inch in height as she does so. “Alright.” She allows herself to be pulled away a little from the rest of the girls. “But Heda Maximus sounds rather Roman. I am a Greek warrior, Clarke,” Lexa enunciates very seriously once they’re huddling together against the cold but Clarke can see that it takes her a little more effort than usual to maintain all the borders on her words. There’s also a little bit of a pout on her lips and it’s adorable.

“And if you won’t allow me to be Heda right now, I will be… I will be Hexa. Part Heda, part Lexa.”

Clarke’s chest threatens to burst again but this time it’s also from the laughter bubbling up in her lungs; she’ll never know how Lexa can go from slightly tipsy to Commander and back again in the blink of an eye (quite frankly she wouldn’t be surprised to learn the girl has magic alcohol-neutralizing powers) but she loves it.

“Oh yeah?” she prompts, hoping to prompt more ramblings from favourite person in the whole wide world.

“Yes. Hexa sounds more Greek, too. I am Greek. I am Greek for…um. Six.” Lexa blinks and then owns it, her chin jutting in the air.

“Got it, sixy,” Clarke agrees with a grin, waving to some girls getting in a black cab before threading her arm through Lexa’s elbow. “But just so you know, you’ll always be a Celtic warrior queen to me.”

Lexa scoffs and buries her nose into Clarke’s shoulder for the briefest of seconds, so brief she’s not even sure it happened; her breath shudders anyway and she hopes Lexa doesn’t notice. Or maybe she hopes she does.

(She hopes she does.)

“Okay.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Just as the last taxi pulls up, Octavia finally appears, her face scrunched up in a grouchy expression “I can’t get hold of Bellamy,” she whines, pulling her jacket tighter and crossing her arms. “He always picks up for me.”

Clarke wraps a hand around her waist and pulls Octavia into her other side. “Probably for the best. It would have been a pain for him to get back to his base if he drove Raven’s car back, anyway.”

“Suppose so,” Octavia sulks but not in an especially upset way anymore. “What’s the point of a brother if not to inconvenience himself for you?”

With a laugh, Clarke pulls the three of them toward the curb to pile into a multi-seater taxi with the remaining few girls. Clarke and Lexa are shunted to the back row while Octavia climbs into the front passenger seat.

The ride home doesn’t take nearly long enough, not with the way Clarke and Lexa are squished together into a bench clearly designed for children. What other choice do they have than for Clarke to pull Lexa’s legs onto her lap? It means some awkward seatbelt-pokes and bodily contortions but it also means sweet sweet body heat and an excuse to keep a hand on the yawning warrior queen’s calves.

Lexa falls asleep with her head against the window and Clarke doesn’t dare close her eyes.

--

It’s more power nap than sleep, Clarke decides with amusement when Lexa blinks awake fifteen minutes later, promptly squaring her shoulders and raising her chin as if she’d fully intended to doze off. Judging by her eyes, any remaining alcohol in her blood has pretty much worn off and it’s no surprise that she rearranges her legs so that she’s not resting any weight on Clarke’s lap. She doesn’t remove them entirely though and Clarke simply moves her arms so that she can lean her own body weight on those beautiful legs instead.

Lexa tracks her movements wordlessly and then turns to stare out the window once Clarke has settled down into the seat. The lights of the city have long faded away into countryside, the only thing piercing its dark grip the occasional lamplight of distant farmhouses.

Clarke watches Lexa chew her lip in profile, running the side of her thumb across Lexa’s kneecap. Thousands of thousands endearments race through Clarke’s mind, terms that roll along her tongue and press against her lips with a force that only grows by the minute. “You’re thinking far too deeply for a Friday night.”

 The head girl turns to face her again and her expression is so solemn that Clarke’s stomach flips. And not in the usual pleasant way. Lexa takes a deep breath and Clarke holds hers.

“Do…” Lexa trails off, swallowing before trying again. “I was wondering if you might have time tomorrow to do me a favour.”

Sweet relief in the form of carbon dioxide exhalation eases the tension in her chest. “Yeah, of course. Anything.” Lexa still looks just as tense though; Clarke reaches over to squeeze her hand. “Anything, Lex.”

Lexa looks mostly unconvinced but she lowers her chin into a nod anyway. “The balloons for Sunday: Helen said they could be picked up anytime before noon tomorrow but—”

 “Ah, I forgot you have lessons until then. No problem, I can go grab them.”

Lexa’s gaze remains probing, like she’s searching for the subtlest of signs that Clarke might be put out by her request. “Are you sure? I was planning on leaving Politics early and running across town but—actually, no, never mind. I can manage.” She pastes on a smile. “I could use the exercise, what with Lacrosse being over for the season.”

“Lexa.”

“It’s fine.” Lexa turns back to the night and nods to her reflection in the glass, as if the conversation is over and decided. As if she doesn’t know Clarke at all.  

Clarke’s pretty sure this girl would conquer the entire Roman empire—alone and armed only with a single sword—if it would prevent one of her little ones from having a bad dream. She’s also entirely convinced that Lexa wouldn’t ask for a sip of someone else’s water if she was dying of thirst.

Lexa tries to draw her legs back over to her side of the bench; Clarke clamps a hand down and doesn’t let them go.

"No. Listen to me.” She waits until Lexa finally meets her eye again, jaw squared and stubborn. “It’s okay to ask for things. I’m glad you asked, alright?” Softening her voice, she runs a thumb over the back of Lexa’s knuckles. “I know how hard that is for you.”

The Head Girls mouth opens in automatic protest but she closes it again before any words can come out. She swallows again but eventually lowers her chin infinitesimally.

“I was planning on going into town tomorrow anyway,” Clarke half-lies, deciding that she can’t wait until next week to buy Christmas decorations. “So it’s not a big deal to pick up the balloons. But Lexa? Even if it was, I’d still do it if it made your day even the smallest amount easier. We make sacrifices for the people we love—that’s just the way things work. And it’s not a one-way street.”

Lexa stares and Clarke’s not sure which part the girl’s most unbelieving about but she knows there needs to be a smile back on that beautiful face. Posthaste. “I’m still new to this culture, but when someone agrees to do you a favour, my people say thank you,” she teases, elbowing Lexa’s ribs.

One corner of Lexa’s mouth contracts but doesn’t quite rally into a smile. She’s trying though, and that’s something. Maybe that’s everything.

(It’s everything.)

Lunging forward, Clarke squeezes the top of a beautiful knee with one hand and tickling a beautiful waist with the other and oh, there’s that beautiful smile again.  It only takes a second for her victim to recover and suddenly there are no victims or conquerors, just two equally matched girls, each giving as good as they get until they’re both laughing so hard that the rest of the girls in the cab are turning around in their seats. Which is saying something, since they’d all been asleep a few minutes ago. 

Luckily they’re pulling into Polis and everyone is distracted by gathering up their things. Lexa manages to pull herself into a sitting position and helps Clarke do the same as the girls in the first row begin to scoot out of the taxi.

“Thank you,” she says quietly to Clarke as the driver walks around to move the seats forward so they can get out.

Clarke grins and presses a kiss to her forehead. “I love you, Hexa,” she says matter-of-factly before stepping out into the cold night air and it’s so easy—it comes out so easily that she barely registers that it’s the second time she’s said it in five minutes. 

The moon is out and the stars are bright and Clarke loves Lexa more than all of time and space combined.

--

There’s no question of sleeping in her own bed tonight. None at all.

She walks Octavia to her room to make sure Raven got back alright. She brushes her teeth. She changes into freshly-clean pajama bottoms and a wine-coloured hoodie that’s as good as hers by now. She combs out her braids. She slips on her trainers and she slips out the window.

The books on the Head Girl’s desk are unopened and the light bulb in her lamp is cold. The only light in the room comes from the stars and from the full moon. It hangs dead centre in the window like it’s being framed between the stone pillars of Stonehenge, like dozens of boulders have been dragged across the country and erected in these carefully-plotted positions and decades have gone by, all in anticipation of this exact moonrise.

Lexa is standing at the window, staring out with her head tilted back and cheeks bathed in moonlight. All her war paint and eyeliner and tattoos have been washed down the sink, her face dewy and her curls wild and free. She’s wearing her pink pajamas and Clarke loves her.

“Making a wish?” she asks quietly, not sure if Lexa heard her knock; the reflection in the glass meets her eye and blooms into a smile.

“Yes.”

Clarke stays where she is for a moment, taking in the rare sight of both Heda’s strong back and Lexa’s soft smile at the same time. And then she moves closer. Forward.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” They’re side by side, shoulder to shoulder against what used to be the dark of the night. The top pane of the window is tilted open but the icy winter breeze has nothing on the warmth beside her. The moon is bright but somehow its light doesn’t eclipse the stars.

Clarke makes a wish, too.

(She’s pretty sure it’s already come true.)

“I did.” Lexa reaches over and takes her hand. They keep their eyes on the sky. For the first time since stepping foot on English soil, Clarke feels completely grounded, no longer a neon plastic bag floating between ancient monoliths, like the whole world could turn to quicksand and she’d be safe as long as she holds tight to this hand. “Thank you.”

“I feel like I let us down on the drinking games, though.”

“There’s always next time.”

Clarke closes her eyes; when she opens them again, two green eyes in the reflection eclipse the entire starscape. “How about one more quick one, right now?”

Lexa laughs. “We don’t have any wine.”

“We don’t need it. Truth or truth, Lex? Like last time, when you have to answer your own question.”

Lexa freezes at the reminder of the last time they played. She swallows. “Truth,” she says, cautious.

Clarke takes a deep breath, leaning some of her weight on the desk because her knees are shaking. She knows Lexa must be able to feel how sweaty her palms have become and she also knows there’s no way in hell she’s going to let go of that beautiful hand for even a second to wipe them dry.

“How long have you known you were attracted to girls?”

Lexa’s eyes widen as she works through the implications of the question. “Clarke,” she warns, still wary, searching the reflection as if it’s a misunderstanding or a mirage.

“It’s not a null question. Not this time,” she adds, holding strong to their eye contact in the glass.  

“Since I was fourteen,” Lexa finally answers. There’s more to it, more to her story that Clarke wants to know about in exquisite detail. But that’s for another day.

“I’ve only known since the night before the Remembrance Sunday service.” Clarke feels her hands shaking and they seem to be caught in a reciprocal feedback loop with the hand in hers. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything last time, when you told me...”

Lexa is still as a statue and Clarke takes another long pull of air through her nose before she can continue.

“I hadn’t said it aloud, not even in my own head. Still haven’t but here goes. I think I’m—no,” she corrects herself quickly, “I know I’m bisexual. It just took me a little more than seventeen years to figure it out.”

Lexa breaks their shared gaze in the glass only to find it again in the real world, face-to-face, knowledge to known. There’s terror in her eyes, terror as they flicker back and forth between Clarke’s eyes and down to her lips as if there’s some translation or coded message therein.

“You don’t—” Clarke starts to say and she never finishes.

The first time Lexa’s lips meet hers, it’s unremarkable.

It’s the final note in a scale, the chorus of a song they’ve been rehearsing for months and Clarke responds without a missed beat. Their mouths slot together like it’s their natural state of being—it’s easy and it’s gentle and it’s Lexa.

Her mind doesn’t put words together for a few seconds but when it does, when it names this as a kiss, Clarke pulls the air for her gasp straight from Lexa’s throat. Lexa’s lips curl into a smile that she’ll never taste enough of but she tries anyway, pushing back into the kiss—the kiss—so she can capture that lower lip between hers, the lower lip that’s been singing her daydream hallelujahs for weeks, now.

Their first kiss is sloppy; they’re seventeen years old and there’s still a hint of red wine in their blood and their first kiss is gloriously sloppy. It’s all slurps and ill-timings and noses clashing, fingers caught in tangles and hands crashing at intersections as they try claw for purchase. But as they learn each other’s mouths and feel each other’s pulses pounding under their fingertips, the rhythm begins to stabilise and it begins to build to its crescendo and Clarke knows at once that the apex is going to be something majestic. It sails up and up and everything starts to bind together in preparation: stirrings of birds and wings and Magnificats; doxologies and worlds without end and amens.

There’s an entire universe pressed into this seventeen-year-old girl and Clarke’s beginning to taste it, to feel it under her tongue and in her throat and in the muscles of her waist and the strands of her hair and it’s so big.

It’s so big.

This is all so big.

The grand theory of the universe flits just beyond her grasp yet again, teasing and tempting and unobtainable, and Clarke judders in her part of the beat. She can’t get the rhythm back and it feels all at once like she’s been ejected into the dark abyss of space, untethered and alone. What was once as easy and automatic as breathing becomes an unsolvable enigma and it’s so big, this inward-crushing force of love and the outward-pushing pressure to understand it. Supernovas and giant stars and nuclear fusion—they all feel infinitely more solvable and less breakable than this heartbeat that pounds beneath her own.

Lexa starts to pull back, no doubt noticing the change, and Clarke panics, chasing her lips like a lifeline. Her heart is beating in overtime but it doesn’t feel good anymore and after a second she has to let go, stepping back and sucking in icy air.

“I want this,” Clarke rushes out with her first outbreath before allowing her lungs to reclaim the oxygen they need.

Lexa’s chest is rising and falling, too, but it’s more regimented, more careful; she looks at Clarke like she’s a some fragile-winged thing, poised to fly away with any slight movement. She looks at Clarke like she’s not looking back at Lexa in exactly the same way.

“I want this, I want you, I just… I thought I was ready but…” Clarke stammers, desperate to keep the openness in those green eyes from shuttering closed; she’s not even sure what she’s saying, much less whether it makes any kind of sense. “I’m not ready. Not yet. And we’ve been drinking and…I’m sorry, it’s my fault, I just need more time.”  

She tries not to see the way something in Lexa’s face shatters, her stilted nod, the way her shoulders tighten and she holds herself rigid, but she does and it only fuels her rising impulse to flee. “I’m sorry,” Clarke mouths behind her just as she darts out the door.

She wants to run. She wants to run and run and run until she can’t feel her legs anymore, to run until her heart is working too hard to do anything but its job.

She doesn’t.

Instead she sinks to the floor outside Lexa’s room, head between her knees and mouth locked shut to slow the intake of air into her lungs. All she can think about is Lexa, only a few feet away behind this closed door, hands almost certainly fisted, head tilted back and eyes upward—not to wish on a star this time but to wrestle her emotions back under the iron grip of her control.

Clarke still doesn’t understand how stars achieve equilibrium, how implosions cause explosions, how something so dense can have so much empty space. Neither does she understand how this feels bigger than the entire universe and as small as the pebble David defeated his giant with; how Lexa can be a scarred and mighty warrior and also wear pink pajamas; how she can be all the stars and all the galaxies and also the centre of Clarke’s world.

Clarke Griffin continues to struggle with the mechanics of astrophysics but as she sits in the hallway, alone and oxygen-starved, she realises there’s one thing that’s always come easy to her.

Something intuitive, something she’s understood on some level or another ever since she first laid eyes on the Head Girl. Something that doesn’t require grand theories or equations or perfect extended metaphors. Something she’s never had to work at, something that arrived without fanfare and something that wasn’t even named until long after it was sewn into her genetic code.

Something easy. Something grounded.

Clarke Griffin has never struggled with the mechanics of loving Lexa.

--

There was never any question of sleeping in her own bed tonight. None at all.

She pushes open the door and crosses the room to the beautiful girl still standing where she’d been a minute ago. She tucks beautiful curls behind beautiful ears and she slides her hands down those beautiful arms and locks them together with those beautiful fingers. She pulls Lexa over to the bed and she pulls back the covers and she pulls them both into its safe haven.

“Oh, did you think I meant, like, indefinitely?” she asks innocently, curling up behind Lexa and throwing a leg over her legs, an arm over her waist. “Kiss me again in the morning. That’s long enough.”

The winter wind blows in through the window and clouds cover the moon and Clarke holds her breath, petrified that she’s ruined it all. Lexa doesn’t speak and her muscles are tense, uncertain. Fumbling between the sheets, Clarke finds her hand and squeezes it, tucking their tangled fingers under Lexa’s chin and hugging her closer.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says quietly, all playful pretense gone. “I won’t freak out again. I promise.”

Lexa takes a deep breath but it seems to get stuck and she has to try again.

Clarke waits. She’ll wait until the end of her days if that’s what it takes.  

“Okay,” Lexa finally whispers after what indeed feels like a lifetime. Clarke feels the sweetest curve of a smile press against the back of her hand. “I’ll kiss you in the morning.”

The wind continues to blow and the moon remains hidden but all Clarke can feel is the warmth in Lexa’s body and all she can see is the starlight glowing in Lexa’s skin, two feet on the ground and eyes to the sky above.

Two sets of limbs soften and soften and soften until they’re both asleep.  

--

She doesn’t wait for morning.

She doesn’t wait for Lexa to kiss her.

It’s still dark out when her fidgeting is enough to rouse the sleepy head girl and she raises herself up on an elbow, letting her eyes adjust around the most beautiful creature that’s ever graced the earth. She starts nudging her further awake, nose to nose until she’s being nuzzled back and those beautiful eyes finally blink open.

It’s still dark but Clarke swears the sun crests over the horizon the moment she presses their lips together again.  

Chapter Text

The sun can’t really be considered new-risen anymore when Clarke takes a reluctant hiatus from kissing its source. An amber light still bathes the room though, a glow that seems to pour out the seams of Lexa’s skin and she tells her that, that she’s somehow swallowed the stars. She tells because she can, because she can whisper it with reverent solemnity while they’re still shoulder to shoulder in the shelter of the bed, bare calves tangled and restless.

She gets only a halcyon-tinged eye roll and a scoff in response.

Lexa pulls one set of entwined fingers higher up the bed and holds them up to the beam of sunlight streaming in through the unshuttered window, twisting them until the blonde hairs on Clarke’s arm catch the light in an aura of her own.  

“You’re just as golden,” she murmurs against the back of Clarke’s palm and it’s true—they’re both radiating the dawn, reflecting off one another in an endless dance of light particles.

Their lips meet right in the middle this time.

--

Clarke is reverent; the six o’clock alarm is not. It refuses to respect the transcendence of the morning and even a miffed shove to the floor doesn’t inveigle its cacophony into submission, only gags it until it’s more of a death wail. Lexa rolls out of bed and ends its suffering after a minute but not without a long sigh that Clarke draws from her lips as if she could swallow all that it entails, all these real life burdens and commitments they both face outside this high tower door.

Alone, the bed is nowhere near as wonderful and Clarke suspects it never will be again. It’s an odd feeling, the awareness of such a monumental paradigm shift in the half-light of morningtide, the sensation of something locking into place without a single sound.

“I’ll walk with you to town,” she decides around a yawn, sitting up and stretching her arms above her head. She watches Lexa’s eyes fall to where her t-shirt rides up and then to the rising pink in her cheeks; if Clarke’s lips weren’t already extended to their maximum wideness, she’d be smiling even harder.

Lexa pulls in a breath in what’s probably an automatic protest but it seems her smile isn’t negotiable, either. “Okay. If you want,” she says, looking away and busying herself with things on her nightstand that don’t need her attention. There’s no hiding how her smile only grows.   

Rising up to her knees, Clarke reaches out and tugs at the sleeve of Lexa’s long sleeve t-shirt to pull her close enough to kiss and oh god to what sweet dream world have they ascended that she can do this with her eyes open? Lexa gets there first, miscalculating a little in her eagerness and closing around Clarke’s lower lip but oh that’s good, too. Very good. Phenomenal, even.

“I want,” Clarke confirms, grinning and changing the angle so she can have a turn tasting that plump lower lip, letting her teeth sink in just enough to draw a choked noise from Lexa’s throat. When she eventually releases it, pulling away just enough to allow her eyes to focus on Lexa’s face without going cross-eyed, Clarke reaches up and combs eight fingers through the leftover plait waves, thumbs and palms cupping the apples of her cheeks. “I want.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Twin cheek muscles unfurl further apart under Clarke’s hands and she holds tighter, wondering if it would be possible to hold Lexa’s face in this configuration for the rest of their lives. “Good.”

“Good.”

“I like this,” Clarke whispers and the muscles undulate again. “I like kissing you.”

“Me too,” Lexa mouths as she leans into Clarke’s touch, so relaxed for a moment that even her vocal cords have gone slack. Her eyes fall closed and Clarke counts her beautiful eyelashes, skimming her hands up and down Lexa’s sleeves. The head girl captures her hands after a minute when they’re close enough to hers. She threads their fingers together and then lifts both so that they’re folded between their bodies as if in prayer, maybe in supplication or exultation. Clarke bows her head against Lexa’s and drops her lips in what is definitely exultation.

Alas, the sound that rings forth is no hallelujah.

The fucking alarm clock goes off again, Lexa apparently having hit snooze instead of turning it off—it’s probably the first time the button has ever been pressed—and two green eyes fly open, startled and a little confused.

“Shh, maybe it’ll forget about us,” Clarke shushes her, nudging their noses together.

“What will, time?” With a huff, Lexa darts forward for a quick peck before dropping her hands from Clarke’s waist and attending to the traitorous reminder. It’s frustratingly immune to Clarke’s glowering.

“I’ll get dressed and sign out; meet you outside at—what, seven?”

Lexa looks up from where she’s resetting the alarm. “Yes, but Clarke, nothing’s going to be open in town this early. And—”

“I don’t care. I’m not going into town to beat the Christmas shoppers.”

The Head Girl looks her up and down, searching for a catch or a caveat she’ll never find, and then breaks into her soft smile that melts Clarke’s insides into Jell-O.

“Alright. Seven it is.”

Clarke fails to move. She can’t. She’s Jell-O. Jelly. Gelatinous goo.  “Lex?”

“Mm?” Lexa’s gathering up her shower caddy and towel, fumbling a little since she’s refusing to drop her eyes from Clarke, like she’s afraid she might blink and it might all be a dream. Clarke knows because she feels the same way.

“What if—” she tries.

“Go,” Lexa orders with a lopsided smile, “you have to sign out, Clarke. It’s Saturday; Mrs. O’Brien will be worried if she can’t find you this morning.”

Clarke pouts and Lexa kisses her pouting lips.

Lexa takes her hand as they exit the bedroom and Clarke kisses her knuckles.

Clarke walks her to the shower room and Lexa barely glances down the hall before kissing the corner of her mouth, long and sweet.

This is no dream; Clarke has never felt so awake.

--

Her escape from Flidais is easy at this time of the morning and Clarke jogs across the street and up her fire escape without incident. She takes the fastest shower she’s ever taken, scrambling into the first clothes in her path and drying her hair just enough that she won’t catch pneumonia in the December frost. Only one of her arms has made it through her coat sleeves when she scrawls her name and makes a note of the time in the dog-eared book by the front door.

The secondhand is nowhere near the infinity symbol that stands for twelve on her father’s wristwatch when she makes it back to Flidais. It’s 6:38 and Lexa’s already outside, still pinning the top half of her hair into its plaited crown, the lower half free and fanned out around her shoulders for once instead of being fully pulled back. It’s the first time Clarke’s seen her hair blow-dried straight and there’s no way that she can stop herself from twisting one of the curls that have broken free around her finger as soon as she’s close enough, even if the Housemistress is watching them from the front door.

Lexa pulls Clarke’s hair out from under the collar of her coat while she’s distracted by her spiral reclaiming, tutting when she notices it’s still a little damp and twisting it into a quick bun to keep it off her neck. She doesn’t use a hair bauble but it feels entirely secure and of course Lexa is magic like that.

They walk side-by-side down the street toward town after a wave to Mrs. Daisy, arms pressed together ostensibly against the morning chill. At the end of the road there’s a field off to one side that they have to cross to get to town and Clarke eyes it like a finish line.

Four more houses until they’re out of sight of the school.
Three more houses until she can take Lexa’s hand.
Two more—

Lexa stops in the middle of the road and kisses her well before they make it to the turn, lips cold and fingers almost frozen.

But not for long.

--

They kiss at every kissing gate.

They kiss at every non-kissing gate.

They kiss in the middle of the grazing pasture, curious cows meandering their way over to the visitors until Clarke decides that’s quite enough and grabs Lexa’s hand and drags her into a sprint across the rest of field.

Their lips come together with any excuse: at the unconscious smile that tugs at Lexa’s lips every time she sees Christmas flowers in hanging flower pots; each time that Clarke trips over her own feet and Lexa keeps her upright; at the start of every zebra crossing and at the end; at the numerous times that Clarke almost walks into traffic because she’s distracted by all the kissing.

(They come together when there’s no excuse, too.)

There’s so much more to learn about Lexa now and Clarke is determined to earn an A* in every module. The way her lips are unaccountably soft and taste better than any candy she’d hoarded away as a child, except that when she sucks on these, Lexa giggles and that’s even sweeter. The round of her shoulder muscles, the softness of those downy hairs on the nape of her neck, the tendons that tighten under her fingers. The curl of her eyelashes, the flexible cartilage of her tiny ears, the slide of their noses against one another; the angles that make up her lower back, the way their breathing falls into efficient synchrony, the way the little hairs around her ears sail into flight every time Clarke huffs at the neediness of the human respiratory system. 

The walk to town is usually about half an hour, a little longer to get to the Grammar school since it’s on the far side, but they stretch it out until almost eight o’clock, long enough that Lexa is nearly late for her Psychology lesson but short enough that Clarke wonders if it’s too late to pick up another official A-level. Far too short when she notices that Lexa’s lips are a little kiss-swollen and she backs her into the girl’s toilets to see if she can make them even more so.

(She can. She does.)

Lexa barely remembers to reach into her messenger bag and give Clarke one of the freshly-baked blueberry muffins her Housemistress had insisted she bring with her this morning, shrugging when Clarke raises an eyebrow that she was given two when they’re each larger than a full-grown man’s stomach.

“You think she likes me, finally?”

Lexa laughs at that, pressing their lips together for a final lingering kiss and an even more lingering look before going into the classroom. “How could she not?”

Clarke watches through the doorway as she finds her seat, arming herself for the lesson like soldiers arm themselves for battle. First four different colours of highlighters are neatly lined up like next to her fountain pen, eradicator, and biro pen. Next comes a textbook, open at what’s likely this week’s chapter, and then her notebook. She opens it to a clean page, or at least what she’s probably assumed will be a clean page because her fingers freeze above the paper, lips slightly parted as she stares at what must be the first of Clarke’s little doodles because her eyes fly to the door and she startles at little to see the artist still standing there.  

Clarke winks and Lexa’s cheeks immediately flush. Blowing a last cheeky kiss before leaving the poor girl in peace, Clarke wonders what the other students in the class must make of Polis’ Head Girl failing to hide a loopy grin into her starched shirt collar. 

--

Okay, so maybe Lexa was right. Nothing is open at eight o’clock in England. Even the McDonalds doesn’t open until nine. 

Luckily the doors to a small indoor shopping centre are unlocked for the arriving staff, even if none of the shops are open, and Clarke huddles on a bench inside with her sketchbook, plotting out another section of her Art coursework. It’s her favourite and today feels like the most perfect of days to be working on it since there’s no way she’s going to thinking about any other face than her main figure.  

(Today is the most perfect of days, period. Fullstop.)

The next hour passes quickly and when the McDonald’s is finally open, she moves to its much warmer seats and tabletops, a cup of surprisingly good coffee cradled between her knees and left hand until it’s less of an ice cube and more capable of drawing.

England seems to wake up around ten o’clock, bundled-up shoppers finally appearing on the streets, and Clarke packs up and orders one more coffee to keep her warm on the walk to Helen Lawrence’s house to pick up the balloons for tomorrow. The former Head Girl is surprised to see Clarke instead of Lexa but she remembers her well from the time Clarke had rallied the Board of Governors for Art funding and invites her inside the massive house for some tea.

Helen has a quite a few choice words about the Polis Headmistress and even more once Clarke updates her on how the Head has tried to block their rebooted Founder’s Day plans—tried and failed—at every turn, and the two of them spend a happy hour bitching about Nia and praising Polis.

Polis and by extension, Lexa. Obviously.

They wax rhapsody on Lexa’s legacy at the school for a good portion of that hour, which might seem excessive for anyone who isn’t Clarke talking to herself in the mirror but in reality is barely enough time to skim over all her achievements: her charity initiatives; the way her proposal to convert traditional religious education lessons into a semi-structured discussion of multicultural and controversial current issues presented in an unbiased light has been wildly acclaimed, despite it being drawn up by an eleven-year-old all on her own; the number of Green awards the school has won since she organised a week-long chapel theme culminating in a contest to design the most creative and implementable energy-saving scheme for the school and then managed to instigate parts of them all; the requisite volunteer programme for the Upper-Fives after they complete their GCSE exams in the summer.

And that’s not the half of it.

(Mrs. Lawrence has no idea, for example, how even Lexa’s lips are transformative—how Clarke is beginning to discover that they taste a little different when she’s smug compared to when she’s embarrassed and oh god, how when she’s sleepy they’re gooey almost like caramel and when she’s smiling…)

(When she’s smiling there’s no dessert on Earth that could ever compare.)

Fortunately, Clarke finds the willpower to shift the conversation to life at Polis during Helen’s time and while that’s not quite as fascinating as Lexa’s lips, it’s interesting to hear about bathing being restricted to once a month and sweets being locked away in tuck boxes and Matrons instead of kindly Housemistresses and older girls being in charge of darning socks for the younger ones. By the end of the visit, Clarke is bundled up with a tin of homemade Eccles cakes for Lexa and Mrs. Lawrence’s phone number in addition to the box of balloons, the former Board member urging her to ring if there’s anything she can do to help in the future.

All the shops are open and bustling when she gets back to High Street and Clarke wanders into several shops and makes several impulse purchases. She refuses a bag in one particular store inside which she couldn’t shake a permablush, tucking the items into the bottom of another bag instead. It’s finally close to noon by then and with a rising sense of both relief and anticipation, she heads back to the grammar school.

Lexa clearly isn’t expecting her to be waiting outside the building after her last lesson and her smile of surprise makes Clarke revaluate her plans for making Christmas cookies this year because why bother.

(Except maybe the thought of how Lexa’s lips might taste with leftover powdered sugar from her father’s snowball cookies on them, warm and pleased like she’d been with that sticky toffee pudding—)

(Clarke loses the train of conversation for a minute. Two.)

She refuses Lexa’s attempts to hold some of her shopping bags, instead rummaging through them for the fancy-looking Marks & Spencer’s chicken tikka wrap and forcing the Head Girl to eat it as they walk to her afternoon job, knowing that Heda won’t allow herself to be distracted from her duties once she’s inside for something as self-indulgent as lunch. She eats it one-handed, the other hand in Clarke’s (and sneakily bearing some of the weight of the bag of balloons, Clarke comments with raised eyebrows and a kiss).

Lexa tastes of curry and some sort of pink-flavoured chapstick when she kisses her between bites, when she kisses her when she finishes her food, when Lexa hesitates outside a large red brick house and then kisses her against a tall stone column.

(Clarke’s never really thought she’d be into Indian food but she’s starting to reconsider.)

(She’s definitely into Lexa-flavoured Indian food. Indian-food-flavoured Lexa.)

There’s only one errand left to perform once Lexa goes inside with a final glance over her shoulder and it’s one that finally tips the balance into needing a taxi back to Polis. It’s weird signing into Brigid House and even weirder actually signing out a little later instead of sneaking out the window.

--

The sun can’t really be considered newly-set anymore when Clarke hears movement outside Lexa’s room at last and she lets out a breath she’s been holding for longer than is healthy—two more minutes and she doesn’t know what she would have done but it would have likely involved the police and a manhunt across the English countryside. Helicopters, probably. Sniffer dogs, definitely.

It’s only 5:30, admittedly, but still. Lexa shouldn’t be walking through empty fields and woodlands in the dark. Pitch black dark.

Doesn’t she know how important she is to the entire fucking universe?

Clarke hastens to take a few deep breaths before Lexa opens the door but in the end all she really needs to calm her furiously beating heart and slay the dark of night is the sight of the Head Girl herself.

The Head Girl without her usual weary shoulders or rings under her eyes, whose lips are curled in a secret smile and—holy shit, she’s actually humming.

The goddess whose breath catches when she sees the hundreds of golden lights strung up around her room, draped from the ceiling and along the floorboards, around the fireplace and a huge ball of them inside the hearth, so many that there’s no need for the overhead light. 

The girl who finally sees Clarke sitting cross-legged on the bed and bursts into a grin brighter than all the Christmas lights all put together.

“What did you do?” she mumbles as Clarke leaps to her feet and drapes her arms around Lexa’s neck.

“Merry Christmas,” Clarke barely manages around her own grin and ends the seemingly endless length of time that their lips have been apart. She knows her hands are warm but Lexa still shivers when she dips them under her scarf and lets two fingers rest on her pulse point for a couple of seconds before unwinding the red felt dumping it on the floor. She lifts the messenger bag away next, depositing it a little more gently to the side.

“Clarke, you didn’t have to—”

“I told you—” Clarke interrupts, unlooping the toggles on her coat, working her way up from the bottom. “—I couldn’t wait—” She pulls the hidden zipper down from the top before unsnapping the final closure at the collar. “—to decorate my home for Christmas.”

Clarke’s right in position to capture Lexa’s lips at their sharp inhale as if she’s been sucked in. Lexa’s lips curling into a soft smile that doesn’t stay soft for long. She pushes forward into the kiss with greedy little nips and tugs at Clarke’s lips like she’s ravenous.

Clarke knows the feeling.

Clarke reciprocates the feeling.

There’s still a trace of frost clinging to Lexa’s skin and the tips of her fingers are like ice, but her lips have long defrosted and her tongue is even warmer; Clarke finds herself shivering like she’s the one who has just come in from the cold, like she’s finally home by the fire with a cup of hot cocoa and a blanket around her shoulders. She pushes Lexa’s jacket all the way off and that blanket is suddenly warmer; Lexa is nothing but molten body heat under her armor.

It might be aeons or it might be milliseconds before Lexa slows her lips’ campaign at the victory horn, puffing heavily into Clarke’s neck. Clarke’s having the same difficulty drawing a deep enough breath, especially when the air in her lungs is cold and all she wants is Lexa’s feverish mouth back on hers. Their chests are heavy against one another, their bodies flush and warm and kinetic in so many pleasing places, and Clarke wraps an arm around Lexa’s back to keep it that way.

“Sorry,” Lexa says sheepishly a few moments later when her respiration is steady again. Clarke is still miles away from that and she blinks in confusion when Lexa struggles to her feet and pulls her up to standing as well—she hadn’t even noticed them both falling down to the bed.

“That apology better be for stopping,” Clarke grumbles, smoothing down her jumper and adjusting her jeans. She adjusts Lexa’s clothes, too. Just for good measure.

“That, too,” Lexa says around a tongue-tipped grin, batting away Clarke’s hands on her fifth smoothing of her collar, and Clarke is reminded of when she thought that this girl never smiled. What a loss to civilization that would have been—she’s pretty sure these smiles of Lexa’s are secretly powering her renewable energy initiatives at Polis, if not for the entire planet at the same time.

Lexa’s eyes slide over to the row of candles lining the windowsill and Clarke drags her over to see that they’re battery-powered LED candles before that pretty forehead can contort into a frown. “No rules are being broken. I even checked with Mrs. Daisy.”

“Mrs. Daisy knows you put all these lights up, too?” Lexa’s eyes are wide and Clarke’s already a step ahead of her.

“Of course. Who do you think found all these power adaptors for me? She had no problem with the slight bending of rules even before I told her how the lights were LED, too. All combined, they use less wattage than your overhead light. And just as safe as the candles.”

“They’re beautiful,” Lexa says quietly, picking one up and holding it close to her face to investigate the electronic flame; flickering light casts across her cheeks, just when Clarke doesn’t think she could look any more ethereal. She makes a note to herself to buy more candles.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Oh, shut it,” Lexa scoffs, rolling her eyes. Her cheeks are pink though and there’s no hiding the pleased look that flushes across her face. She lowers the candle just enough to catch Clarke’s lips over the top. “You’re beautiful,” she whispers against them and her taste changes into something sweeter, something that can only be another smile. Clarke kisses that smile, unable to resist, and then at each of its corners before she manages to pull away.

“Christmas poinsettias were on special, too,” she goes on, pointing to the two potted plants she’s set on Lexa’s desk. “Guess we’ll see if you have a green thumb or not.”

Lexa runs a (beautiful) finger along the red petal of the closest plant. She looks a little overwhelmed, especially when she dips her nose down to sniff the scentless flower, probably to shield her face for a second. Clarke knows enough to stay quiet, to hold off teasing her this time. To give her all the seconds she needs.    

When she stands back up, Lexa keeps her eyes on the poinsettias but grapples backward with one of her hands and Clarke’s already halfway to catching it. “You bought two,” she says after clearing her throat. “You said you’d never taken care of a plant either. Why don’t you water this one and I’ll watch over the other one?”

“Think you can keep yours alive longer?” Clarke challenges her with a sly grin.

Lexa doesn’t rise to it. Not even in the least. “No,” she says, gentle fingers prying the leaves apart from where they’ve become smushed together in transit. “You’re very good at taking care of living things.”

“So are you.”

Meeting her eye, one corner of Lexa’s lips quirks up. “May they both live forever, then.”

“Challenge accepted.”

“I can agree to those terms,” Lexa says with a small chuckle, squeezing Clarke’s hand and turning her gaze back to the candles.

The silence between them is soft and Clarke takes Lexa’s other hand after a few beats, time languid and unhurried for what’s probably about a minute for the rest of the world. Lexa’s eyes run a lazy circuit between their hands, the new decorations, and Clarke’s eyes; Clarke keeps her eyes on Lexa’s, the emotions therein more beautiful than all the decorations combined.

“Thank you,” Lexa says when a car alarm in the distance finally forces time back into its usual flight. “I love it. All of it.”

Clarke barely manages to hold back the automatic response that leaps up from throat, not sure yet whether Lexa would tease her or run away for it just now, instead leaning in for unhurried kiss while walking Lexa backward to the bed. She urges her to sit and then kneels to remove her boots, pulling them both to lie against the pillows once all evidence of an outside world has been vanquished.

The glow-in-the-dark stars are eclipsed by the intensity of the fairy lights and there’s probably a metaphor there; she thinks about asking Lexa but she forgets her question when the head girl turns on her side and mindlessly pulls their knotted fingers to rest against her chin, ducking her head to run them against her lips every so often like Wells’ baby cousin used to do with her favourite blanket. Clarke tucks herself in even closer to Lexa, turning on her side as well and slotting their legs together as if they’ve been custom-fit. 

“Your feet are cold,” Clarke comments idly, rubbing her own warm ones against them.

“I keep you around for a reason.” She kisses Clarke’s hand the next time her mouth drops down and hope stirs in Clarke’s chest that maybe the head girl’s comfort-seeking isn’t so mindless after all. 

“Everything went well with picking up the balloons?” Lexa asks after a long moment.

“Yep. They look awesome, too—they’re over in that corner, ready for tomorrow. The helium tanks are coming in the morning?”

“Mmm,” Lexa hums, bruising her lips against their hands before continuing. “At nine. The Prefects have recruited a dozen or so girls to help filling and tying them. I’ve reserved the New Hall for that, we can store them there until we need them, too.”

“Perfect. I checked over at the Old Hall this afternoon, it looks great.”

“Oh, good. I have to admit I got little concerned on my walk home tonight that the Fifth-Formers wouldn’t be able to locate enough chairs.”

“They did an amazing job. The decorations are better than I’d anticipated, too.”

Lexa lets out a long sigh of relief and leans up on an elbow to see Clarke better. “Thank you for all your help with this. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You could have done it, it’s just easier when you have help.” Nuzzling her nose into Lexa’s but avoiding her seeking lips, Clarke laughs at the pout that rises up on them. “But that reminds me—you shouldn’t be walking home alone in the dark. It’s not safe, Lex.”

“I can handle myself,” Lexa murmurs, still pouting. Damn it, pouting just makes those lips look even more enticing and Clarke gives in, raising her head off the pillow and kissing Lexa deep enough that she feels it in the tips of her toes, not to mention other body parts.

(Clarke Griffin definitely likes girls.)

(One girl, anyway.)

Clarke’s hand is still tangled in the hair at the nape of Lexa’s neck when she falls back down, arm shakier than perhaps it should be at holding her weight. She leaves it there, even if it’s in an awkward position, draped across both their necks. The hair under her fingertips is just so soft and her ministrations elicit tiny little noises from Lexa’s throat that she wants to record and use as her ringtone for the rest of her life.

“I’m sure you can handle yourself,” Clarke reassures her when she gets her breath back. “You shouldn't have to, though.”

“I really like kissing you,” Lexa tries to change the subject, raising their hands to her lips and keeping them there.

“Lexa.” Clarke isn’t deterred, not even—well, okay maybe a little bit—when she feels the gentlest of teeth against the back of her hand and then the tip of a tongue. “Lexa.”

“They’re leaving tomorrow until the New Year, anyway. It’ll be a little lighter out by then.”

“Lexa.”

Puffing out a long breath, the head girl closes her eyes for a second. “Very well. I’ll take Fiona up on her offer to give me a lift back next time.

“Lexa!” Of course Lexa refuses rides home in the December darkness, insisting on walking alone across pitch-black farmlands and poorly-lit country roads. Of course she does.

Then again, who has she ever had waiting by the window during her walk home, wringing their hands at the encroaching night and fretting about her safety? When was the last time someone swept her into their arms and whispered that they were worried, that they’re so glad she’s alive?

Lexa says nothing more but Clarke can feel through the pulse on her wrist that her heart is working harder than it needs to be; she rubs her thumb over the jumping skin in long strokes.

“Thank you. Now, do you think we need any other Christmas decorations? Do you have a stocking we can hang from the fireplace?” she asks softly, talking more with the aim of calming than anything else.

Shaking her head in the negative, Lexa squeezes Clarke’s hand in gratitude and she hopes and hopes and hopes it’s not just for changing the subject.

“Me neither. Or rather, I don’t have one on this continent. So we’ll just have to buy new ones together. Polis red, maybe.” Clarke continues to stroke Lexa’s hand, moving down to explore her fingers and the skin of her knuckles, the way she’s a little ticklish at light touches to her palm judging by the slight squirming.

“Okay. Yes, that would be nice.”

“And you’re coming to my guardian’s with me for the break, right?”

There’s only the briefest of wavering before Lexa nods. Clarke’s lips slide into a grin and she can feel one rise up on Lexa when she surges forward to kiss her. This one tastes like rainfall in a desert.

“Good.”

“Good,” Lexa returns. She’s still smiling, a little shy but mostly determined, and oh holy fuck how is it possible to love this girl even more than she did five minutes ago?

“I love you,” she whispers against Lexa’s lips once more because she can—she can—and without taking a breath, leans her head onto her free hand and barrels forward into more questions. “Wait, you Brits do stockings, right? And Santa Claus? Because I refuse to take part in any of this without those two traditions.”

“Yes and yes,” Lexa says after a slow swallow. “We called him Father Christmas more when I was little but I think the Americanisms have reached full penetrance since, even in our isolated little school.”

“We Americans tend to do that,” Clarke laughs and begins twisting strands of hair that have become increasingly curly throughout the day around her finger. “Sorry about my people.”

“I’m not opposed to all American imports. I’m very fond of some of them, actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm. Those fruit roll-ups were gorgeous.”

“I’m glad,” Clarke teases, pulling lightly at the strand of hair in her possession. Lexa winces for show and then rolls closer to kiss her. “I certainly enjoyed watching you eat them.”

“Santa’s welcome over here, too.”

“You have to say that or risk missing out on his presents.”

Lexa’s eyes are so soft and open right now that Clarke can hardly stand it.  “True.”

“My mom told me the truth about Santa earlier than she should have because she had to work Christmas Eve and we had to move Christmas back a few days when I was in kindergarten,” Clarke tells her, dropping her head back onto the pillow and closing her eyes. “I refused to believe her, of course, came up with loads of reasons why he must be real.”

“Of course you did.”

Clarke laughs and continues to play with Lexa’s hair, opening her eyes after a few moments. “It became a bit of a joke when I was older because I never admitted that she was right, even when I was literally helping them set up the presents under the fireplace. Never.” She sobers at little at that realization and her throat thickens.

“I bet your parents secretly loved how stubbornly you clung to the magic,” Lexa guesses quietly, tucking errant strands of hair behind Clarke’s ear with her free hand.

“Probably.” The thought brings her smile back and she sees it mirrored a millisecond later on Lexa. “How long did you believe in Father Christmas?”

“Longer than I should have.” Lexa actually looks a little embarrassed and Clarke kisses the tip of her adorable little nose. “I heard the older girls talking about it, that it was all their parents’ doing, but…”

Her smile falters a little but it’s not sad, it’s more bittersweet. Nostalgic, maybe. “But I didn’t have any parents and I still got presents from him. Every single Christmas morning. It probably wasn’t as much as the other girls got, but that didn’t matter—it was enough that I knew he was real. He had to be. I figured that everyone else had their Santa presents supplemented by their parents and that was the reason for the other girls’ confusion.”

Okay, that’s even more heartbreaking than Clarke was anticipating Lexa’s answer to be, but it’s achingly sweet as well. She can just imagine tiny little Lexa treasuring her mites like gold, her modest presents like talismans of something higher. Someone benevolent and kind and who had Lexa’s name on a list just like every other child in the world.

“Who...?”

“I only figured it out when I was twelve, the Christmas after the previous Headmistress passed away and my presents were suddenly labelled in Anya’s handwriting.”

“Ah.” Clarke feels the sudden need to track down a former Head Girl and sign her up for a flowers-of-the-week subscription. And a wine-of-the-week service. Is there such thing as chocolate-of-the-week in Australia?

Come to think of it, does England have any flower-of-the-week services? She’ll check next time she’s in the computer lab.

“I thanked her when she returned after the holidays and asked her not to do anything the next year. But the thing is, I was actually more grateful than if it had been some magical being. Because it meant there were people who cared enough to try and keep that belief in magic alive and—well, I think that’s even more wonderful. That’s why I love Christmas: it’s all about caring about people enough to want to instill a sense of awe and wonder in them, to elevate them beyond Earth’s everyday toils. In some way or another.”

This time, Clarke doesn’t hold back from hugging this literal messenger of light, rolling on top of her and smothering her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids and her jawline with little kisses while squeezing her torso so tight that it’s probably just below the threshold of strangulation. Lexa’s face is wet and it’s only then that Clarke feels the tears dripping down her own cheeks. She kisses them dry, unwilling to see Lexa with tears on her face even if they’re not her own.

“Clarke. Clarke,” Lexa giggles when it goes on for longer than perhaps absolutely necessary. With a final kiss to her lips that in fairness she intends to be quick but ends up being quick only in its acceleration, Clarke lets the mattress take most of her weight again and they both lie side-by-side until their breath is caught.

“Wow,” Lexa exhales after a moment, glancing down at Clarke’s hand, still halfway under her Oxford shirt (sadly stymied by the thermal tank underneath). “Remind me not to tell you my thoughts on Easter unless we’re alone.”

The fairy lights reflect in Lexa’s eyes and Clarke watches her eyes more than figuratively twinkle. “Do you have thoughts on Easter?”

“No,” Lexa laughs (and ohhh is it beautiful), “but I’ll make sure to come up with something by April.”

Clarke lunges forward and kisses her for believing that they’ll still be together in April and then again for believing in Santa and mankind, kisses her for being so strong and once more for being so soft. For thinking the best of everyone, for having the thickest armour and also a quick-release catch, for being Lexa while still being the strongest Heda she’s sure the school has ever seen and will ever see again.

“But perhaps you would be interested in knowing that I write individualised letters signed as Father Christmas to all the girls in the junior house each year,” Lexa wisecracks, puckering her lips for another kiss like it’s all another line in their banter, like everything she does is all tinsel and string. Lights keep twinkling in her eyes and Clarke keeps seeing galaxies.

“Fuck, Lex.”

Lexa gets her kiss, a long hungry one with searching tongues and loud slurping noises and squished noses, but she also gets Clarke’s lips worshiping down her jaw, on the throat that she lets fall exposed, along her neck and down to the exposed patches of skin at her collarbones and sternum. Clarke’s free hand wanders, except that it can’t really be considered wandering when it’s more like furiously roving up and down Lexa’s sides and down her leg, into each dip and every turn, seeking more and more of this girl, this girl of which she’ll never have her fill. She feels softer fingers on her own back, trailing down to the hemline of her sweater and inches, millimeters away from finding warm skin—

And then the 15-minute supper warning bell rings.

“Fuuuuck,” Clarke groans, dropping her forehead down to Lexa’s, gasping for air. That only manages to bring Lexa’s lips closer though and she has to wrench herself away with more self-control than she ever thought she’d possess, rolling onto her back and breathing through her nose.

Lexa’s cheeks are pink like she’s been singing and she’s biting her lip and fuck. This is probably the first time that Clarke hates boarding school.

“Skive?”

“Clarke. We can’t. I have to give the blessing, too; Dr. Peters had unexpected family issues this weekend, apparently. Mrs. Daisy told me when I got in.”

Clarke lets out a lament loud enough for the next-door House to hear and struggles up to her knees, taking Lexa’s hand and pulling her up, too.

She looks Lexa over in the golden light, letting her eyes drop down where her lips have just charted with a hunger that’s not for Saturday night formal dinner, remembering each freckle and—

“Um, you’re wearing your cloak to dinner, right?”

“Yes?”

“Buttoned?”

“I always do. Why?” Clarke tries to bite away the smirk on her lips but she’s utterly unsuccessful. Lexa follows her eyes and then hurries over to the mirror above her sink, fingers flying to her clavicle right above where a peter pan collared shirt might button. “Clarke!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Clarke apologies, also failing in an expression of remorse even if she is. Somewhat. She kisses the mark instead. “It’s fine. Totally hidden by your magic Heda superhero cape.”

Lexa also fails in holding her stern expression. “You got lucky.”

Wrapping her arms around the Head Girl from behind and tucking her chin down onto her shoulder, she finds Lexa’s eye in the mirror.

“I sure did.”

--

Clarke sits across from Lexa at the high table for the first time, neither the Headmistress nor Dr. Peters around to make a fuss about official protocol for inviting students up there. They play footsie the whole meal, or rather Clarke does and Heda attempts to feign haughty disinterest that soon dissolves into defense and then an outright counterattack that results in a loud snort of laughter from the High Table interloper during the Head Girl’s post-prandium blessing.

Lexa shoots her the Heda raised eyebrow and Clarke almost forgets for a moment that one of Heda’s feet is shoeless and only moments ago had been higher up her skirt it should ever be while reciting a prayer.

The high table leaves first and Clarke catches Raven and Octavia’s eyes at their usual table, chins rested on folded hands and a pair of shit-eating grins pointed in her direction.

Maybe there’s a universe where Clarke should ignore them or roll her eyes, glare at them even. It’s not this one.

Clarke bursts into what she attempts as a shit-eating grin of her own but is probably a loopier smile than Lexa’s in her class this morning.

Two sets of elbows slip off the table and a plastic pitcher of water is upended all over the floor.

--

They work on Lexa’s speech and other last-minute arrangements for Founder’s Day in the Sixth Form Annex after dinner, the presence of at least one Prefect or House Prefect checking in or asking a question preventing anything other than serious preparation. And that’s fine, it really is.

Clarke pretends the Eccles cakes Lexa’s brought in for the Prefects and other volunteers are more than just eh while scowling at the fountain pen tapping her Head Girl’s lips.

By some unspoken mutual agreement, they part ways after the curfew bell and Clarke trudges back to the solitary confines of her Brigid room. Fine. Whatever. It makes sense.

Clarke slips between Lexa’s sheets just after one o’clock and her glorious day and Bethlehem star at night twists around, her mantle of sleep warm in the cold of the room.

“You sure do like your co-sleeping,” Lexa mumbles, threading her fingers through Clarke’s where they rest between their bodies.

“Be careful,” Clarke warns with a contented sigh, burrowing closer to Lexa’s warmth and siphoning up some of her sleep. “I’ll be after co-ruling next,” she yawns, already half-asleep after sliding a leg between Lexa’s. “Just wait. I’ll be taking half your crown.”

Lexa opens her eyes and they’re so unexpectedly tender—they’re so goddamn tender that Clarke’s heart throbs like it’s breaking and mending and breaking all over again, over and over and again and again. It settles in the mended position.

The wind whistles through the window and the roof tiles shake above their heads but they’re safe from it all in their den of body heat and feathers.

“You already have it,” Clarke hears just before she falls under the current of sleep. “Ai haiplana.”

She doesn’t know the noun but she knows the possessive and it’s uttered like a prayer. She dreams about her mother’s arms and her father’s chest beneath her cheek during a hug and Lexa’s hand, warm and unfailing in her own.

Chapter Text

Lexa wakes before Clarke on Sunday morning, before the 6am alarm, even. She’s all taut muscles and tighter thoughts and when Clarke cracks open an eye at the sudden disturbance in the softness of the bed, she swears she can almost see the list of tasks and contingency plans flashing through Lexa’s pupils.

“There’s still like…forty minutes before we need to be awake,” Clarke whines after a quick glance at her watch, burrowing deeper into the covers and reaching for the body beside her so it doesn’t move away.

Lexa settles into her hold but she doesn’t loosen her mental sword’s grip. Her fingers drum out an impatient rhythm on the back of Clarke’s hand. “Did I confirm the delivery time with the bakery?”

“Yes. Ten. The Upper Fives are meeting the catering team. Go back to sleep.”

“Is there anything else Dr. Peters does in chapel that I need to cover?”

To her credit, Clarke does pause to think about that, valiantly slogging through her sleep haze to think about the order of service. “No. Just the organ and piano but Vivian wasn’t worried about taking over those.”

“Nor am I. She’ll be brilliant.”

“Mmm. Now close your eyes, Lex. A rested mind is a…I don’t know, happy mind? Don’t your psych textbooks go over this?”

 The bedsprings stop creaking and Lexa’s finger tapping stills.

“I wonder—”

“Chil au, Lex. If anything goes wrong, we’ll figure out a way to fix it. You’re not running Founder’s Day alone.”

“Right. Yes.”

There’s silence.

“You’re still thinking, aren’t you?”

More silence.

“Lexa.” Clarke opens her eyes to see two beautiful lips moving soundlessly. She puffs out a long breath and then kisses them into surrender. “Go rehearse your speech in the shower,” she concedes once Lexa is soft and supple beneath her.

For a moment it seems like Lexa’s going to refuse—she even begins to lean in again—but Heda wins out this morning. Lexa sighs and plants a final not-super-chaste peck on her lips before untangling herself from the sheets and Clarke’s limbs.

Once Lexa’s out of the room, towel in hand, Clarke considers rolling over and going back to sleep. She considers making the early-morning trek back to her own House to take her own shower. She considers that Lexa didn’t take her uniform down to the shower room like she usually does.

Clarke stays right where she is, sitting up and planting herself cross-legged in the middle of the bed.

(After brushing her teeth at the sink, glad that her blue toothbrush finally has a little pink friend.)

(Pink with little flowers. It probably requires a special trip to the children’s dental care section.)

When Lexa returns, wrapped only in her threadbare towel and steam-flushed cheeks, Clarke drops her eyes away and the universe rewards her self-control with a long kiss from a girl with so much—so much—skin on show. The concentrated scent of her freshly-shampooed hair, oh god Clarke actually feels her mouth salivating and the slide of her fingers over skin she’s never felt, even smoother than she could have ever imagined and then the patch right over Lexa’s third and forth ribs is more so and then her bra strap ‘falls’ down and fuck. 

Clarke’s just about gotten her fingers hooked into the hem of the towel when her old arch-nemesis interrupts with a screeching wail.

“Jok,” she hisses and without a further thought, Clarke stands up, snatches up the awful clock and its frayed cord and its cheap fucking speakers, and hurls it out the window.

It lands with the most satisfying of crunches.

“Clarke!” Lexa looks horrified, mouth ajar and eyes wide.

“How time flies,” Clarke quips with an unapologetic shrug coupled with an apologetic bite of her lip, crossing her arms and glancing down at the street to make sure it’s really dead. She’s sorry for nothing except Lexa’s shock.

Which is kind of cute, if she’s honest.

Lexa’s eyes flit between the open window and the empty space on her bedside table and Clarke holds her breath until Lexa lets out hers in a long puff.

“Did that make you feel better?” Lexa finally asks with a wry smile that’s hiding a much bigger one.

“So much better. So much.” Lexa rolls her eyes and goes over to close the window. “I’ll bring over my clock tonight,” Clarke promises after kissing a tiny freckle on her shoulder. “It has a much nicer alarm tone; no one should have to start the day with that monstrosity of a noise.”

“Hmm,” the Head Girl allows, lowering her lips to the equivalent spot above Clarke’s t-shirt before walking over to the wardrobe. “I seem to have survived it just fine. Incidentally, who is teaching you Trigedasleng swear words?” she asks over her shoulder, eyes twinkling. “You’ve certainly never heard them from me. I’m not convinced they’re part of the original lexicon, quite frankly.”

“Clearly they’re an important part of any language. Especially when it comes to obnoxious alarm clocks.” Clarke glowers toward the window and then flops down on the bed again.

Rather than banter something back though, one corner of Lexa’s mouth turns down and she nods, turning back to fishing out the various pieces of her uniform with only one hand. “I do wish there were more hours in the day,” she admits, so softly and so sincerely that Clarke’s heart throbs.

“You’d only spend them revising,” Clarke teases in an attempt to turn that mouth upwards again. 

Lexa turns and regards her seriously for a long moment before perching on the edge of the desk chair to pull her clothes on under her towel. Clarke closes her eyes and savours the symphony of rustling material and woolen tights sliding up smooth skin.

“No I wouldn’t,” she hears a little later and it takes her a beat to remember what they were talking about. 

“Mmmhmm,” Clarke hums in playful disbelief.

“I wouldn’t,” Lexa insists and then the bed dips with her weight. Clarke opens her eyes and lets herself be pulled under the covers again with the wet-haired girl she loves.

Lexa pulls the duvet entirely over their heads and her next words are whispered like they’re a secret or like they’re sacred and maybe there’s something inherently entwined about the two concepts, some unsolvable holy mystery that can’t be solved by rationality or the senses alone.

 “I’d spend any extra minute right here. With you.”

Tucking herself even tighter into Lexa’s warmth, Clarke tilts her head up and kisses the fount of her every blessing, reckless and hard at first and then softening into languid pecks and nips. Outside, the morning light marches on but it finds no stronghold under these sheets.

“If anyone can make extra hours in the day happen, it’d be you, Lex. Add that to your to-do list.”

“Mmm, I’ll get to it right after Founder’s Day.” Lexa idly wraps a strand of Clarke’s hair around her finger and watches it fall loose.

“Good. We need a minimum of three extra hours, I should think.”

“How about ten extra minutes right now?” Lexa offers, still twisting Clarke’s hair with a look not unlike reverence in her eyes; Clarke nuzzles in closer to give her unimpeded access.

“Do we have time?”

“We’ll make time.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

“Good.” Clarke can’t see Lexa’s eyes but somehow she can feel when the head girl closes her eyes again. “Your hair is so beautiful, Clarke,” she says after a moment, her words dawdling and almost dream-like. “C’est la fille aux cheveux de lin, la belle aux lèvres de cerise.”

“Just when I’m starting to get my head around Trigedasleng, you have to switch to French, huh?”

Lexa snuggles closer, wrapping her arms around Clarke and dropping her lips in little pecks along her temple. “Tu ne parle pas français, mon nounours?”

Clarke laughs at Lexa’s dozy mumbles, half-muffled by her own hair. “Non,” she emphasises with her strongest and probably worst French accent.

“Alors. Parfois, il est plus facile d’exprimer nos pensées dans une autre langue.”

“Whatever you say, Lexicon,” Clarke murmurs after another small laugh and brushes her lips over the nearest skin they find, leaving them there to rest. She knows from experience that sometimes it’s easier to speak your mind in a language that isn’t your own, easier to practice speaking your feelings when they’re untranslatable. The words settle in the little nooks and crannies between their bodies and Clarke lets them be, allowing her muscles and her consciousness to slacken in their feather-touch and strong arms.

She wakes to cherry-sweet lips on hers and a barrage of questions about how to circumvent hypothetical Headmistress-related pettiness at the Founder’s Day celebration, questions that Lexa both asks and answers herself.

--

Nia doesn’t manage to touch the Founder’s Day celebrations.

She doesn’t even show up, ostensibly in Wales for the weekend, and if she thought she was making a statement by staying away, it’s only that Polis’ current Headmistress can’t be bothered to shake the hands of those who have come before. Silver- and white-haired women whisper about how involved and wonderful and warm their Heads were as they congregate on the Quad, bedecked in beautiful hats and feathers and their Sunday best under their old school cloaks. There are at least eight former Head Girls in attendance, judging by the number of red cloaks beneath the stone arches and along the cloisters.

It’s a slightly unnerving scene, actually, Clarke having assumed that The Cloak^TM was passed down from year to year, but that’s only true of the pin on her lapel, Lexa whispers when she asks. Without thinking, Clarke reaches out and brushes her fingers across the symbol of protection that tiny Lexa was adorable enough to believe was a gear, representing the equal importance of everyone in the school.

“You have to give this up at the end of the year?”

“I pass it on at the end of the year,” Lexa corrects her softly, shifting her gaze over to Adenne for a moment. “Heda can be immortal that way. Leaving isn’t the end.” When she returns her eyes to Clarke, still toying with the little third eye, she covers her hand with her own and her smile turns tender, like Clarke’s doing something more than she knows. “Gonplei kigon feva,” Lexa murmurs. “The fight goes on.”

The idea of Lexa without her title and pin is still unimaginable but then again, she suspects that neither actually changed the girl standing before her nor will it make a difference when they’re gone. Lexa wore the mantle of Heda long before it was official; she was born to be Heda and Clarke’s pretty sure she’ll still be Heda on her death bed.

But Clarke doesn’t want to think about that.

Clarke rises up on her tiptoes to confide into Lexa’s ear. “Well, you could never be anything less than Heda to me.” It’s a chore to step back without letting her lips follow the sounds that come out of them but she manages, given that they’re in the middle of the Quad with at least a hundred Old Girls and about the same number of young ones not to mention parents and assorted family members. Lexa fumbles between their cloaks though, squeezing Clarke’s hand before drifting over to a group of women and introducing herself.

(They know who she is. How could they not?)

There’s about fifteen minutes before the choir needs to be in their orderly queues outside the chapel doors and Clarke takes the opportunity to peek in on the preparations for the form presentations. The Lower Four common room is bursting with sagging cardboard cutouts and half-costumed girls, frantic Prefects and House Prefects running around with sellotape and safety pins. They definitely have it all under control but Clarke’s grateful that Lexa’s been forbidden from any part in the production, regardless.

“Clarke!” a frazzled Lower Six calls out when she sees her enter and it’s like the entire room whips their heads around in unison. There’s a beat of silence she’ll later realise to be the calm before the storm and then they descend upon her, questions about timings and photocopier codes and the Head Girl’s favourite colour. Clarke eyes the girl asking about Lexa’s personal preferences sidelong but she knows the answers to everything, somehow, and by the time she slips away with the other choir Prefects, the room’s in a far more serene state.

It’s only as she’s hurrying back through the halls to retrieve her forgotten cloak that she realises how much she’s changed since arriving at Polis. How second-nature all this leading has come for a girl who barely took part in any school-related activities much less student government in New York, how quickly she’s begun to feel part of a larger whole. How much personal responsibility she’s developed for bettering the world around her and how empowered she feels to do so.

How much strength has lain dormant inside her, crouched and waiting for a single spark.

Lexa comes around the corner, cloak sailing a step behind, and Clarke’s grin sets off like a thousand burning fireworks.

“And just where are you sneaking off to, Heda?”

Clarke’s voice makes her jump and she almost trips over her girdles. “I…” Lexa’s eyes are wide and she knows she’s been caught; Clarke watches with amusement as she stumbles for an excuse for her presence in the very wing of the school in which she’s been banned. “I got lost?”

“You’re the worst,” Clarke laughs and kisses the tip of her nose. “Come on. They’re fine. Everything’s running smoothly.”

“I don’t understand why I’m not permitted to know anything about the form presentations,” Lexa grumbles but allowing herself to be turned about-face and led back down the stairs. “They were my idea. I could help,” she continues to complain, her lower lip far too pouty and plump for Clarke to resist nibbling on in the next empty corridor.

“That’s exactly why, Lex. You have more than enough to do. You’ll be pleased with the outcome though, I promise.”

“I’d better be,” Lexa probably thinks she threatens. She barely manages to lose her sloshy smile before they push open the outside doors to join the choir lines.

“I’m terrified,” Clarke snorts as they part ways.

 --

The chapel portion of the event is short and simple, officiated by an alumnus Vicar and intended mainly for the Old Girls and their guests. Once everyone’s found their places, the rest of the school is invited inside to fill the remaining seats and Clarke’s impressed—but not surprised—that the chapel is full to capacity by the time the heavy wooden doors shut with their characteristic clunk.

Psalms are chanted, first lines by the choir and echoed back by the congregation, and the hymns are easy classics like Jerusalem and I Vow to Thee, my Country (or at least easy classics for anyone who’s been at the school more than three months). Vivian fills in for Dr. Peters on the organ and Lexa directs the choir from her seat.  

Since the anthem they’d been preparing for Founder’s Day in Granplei requires a complicated accompaniment the organ scholar isn’t familiar with, the next-year’s Head of Choir has laid out copies of Rutter’s The Lord Bless You and Keep You at everyone’s spot this morning, an anthem that they always whip out when they need something quick and easy. As always, the choir gracefully adapts to the change despite the lack of warning; Dr. Peter’s eagle eyes and swift scolding for anything from being a minute late to forgetting a pencil has instilled such a sense of mental alertness in every single singer that Clarke can hardy remember what it was like to coast her way through life.

All in all, it’s a short service, a single scripture reading and no sermon, and it draws to a close after only half an hour. It’s nowhere near the pomp and circumstance of past years but if Clarke had once questioned the utility of holding such a barebones service at all, there’s no longer any doubt in her mind why the Head Girl had been so insistent. She’s never heard such enthusiasm in the hymns or the responses as from the pews of bright-eyed Old Girls. It seems like the years fall away for those thirty minutes, like they’re all seventeen years old again, hovering on the cusp of the rest of their lives with winged-confidence.

Clarke tears up at the School Hymn, one that apparently sings out the end of each term, and it hits her that while she might have only six months left at Polis, this is only the first of her many Founder’s Days. It’s more family than school reunion, but that’s only a useful distinction for those who don’t already consider the two words synonyms. 

Heda leads the choir in their exit procession, surprisingly austere without the notes of the organ to herald them out, but their beat is as sure as always thanks to their commander and chief rhythm-giver. There’s a selection of cakes and other sweets donated by the local bakery alongside the requisite tea and little silver pots of boiling water all set up in the formal dining room and it soon becomes a buzzing confusion of the young and the young-at-heart, several generations of Polis girls exchanging cheek kisses and hugs. The atmosphere can only be called warm—warm with cups of tea and warm with affection and happy memories of schooldays long gone.

Lexa is stationed at the door, greeting everyone as they enter, resulting in quite the bottleneck accumulating out into the hall, like the Head Girl is the bride at her wedding and tradition dictates she shake everyone’s hand.

(More like she’s the Queen of England, Clarke decides. And not just because the thought of Lexa in a white dress and veil makes her mouth go dry and her train of thought to shoot right off the track into wild flights of fancy.)

Every single former Polis girl is thanked for attending by name and the fact that Heda always knows personal details, asking after new babies and congratulating recent career successes, suggests that she’s not relying on the name tags. She’s such a natural leader, her motions and smiles so effortless and genuine, and it’s obvious that every single woman absolutely adores Lexa. Clarke notes with satisfaction the sheer number of cheek pinches and embraces being bestowed on her favourite living being. If her biological grandparents refuse to see it, the loss is theirs alone—Lexa has hundreds of loving grandparents right here.

Trigedasleng is being bandied around the room as the generations mingle, testament to the staying power of foreign languages learnt at a young age, and it reminds Clarke that there’s a word she needs translating. It takes awhile and several wild goose chases but it’s eventually translated by a tiny women named Dotty who may very well have come up with the word, having attended Polis during the wartime evacuations. Her daughter and granddaughters and great-granddaughter are circled around her wheelchair, fondly finishing oft-told stories about the itchy wool uniforms that felt like they never got fully dry and the onions that were the only thing that would grow in the victory garden resulting in a winter full of French onion soup suppers.  

When Dotty pauses to drink the tea Charlotte brings her, Clarke asks whether the rumors that some of the girls were involved in code-breaking efforts are true. She gets a wink in return and the jaws of all seven family members drop.

“Nan?”

“Mum?!”

“Just when you thought you knew all my stories, hmm?”

As much as Clarke wants to hear more, she’s gestured over by Octavia, who updates her that something’s broken or miswired in the microphone system but that Raven’s on it. Rebecca steps up after that, asking whether Clarke knows who might have a key to the room with the sound stage. Also, as a teensy tiny side question, if she knows where the pre-printed cards for the balloons might be hiding. Clarke’s pretty sure she goes unattractively bug-eyed.

Lexa’s still busy being adored over— and there’s no way in hell Clarke’s going to interrupt that— but in any case she doesn’t think twice about taking care of it herself. With a wave to Dotty, she hurriedly pours two cups of tea into paper cups and follows the Prefects to the Old Hall where the main event is being held.

Everything’s sorted by the time Lexa joins them, two Chelsea buns in her hand. She passes one to Clarke while Adenne updates her on the status of their preparations. Clarke passes a cup of tea right back and then proceeds to pick out the raisins or whatever those yellow stones of death are called while Lexa sips at her tea.

“Sultanas,” the Head Girl tells her without her even asking, amused at the growing pile on Clarke’s napkin.

“Gross.”

Lexa holds out her hand as Rosy runs over to confirm the timing of the presentations and Clarke almost threads her fingers through prettier ones before realising the Head Girl’s asking for the discarded fruit.

(At which point she wishes that she had so much more to put into that outstretched palm. Silver and gold. Pink diamonds and sticky toffee ice cream cones.)

(Jesus Christ, that’s a pretty hand. Clarke has so many important questions about those fingers—whether they’re skilled at playing the piano, whether they need specially-fitted gloves or if they’re good at pickpocketing and exactly how long—)

Noticing Octavia standing with her hands on her hips, Clarke rushes to distract herself by jumping off the edge of the stage and joining her friend over near the speaker’s podium where she’s supervising Raven’s technical endeavors.

“How’s it going?”

“I think we’ve got it, Raven figured out the—”

Octavia is interrupted by a loud feedback screech and everyone in the room shudders to attention.

“Fixed!” Raven announces unnecessarily and they can all feel her voice vibrating under their feet. There’s a long silence and everyone in the room remains frozen, as if a single movement might result in another punishing noise. “Aaaand volume adjusted,” she whispers as she turns down the dial.

“Thanks, Rae. O, is there anything else that needs doing?”

Octavia shakes her head, jumping up to the stage and helping Raven detangle herself from all the wires. “I think we’re good, I’m going to send Gina to—Raven, stop wriggling—retrieve the stopwatch from Mr. Stanley’s office and then we’re set for the debate.”

“No need, I’ll grab it,” Clarke offers, spinning on her heal but not in time to avoid the unavoidable.

“And don’t think you’re getting out of a long, long chat, young lady,” Octavia calls out. “We expect to see you in our room before dinner tonight.”

“She probably doesn’t remember where we live, O,” Raven comments loudly, jumping off the stage and adopting a serious-parent face eerily similar to her roommate’s.

“Good point. Brigid House,” Octavia shouts as Clarke keeps edging away. “It’s that brick building you used to sleep—”

“Okay, okay,” Clarke groans to shut her up, shooting an exasperated glare to her friends while simultaneously feeling guilty for not checking in all weekend. “I’ll be there.”

“It’s so hard when they grow up and leave the nest,” Octavia sighs dramatically to Raven and Clarke rolls her eyes through two requisite sets of quick hugs.

“You look happy,” Octavia observes quietly when she pulls away. “More genuinely happy than I’ve ever seen you.”

Skating her eyes to across the hall for a moment, Clarke doesn’t bother culling the smile that stretches her lips. “I am happy,” she confirms and then Raven tugs her into another hug.

“Head Girl head though,” Raven whispers when she pulls away, a gleam in her eyes and probably a fast-blooming bruise on her arm from Octavia’s right hook, and yep, that’s the end of this conversation.

(So, so happy.)

Clarke quickly strides back to Lexa and quickly taps her arm. “Heda, will you help me carry down some things from upstairs?”

Lexa quickly agrees. She quickly takes Clarke’s hand once they’re (quickly) out of sight.

(It’s not so quick when Clarke backs her up against a table in an empty school office and kisses her like it’s been more than an hour since their last one. Lexa tastes like tea and sugar and—)

Clarke grimaces and pulls back. Lexa keeps her eyes closed as if it’s only a matter of time before Clarke will return.

It’s true, but— “You taste like raisins.”

“Sultanas.” Lexa’s eyes remain shut, expectant. She moves her hands to the edge of the desk so she’s better propped up to hold both of their weights. 

“You’re pretty confident that I like you more than I hate sultanas, huh?”

“Mmm.” The corners of her lips turn up.

“Good.” And Clarke grabs hold of the collar of Lexa’s cloak and pulls their mouths together again. The flavour of a smirk far overwhelms the withered fruit taste this time. “I really, really hate sultanas. For the record.”

“Duly noted.”

“In fact, I’d go as far as to say that I hate them more than anything else in the world.”

Lexa starts kissing the side of Clarke’s mouth as she talks, giggling and moving her lips up her jawline when she can’t keep hold with all the movement and there is literally nothing—nothing—more wonderful in heaven or on earth as the sound of Lexa giggling. Nothing.

“Is that so?”

“Yep, I think maybe more than—mmm, Lex, you…fuck.” Lexa reaches the patch of skin under her ear and Clarke doesn’t remember what life was like before this moment. She might be a soy bean farmer; they might be living in the caveman…age—fuck.

A pair of teeth catch her earlobe and the tip of a tongue darts out and Clarke thinks she might actually die.

Not, like, metaphorically, but actually die, right here in this empty boarding school office, an overworked heart in her chest and a smile on her face. Supernovas play out behind her eyelids and she understands now; she understands what it’s like to go from big to small to pending catastrophic explosion.

Digging her fingers into Lexa’s waist, Clarke pulls her closer. Closer and closer until they’re flush against each other, hip to hip and leg to leg and oh god chest to chest and she can hardly remember that girl who felt unreal and numb for months because there’s absolutely no doubt she’s alive right now—she knows she’s alive because she can feel Lexa’s pulse thumping and smell the heat of her skin. There’s an auroral lightshow dancing inside her eyelids and her heartbeat is so loud they can probably hear it on the International Space Station.

Lexa’s lips are taunting her though, moving just out of her reach every time she gives chase, contented in their sucking of Clarke’s earlobe and creating waves of goosebumps up and down her spine. Clarke settles for navigating a path through the maze of their cloaks and skirts to slot a leg in between Lexa’s. She’s not entirely sure what she’s doing—she’s not even entirely sure of her surname right now—except pursuing this thrumming urge to lose herself inside this girl’s skin, and okay, yes, that feels good. So, so good. Even better, it draws a gasp from a mouth that rapidly finds hers.

“Anything else about dehydrated grapes you want to discuss?” Lexa asks when Clarke has to wrench herself away and turn her head to the side in order to catch her breath.

Clarke whimpers.

“Alright then.”

Abdominal muscles contract under Clarke’s thumbs and Lexa rises off the table to capture her lower lip, tugging at it just enough to coax them back to the centre. It’s a gentle kiss, for all the intensity simmering under the surface, and the rhythm of their hearts gradually begins to ramp down at a similar rate to their lips.

Eyes still closed, Clarke feels Lexa’s nose nuzzling against her own before a final soft peck. “For the record?” Lexa whispers and the words vibrate against Clarke’s lips.

“Mmm?”

“I like you more than I hate sultanas, too.”

It takes Clarke a few seconds to process any words past the first three. “Lexa,” she whines; she receives a grin and a bonus kiss and well, okay, those are pretty nice, too.

“We should get back; I have to reveal the debate motion in five minutes.”

“What if I told you I set your watch ahead by an hour while you were sleeping last night?”

“Clarke Griffin—legendary time slayer,” Lexa drawls with a fond eye roll, pushing up off the table and trying to tug her toward the door.  Clarke pulls back and somehow the stars align to make Lexa twirl right back into her body and surely that must deserve another minute or two of making out.

They make it all the way to the top of the stairs before Lexa bursts into laughter and indicates to Clarke’s white shirt, rumpled in the most incriminating of ways and untucked from her skirt. The skirt’s been pulled so high up on her torso that its length is genuinely obscene, not just by official school standards.   

“Now who’s traumatising the goufas?” Lexa teases.

Clarke makes herself presentable and then sets her hands on Lexa’s waist, leaning in for another readily met kiss.

“Still you, I believe.”

When Lexa glances down with a furrowed brow, her jaw drops to find her skirt unbuttoned and halfway unzipped. “How did you—Clarke.”

They’d make an excellent pair of pickpockets, Clarke decides, tapping Lexa’s tuning fork against her lips while the Head Girl hastens to compose herself.

The stopwatch is forgotten entirely and Clarke ends up keeping time on her wristwatch.

--

The Old Hall is packed full by the time Lexa steps up to the podium, rows and rows of identical brown cloaks. She doesn’t need to raise her hand or clear her throat; everyone quiets immediately.

“Thank you all for attending our our slightly different take on Founder’s Day this morning,” Heda says in her Heda voice, low and posh and quite possibly the sexiest thing Clarke has ever heard. “This day has always been about honouring the strengths and sacrifices made by our founders in establishing this school and all those henceforth who fought to keep us alive. This year, we expand this theme to a broader celebration of female strength— across history, our present successes, and in anticipation of future victories.”

“We begin with our first public debate at Polis, after which there will be upper-school presentations about women who changed history and then we’ll adjourn into what will hopefully be sunshine for our final event.”

Each debater is introduced followed by the guest adjudicators, an Old Girl who is currently the MP for Hertfordshire and another, younger alumnus who’s a member of the Cambridge Union Society, the oldest and most prestigious debating clubs in the world. Heda lists some of the speakers the society’s hosted in the past, people like Winston Churchill and Theodore Roosevelt, and Clarke listens with the absolute certainty that one day, someone at this school is going to include Lexa’s name on that list with the same degree of reverence.

The Cambridge grad student stands up and briefly explains the format of the debate from her spot at the judge’s table. Four teams of two are set to compete, each pairing an alumnus with a current student. It’s a quicker-paced type of debating than Clarke’s familiar with from her stint on the school debate team, hopefully more entertaining too since the British Parliamentary style only gives teams only fifteen minutes to prepare their arguments after being randomly assigned a side. The opening government will open the debate by presenting their case in favour of the statement, followed by the opening opposition team, the closing government, and finally the closing opposition, who will conclude the debate.

“Without further ado I will introduce the motion and we will begin,” the Head Girl continues once Georgina is finished and then pauses for effect.

It works; Clarke holds her breath if she hadn’t helped draft the topic.

“This House Believes an All-Female Government Would Be Best for Society,” Lexa reads off the card as if it’s news to her and the cutest little smirk grows at the corner of her lips when she looks out over the room.  

The audience buzzes while Lexa steps off the stage and comes to sit in the front row next to Clarke; she’s positively thrumming, in her element and powerful and in control and Clarke loves her so much she’s a little concerned that it might start leaking out her pores. Knocking their shoulders together, Clarke swears the brief moment of contact sets her arm hair on end.

The first team begins with Masayo defining the proposition, setting forth ‘best’ in societal terms as evincing strength, peace, economic stability, and social equality, and then her senior teammate steps up to the podium. The Heda cloak around her shoulder hasn’t faded from its original crimson even as her hair has started to fade into grey and zeal is overflowing out of her fingertips in little finger taps.  She launches into a fact-based economic argument like she’s waited all her life for this moment, citing evidence that countries with the greatest female political representation like Sweden and Norway not only have the highest gender equality for their citizens but they also tend to rank highest on metrics of happiness, longevity, peace, and GDP.

Masayo concludes their case by discussing the example of Rwanda, the only country in the world have more women than men in their central government, and how economists continue to marvel at the country’s rate of regrowth and rebuilding after their destructive civil war. There’s also Libera, Mrs. Rudding jumps in just as Clarke raises her hand to indicate that their time is up, too excited not to add that the end of their civil war was down to the peaceful efforts of its country’s women and that Helen Clark once said that ‘women resort to jaw-jaw rather than war-war’ and that the UK’s parliament is less than 25% female and —

Mrs. Rudding is gently led off-stage by her teammate, shouting out more enthusiastic facts as she goes.

“How does she know all that off the top of her head?” Clarke whispers to Lexa as the next team begins arranging their notes and moving up to the microphone. “Is she in politics or something? She didn’t know the debate theme until twenty minutes ago.”

“Angie’s the head teacher of a nursery school in Kent,” Lexa tells her, glancing up from the notes she’s taking (of course she’s taking) with one of those soft smiles that make it way too difficult for Clarke to keep her lips to herself. “She was my mother’s second, when she was Head Girl.”

“I can believe it,” Clarke says, running her fingernails across Lexa’s free palm. It’s yet another reminder that family’s more than just nuclear, that influence is transmitted by more than just genes, and for the first time Clarke understands those epigenetic effects alluded to in her Biology textbook.  “Your mother was a wise woman.”

Lexa’s smile deepens and she nods, holding Clarke’s gaze for a few seconds after the opening opposition begin their counterargument before turning her eyes back to the stage.

The next team flounders a little and no one can really blame them, to be honest, having the unenviable task of casting doubt on female leadership in the middle of an event celebrating female achievement. At an all-girls’ school, no less. They do their best though, steering clear of disparaging women in favour of discussing the practicalities of governing a system that’s already well-entrenched in its ways and designed around a particular set of success metrics. The Upper Four girl does a good job reminding the judges the eternal societal loathing of extreme changes and the blue-haired woman in a well-tailored blazer lined by tarnished Prefect badges offers up a few examples of failed radical revolutions across history. It’s fairly clear that neither of their hearts are in the argument, though.

Clarke gestures for Lexa’s notebook during the changeover and doodles little hearts over all the ‘i’s with a solemn expression on her face as if she’s writing something deep and meaningful; the Head Girl rolls her eyes when she gets her notes back, turning to a blank page and smoothing it down with an exaggerated huff and a subtle knock of their knees together.    

The closing government team makes quite the picture, a tiny eleven-year-old paired with a woman who must be close to six feet tall, but the Upper Three girl holds her own, reading off her notes with an air of authority only belied by the fact that she’s reeling off information about the human stress response in intricate biological detail. Their argument seems to revolve around between-sex psychological predispositions, little Sara noting the studies showing females to be more risk-averse, strive more for cooperation and cohesion under conflict— ‘tend and befriend’ rather than the more male-typical fight or flight reaction, apparently—and display higher empathy and social-cognitive abilities on the whole. She also quotes the statistic that close to 90% of violent crimes are committed by males.

When the elder woman takes her turn, she jumps right into a complicated diatribe about anatomical differences in brain connectivity that may reflect some of the behavioural differences Sara had discussed—something about male brains having a greater abundance of shorter small-world connections while female brains integrate information more efficiently between distant brain regions.  Next there’s some digression into the molecular structure of the Y chromosome and testosterone’s actions on the central nervous system and just as Clarke begins to lose the plot and wonder what the hell they’re going on about, Dr. Lyons (sort of) brings it all together by arguing that women in leadership positions show particular advantage over male leaders when there is a need to unite independent and wide-ranging communities as is often the case in today’s hyper-connected, international climate.

It’s all super interesting and there are facts in there that appeal to the future medical student in Clarke but she also feels like she just sat through an entire year’s worth of human psychobiology in five minutes and understands possibly less than she did at the start. Lexa nudges her while the teams change places, pointing to a line in her notes about the alumnus being a renowned biologist shortlisted for a Nobel Prize a few years back and okay, yeah, that makes sense.

Clarke takes the notebook back after Lexa’s done scribbling down her notes and sketches a couple of figures right above the first line of her speech.

“Stick-Clarke is giving Stick-Lexa a good luck hug,” she whispers as she hands it back.

Lexa arches an eyebrow. “Stick-Clarke appears to be copping a feel at the same time.”

“As an art viewer you have the right to your interpretation,” Clarke replies primly and crosses her legs at the ankles, watching the next team adjust the microphone as if it’s the most fascinating part of the day.

(Stick-Clarke is definitely copping a feel.)

(Real-Clarke is more than a little envious.)

The closing opposition is good. Really good. They pick up where the first opposition team had started by expand it into a well-crafted argument that interrogates the statement rather than the assumption behind it. Roma begins with a recitation of the proposition and then hones into the ‘all-female’ stipulation, attacking the proposal on its extremism and noting that all these facts about women being cooperative and cohesive are inherently flawed if they fail to include the other half of society. Her teammate takes over with a crisp reiteration of the other teams’ arguments and their limitations, noting for example that while governments with greater female representation may well show great success, none of these governments are female-exclusive. She also reframes the biological predisposition argument by stating that many causes of gender differences can be reduced to social constructs and that, rather than focusing on biology, one way forward might be to reform societal value structure and teaching strategies in school so that boys, too, are rewarded for collectivist and empathic actions.

The two girls coordinate their words and speaking turns fluidly, Roma next stepping back in to remind the judges that a collaborative political strategy isn’t always the optimal, thus rendering another argument null. In sum, they conclude exactly as the five-minute mark approaches, a more equitable or even female-dominated governments may indeed be ‘best’ as the other teams have intelligently argued, but there is little to no evidence for such advantages requiring an exclusively female ruling body.

With perfectly coordinated nods, the team strides back to their seats and sit with identically folded hands on their laps. A stunned silence hangs over the Old Hall for a beat and Clarke suspects everyone is doing the same thing as she is, trying to reconcile their competing urges to cheer for such a brilliant argument and to boo for such a brilliant argument coming from a team seemingly trying to disempower female empowerment. Clapping eventually wins out, the different rates at which people work out that they’re all on the same side of the argument evident in the slow accumulation of applause until it’s unanimous.

The judges huddle together to confer and Clarke leans into the beautiful girl on her right and tilts her head up at the stage. 

“Lawyer?”

“Professor Yu? Barrister.”

Clarke looks blankly at her.

“The ones with the wigs and gowns,” Lexa clarifies for her American ears. “What a devastating pairing: one of the top legal practitioners in the country and a girl who sat her Law A-level exam at fifteen. They couldn’t have been better matched.”

“Really?” Clarke glances up to the stage and watches Roma for a moment. “That’s impressive. I had no idea.”

“She’s always been driven,” Lexa murmurs, crossing out a line in her speech and writing something in the margins. “I have no doubt she’ll be extraordinary.”

“Do you doubt that anyone here at Polis will be extraordinary?” Clarke teases because she knows the answer and she loves Lexa for it.

Lexa shakes her head and Clarke squeezes her knee, causing Heda to jump three feet in the air. “Oh my god, I still can’t believe how ticklish you are,” she rejoices with a grin, giving that beautiful knee a final tweak. “I love it.”

“Are you quite finished?” Lexa asks dryly, as if her skin hasn’t just returned from a trip halfway to the ceiling.

“Never. I will literally never be finished.”

“En’s ogud,” Lexa murmurs after a second, her eyes back on her notebook and her cheeks pink.

It really is all good. Clarke awards herself the grand prize in self-control for staying in her seat rather than straddling the girl at her side as they wait for the debate results. Snatching up her notebook instead, Clarke turns away and hunches over so her writing isn’t visible to the nosy head girl. She returns it just as the debate judges step up to the podium with their decision.

To the surprise of no one, first place is awarded to the last team for their clever re-framing of the proposition and integration of the other teams’ arguments. The judges remind the audience that debating isn’t all about the evidence or facts themselves—indeed, in life it’s usually futile to change someone’s mind with rational facts if they’re wed to a particular set of beliefs—but rather about the art of persuasion, crafting cogent arguments, and answering the issue at hand. 

“Roma and Professor Yu were wise to identify the prevailing belief in their judges and audience—the need for greater female representation—and work with those ideals in an original manner rather than attempting to weaken our convictions,” the MP judge finishes, shaking their hands and starting off another round of applause before stepping off the stage.

The rest of the school begins filing into the Old Hall, filling up the empty seats leaving the younger ones to spill out along the edges of the aisles. It’s getting warm in the room and most of the attendees have taken off their heavy cloaks by now but the Sixth Formers stand at the back of the room, cloaks fully-buttoned and hoods up like a line of Druids.

The notebook makes it way back to Clarke’s lap and she reads the answer to her question with a grin and then a snort.  Beside Lexa’s tick, she’s scrawled ‘subject to perfect reciprocal contract’ and left a blank line below it.

“You sat a Law A-level early, too, didn’t you?”

Lexa nods. Her eyes remain fixed on the open page.

“And?”

“French.”

“Anything else?”

“Do you want to know my history of First Aid and Fire Safety training, too? Duke of Edinburgh medals? Piano?”

“I knew you must play the piano!” Clarke exclaims in triumph, to herself more than anyone else. Several girls glance in their direction.

Retrieving a ballpoint out of her pocket, Clarke signs her name on a now possibly legal document that reads ‘will you be my girlfriend?’ with yes and no checkboxes alongside several wonky hearts and evolutionarily implausible flowers.

Lexa gets the notebook back just as she stands to introduce the next part of the event. Heda controls her emotions with her usual iron grip on stage, but oh are her little ears red, red, red.

--

“I admit that I know little about what is coming next,” the Head Girl announces with an exasperated smile after congratulating the debate winners. “The intention was for each form to create a brief presentation on powerful women through history—inspired by our first ever Halloween celebration earlier this year—but it would seem the instigator of that event has also taken over this one. With only mild trepidation, therefore, please join me in welcoming Clarke Griffin to the stage.”

Lexa smirks at her as she returns to her seat and Clarke tries and fails to glare back at the tongue-in-cheek introduction as she removes her cloak and makes her way up front. She retrieves crumpled notes from her pocket and smoothes them out on the podium top, wincing at the noise they make.

The first part of their plans are all fairly low key, a couple of girls from each year shuffling up to the stage and taking their turn at the microphone to present a few slides on their chosen historical woman, and Lexa gradually begins to relax back into her seat; her back even makes contact once or twice. Clarke introduces each topic but otherwise her role as moderator is minimal. The Third Form presents on Elizabeth I, the Fourth Form gives an overview of Queen Victoria’s reign, and the Fifth Form girls talk about Emmeline Pankhurst and the British suffragists’ fight for female voting rights.

And then it’s the Sixth Formers’ turn.

The lights dim just as the Lower and Upper Fives retire off stage and the screen goes black. Lexa twists around and then tries to catch Clarke’s eye as the cloaked girls at the back of the room throw off their hoods and begin stomping up the centre aisle. Their faces are covered in paint, some with blue, other with only black markings. As they fling aside their cloaks on the stage with war whoops, they’re revealed to be wearing faux-leather tunics and leggings, some wielding previously-requisitioned swords, others with the few cardboard spears that somehow survived the trip and back to Dominicus two nights ago. They’re loud and they’re rowdy and Clarke watches Lexa’s face flicker between amusement and wariness.

The girls crowd across the front of the room, some on the stage, some sitting along its edge, others in the aisles. Amanda drapes a fur cape around Clarke’s shoulders and she hams it up for the audience, thrusting up her chin and affecting her most Heda-like expression as it’s fastened together.

“Finally, we turn to one of the earliest documented strong women in Britain,” Clarke reads once she’s properly attired with a grin toward the Head Girl. “But first, some context.” She detaches the microphone from the podium and hands it to the closest warrior girl, who passes it along the ranks to the first speaker with remarkable coordination given that they’ve never actually rehearsed this all together.

“When Claudius invaded Britain in 43 AD, Rome was in the peak of its power, approximately a quarter of the world’s people under the Roman rule,” Liza starts, spear still gripped in her other hand. “In their peak arrogance, too. They expected an easy victory over what they believed to be ‘savage’ people, despite Julius Caesar’s defeat almost a hundred years prior.  Seventeen years later, they found themselves still fighting for a stronghold on this isolated little island.”

The microphone is transferred from hand to hand across to the other side of the room. “The Celtic tribes were described variously as ‘inhospitable and fierce’ or as ‘undisciplined barbarians’ by the Romans at the time and it’s not difficult to imagine how harsh their customs must have seemed,” Mischa reads.

“They were known as ferocious and unpredictable warriors, especially compared to the strictly regimented Roman troops. Faces and bodies were reported to be painted indigo with woad plant dye and their warfare was known for its use of battle chariots, warriors throwing spears at their enemy from afar before dismounting to use their swords. Their fighting style was liked to ‘that of wild beasts and frenzied,’ with an element of passion, according to Aristotle.” There’s more than an element of passion in Octavia’s words, too, and it draws out some unruly cheers from the girls around her.

The descriptions continue, each by another Sixth Former but with a thread of continuity flowing easily through their individual voices.

“They also believed that when you kill someone, you get their power. They were known for beheading their enemy in battle and bringing the severed head home to hang in doorways and from their belts, the brain being the seat of an individual’s power.”

“They worshiped in woodland groves and sacred water, trees and waterways playing a large role in their mythology, giving rise to the oak tree being Britain’s traditional symbol for our ancient past.”

“Children were rarely raised by their birth parents, instead reared together or with other families to foster a greater emphasis on the community and forging bonds between tribes and clans. Much like a boarding school, one might even say.”

“Different sets of norms and ways of life from the Romans didn’t mean that the early Britons were primitive, however. We certainly weren’t languishing in want for Rome’s technology and cultural marvels, desperate to learn writing so we could finally begin bookkeeping.”

“Iron-age Britain was in fact rich in both wealth and in tradition. We were more capable in gold and silver arts than anywhere else in the world, we had a sophisticated monetary system and political organisation, including centralized tribal states, and a set of complex religious beliefs.”

“But perhaps what Rome was most disgusted by was the role of women in society. Women, in Celtic Britain, were technically equal to men. They owned their own property, chose their own husbands, and were actually more likely than men to be ambassadors and diplomats, often taking on mediating roles in disputes. They were leaders and warriors. It wasn’t quite gender equality, but to staunchly patriarchal Rome, it was appalling.”

“Rome believed that the elevated role of women in Celtic society was a weakness and struggled to reconcile this belief with continuing reports of Govenor Gauis Suetonius Paulinus’s ongoing difficulties to subdue these weak and ‘primitive’ tribes. It’s not a massive surprise, then, that the Roman army lashed out at the Celtic people, and especially their high-ranking women, in ways designed to make them feel frail and defeated. Even the Roman historians were sickened at the brutality and torture committed against the Britons.”

Clarke steps back to the podium as she’s passed the microphone and returns it to its stand. “The Celts accepted it without a word,” she deadpans. “They quietly burnt their dead and purchased Latin textbooks to catch up,” Closing her mouth and pausing for a moment, she then raises an eyebrow. “Ha!” The girls on stage burst into scripted bawdy laughter but the audience’s is entirely spontaneous. “What actually happened next is probably best described by Cassius Dio, another Roman historian.”

“...a terrible disaster occurred in Britain,” Clarke reads from the screen behind the stage. “Two cities were sacked, eighty thousand of the Romans and of their allies perished, and the island was lost to Rome. Moreover, all this ruin was brought upon the Romans by a woman, a fact which in itself caused them the greatest shame.... But the person who was chiefly instrumental in rousing the natives and persuading them to fight the Romans, the person who was thought worthy to be their leader and who directed the conduct of the entire war, was—”

Shouts of “Boudica!” rise up from the Sixth Formers like it’s a menacing battle-song, thrusting their fists in the air and whooping.

“Boudica? Where’s our Boudica?” Clarke asks, tongue between her teeth as she pretends to look around the room.

From her seat in the front row, the Head Girl is set upon by a band of Celts, tugging her to up her feet and towing her to the stage. Exactly as Clarke had anticipated, Heda plays her unanticipated role well—after a few requisite head shakes and a couple of eye rolls—and accepts the sword and spears presented to her with dramatic solemnity. There’s no way Lexa’s modestly would have agreed to such a show if she’d known, but the surprise attack allows her natural power and gravitas to shine unimpeded.

“Ah, but are we sure that’s our warrior queen?” Clarke asks the audience with affected suspicion once they settle down and the cameras stop flashing.

“Let’s check what the sources say about Boudica.” She pretends to shuffle through her notes. “‘A Briton woman of the royal family and possessed of greater intelligence than often belongs to women’—Well, ignoring that insult, so good so far. What else? ‘In stature she was very tall, in appearance most terrifying, in the glance of her eye most fierce.’”

Lexa glares at Clarke and it couldn’t be more perfect. “She’s got that one covered, at least.” The audience roars and the cameraman with the local journalist they’ve invited is half-giddy in his snapping. “Moving on. ‘She wore a tunic of divers colours over which a thick cloak was fastened with a brooch. This was her invariable attire.’”

“I’m almost convinced,” Clarke muses slowly, once the laughter fades. Several alumni cloaks have re-appeared, draped around their shoulders. “We’re just missing her magnificent war-chariot.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Lexa shoots her a look, one that would almost certainly be accompanied by a ‘Clarke’ with that adorably sharp ‘ck’ and maybe even an eye-roll if they weren’t in the middle of a school event.

Clarke shoots Lexa a look that would definitely be accompanied with an ‘I love you’ if they weren’t in the middle of a school event.

(There’s no guarantee it won’t happen, to be honest.)

Zoe and Harper burst through the doors at the back of the room, pulling a magnificent chariot behind them. Okay, it’s a gold spray-painted wheelchair with cardboard accoutrements and faux-leather straps but they’d literally had six days to pull this together—it’s a magnificent war-chariot.

It’s lifted on stage and with a long-suffering sigh and pursed lips failing to hide a smile, Lexa steps inside her war-chariot. The wooden Polis shield of arms that usually hangs in the front hallway is on the seat and she obligingly holds it in front of her chest, sword gripped in her other hand.

Clarke regrets the added warmth of her fur-lining all of a sudden.

“Boudica, Queen of the Iceni rode from tribe to tribe,” she somehow manages with a dry mouth, “rallying fighters and uniting long-divided tribes into a single fighting force after her attempts for peaceful negotiation with Rome fell on arrogant ears. Her battle cry wasn’t Roman in its goal of individual glory or land. It was for freedom across the British Isles from their common oppressor, for a world in which their children could flourish without the shadow of Roman tyranny.”

The warriors surrounding Lexa’s chariot begin chanting for a speech. She takes a deep breath before Clarke can say the next line and squares her shoulders.

“It is not as a woman descended—” she begins.

Clarke clears her throat into the microphone. “Your speech is on the back of your shield, Commander,” she interrupts in a stage whisper, reproaching herself for imagining that Lexa might not have Boudica’s speech memorised. She swears that girl must have an A.I. chip implanted in her brain to store her unending caverns of knowledge.

The Head Girl glances down at the blu-tacked paper, unaffected, and then nods. “Ah. You’ve adapted the Tacitus. Fine.”

Everyone in the room chuckles and Heda drops from her visage for just an instant to reveal a pleased little rosy-cheeked smile.  She clears her throat and begins again, loud and booming and not at all in need of the microphone.

“We British are well-accustomed to female commanders in war. But it is not as a queen or a commander that I fight now, nor do I fight for my ravished kingdom or wealth. I fight as an ordinary woman—avenging my lost freedom, my bruised body, and my outraged daughters from Roman lust. Heaven is on the side of a righteous vengeance; they will not sustain even the din and the roar of so many thousands, much less the onslaught of our swords. Consider how many of you are fighting—and why! If you weigh well the strength of the armies, and the causes of the war, you will see that in this battle you must conquer with glory or fall. This is a woman's resolve—as for the men, they can live and be slaves if they please.”

The cameraman gets up from his seat to capture the tableau and Clarke knows she’s going to need to acquire every single copy afterward. Not that she’ll ever be able to forget this image of Lexa, flushed and powerful with sword in hand and every single breath in the room under her control.

Heda lets the reverberation of her words sink down into the audience before reaching for the spear at her side and raising it in the air.

“Let us show them that they are hares and foxes trying to rule over dogs and wolves!” she calls out, a quote that Clarke certainly would have included somewhere in their presentation had she known of its existence.

Clarke barely remembers to read the last few paragraphs of her own speech once the cheering dies down. “The call for social change Boudica drove forward seems almost unbelievable, even today. Hundreds of thousands of Celtic warriors descended on present-day Colchester to lay waste to what had originally been the capital city of the Trinovantes while Gaius and his army were away in Anglesey. Londinium was the next target of their vengeance, torching the settlement so completely that you can still find what is referred to as the ‘Boudica destruction layer’ of charred soil deep below modern London.  Verulamium, the captured tribal centre of the Catuvellauni tribe suffered a similar defeat.”

“Sadly it didn’t end well for Boudica and her armies, nor indeed for Britain. The Celtic tribes were unaccustomed to fighting together, battling as individuals instead, and they were no match for when Suetonius Paulinus finally assembled his troops and lured Boudica into a disadvantageous position with a challenge. Overconfident in their victories, Boudica and her warriors walked right into the trap. And if there’s something the Romans were good at, it was fighting as one single relentless machine. The final body count was said to be 80,000 Britons to only 400 Romans, although these numbers may be exaggerated.”

“The crushing of this final major revolt against Roman rule marked the end Britain’s Iron Age and ushered in the age of Romanisation, along with it an age of female inequality from which we still haven’t fully recovered. The spirit and legacy of Boudica’s ultimately tragic uprising, however, has proven immortal.”

For the conclusion of their presentation, Clarke gestures toward the screen that now shows pictures of the three strong women presented earlier by the younger years.

“Queen Elizabeth I. Queen Victoria, Emmeline Pankhurst. We chose those particular strong female figures for a reason. Boudica’s story was forgotten for a time, revitalised into the public consciousness during Elizabeth I’s reign to build a legacy of strong women in power, the first British patriot and recognisably-British heroine. Elizabeth’s quote about having ‘the body of a weak, feeble woman,’ but the ‘heart and stomach of a king,’ is well known, but as we were researching that speech, we all agreed we liked a second version better. “The enemy perhaps may challenge my sex for that I am a woman, so may I likewise charge their mould for that they are but men.”

The audience also likes that one better, it would seem.

“Queen Victoria likewise called upon the mythos of the warrior queen, one who was fierce and a soft and motherly caregiver. The larger-than-life statue of Boudica and her two daughters in a war-chariot still watching over the Houses of Parliament today was inspired by Victoria’s reign and erected shortly after her death. It depicts her as a mother reacting to the outrages perpetuated against her children but also a queen defending her country against the ravages of Rome.”

“Boudica became the patron saint of Emmeline Pankhurst and the women’s rights suffragists of the early twentieth-century, too. Some of their earliest pamphlets reimagined her spear as heralding in ‘votes for women’ and her coat of arms and iconography featured on numerous banners and calls to arms.”

“All these strong British women called upon Boudica as a symbol of feminine power, the brave and ruthless warrior who was also a loving wife and mother. As a reminder that girls are no less fierce for their lack of a y chromosome, and that we’re always stronger when we fight for what we believe in together.”

“And what do we say to that, ladies?” Clarke asks, turning to her classmates with a massive smirk.

On cue, the lower forms burst back in through all four sets of doors, wielding their own spears and war paint now. Whatever was left over from Friday’s dance has been distributed between them, some girls with leather arm or leg bands, others with the few remaining cardboard shields held across their bodies or what was left of Clarke’s temporary tattoos on their arms. The drama department has been raided for anything vaguely warrior-like as well, long axes and daggers and dilapidated masks, and Clarke recognises a couple of golden torques like the one Lexa had worn for Halloween around their necks and biceps. Their hair has been plaited as messily as might be expected in the ten minutes they had to change and their costumes are disheveled and mismatched.

“Kom war!” they shout as they run, passing spears and other weaponry down the aisles to eager Old Girls enroute to the stage.

The cry is echoed back even louder by the senior warriors and then their predecessors; Dotty requisitions a menacing-looking dagger and her great-granddaughter dutifully wheels her up to the front to join the chaos. A horn sounds from somewhere and Boudica in her chariot finally indulges them by thrusting her spear in the air and raising the other arm in solidarity, a thousand times more menacing and more beautiful than even Michelangelo could hope to carve into stone.

--

As the din and roar settles and the girls begin to gather together their props, the Head Girl announces a brief break in the proceedings while everything is cleaned up. She turns to Clarke once the hum of conversation starts up and cocks her head toward the side door in the universal gesture of an imminent bollucking; a few girls and alumni notice and ‘ooh’ in playful sympathy and Clarke affects a guilty-but-unrepentant smirk toward them as she follows Lexa outside.

They barely make it around the corner before a pair of hands take hold of the leather straps of Clarke’s fur-lined cape and use the leverage to crash their lips together. Clarke’s back hits the wall a second later and if the way her knees are threatening to collapse into a kneel is any indication, holy shit does this soldier ever submit to her Commander and queen.

“Looks like I’m not the only one with a warrior kink,” Clarke finds her tongue babbling when it’s in its own mouth again, decidedly off-kilter in the most wonderful of ways after that kiss. They stay pressed against the wall and that’s probably a good thing because Clarke needs all the support she can get to remain upright.

“That was perfect,” Lexa breathes, eyes still flashing like she’s announcing a battle win. “They were perfect. You’re perfect. Thank you.”

Clarke tries to shrug but it’s hard to look nonchalant when her lungs are panting a million miles an hour.  “Most of the hard work was down to the Prefects and Heads of House. I just came up with the idea.”

“There’s no need to downplay your achievements, Clarke. You do the Polis founders justice.”

“You do the Polis founders justice.”

They hold each other’s eyes in standoff. “We do it together,” Lexa finally concedes.

Clarke waggles her eyebrows. “The sooner the better, I hope.”

She gets her ‘Clarke’ and it tastes just as crisp as it sounds, sweet-tinted with the pink of Lexa’s cheeks.

“Ai Boudica,” she murmurs, still pressed into Lexa’s lips.

“Ai haiplana,” Lexa murmurs back a beat later, eyes soft as she releases her iron grip and smoothes down a now-slightly-rumpled cape before stepping back.

“Apparently I should have drawn Stick-Lexa copping a feel,” Clarke comments as they make their way back to the Old Hall.  She doesn’t get a blush or her name out of the head girl this time, only a guilty-but-unrepentant shrug. That and an aching shoulder upon walking straight into the side of the double doors that Lexa’s not holding open for her.

--

War paint has mostly been scrubbed off and the warriors are (mostly) back to their schoolgirl forms when Lexa steps up to the stage for the last time. In the past, Heda’s speech has taken place at the end of the decadent dinner associated with Founder’s Day, stomachs full and veins just a little lubricated with wine. If it were anyone else up there, there might be some concern about the audience’s attention span by this point.

But Lexa isn’t anyone else.  

Clarke’s heard Lexa’s speech at least five times in its entirety by now but she finds herself unprepared for how it transforms in this room of rapt listeners, intoxicated purely on the power that flows from her throat.

“Sophia, Charis, Dunamis,” she begins. “Noun, Fiyanes, Ufnes; Wisdom, Compassion, and Strength. These three pillars support Polis and it’s these assets we celebrate today, starting with the firm foundation laid by our Founders and the various women across our history who fought to keep these pillars on solid ground.”

As Lexa recounts the history of the early Polis pioneers, Clarke sits back and allows the sound of Heda’s voice break across her ears.  It’s less a prepared set of words and more a conversation—Lexa seems to pick up the feel of the silent room and there’s an ebb and flow in her intonation and rhythm that’s almost hypnotic.

Somehow her thoughts devolve into mental sonnets following the same cadence but Clarke snaps out of them in time for Lexa’s shift from Polis to the wider world. “The closing opposition rightfully won the debate this morning with their crisp interrogation of the argument’s logic and premise in a way that couldn’t have better epitomized the ‘wisdom’ pillar. In the discussion of an all-female government, however, I found myself thinking about the best example I know of a virtually all-female led community.”

Oooh—Clarke leans forward in her seat. Lexa’s gone entirely off-script and that can only mean good things.

“Polis School for Girls is a tiny country unto itself, or at least it feels like that sometimes.” Heda holds up a hand and begins ticking off her next points on her fingers.  “We may not count our armies but all our paths are certainly peace. Our economy is sustainable and thriving—and gives back to both the internal and outside community.”

“You’ll find social equality throughout our curriculum and social structure. Perhaps our greatest victory is Polis’ non-profit model and our commitment to creating scholarships aimed at girls from traditionally underrepresented backgrounds. I’m proud to report that at least a quarter of the students in this room currently have their fees fully-funded or partially funded through our initiatives. This practice, in some form or another, has been in place since Rebecca Pramheda founded Polis in 1887.”

Lexa turns to Masayo and Mrs. Rudding in their first-row seats. “Peace, economic stability, and social equality. I believe those were the debate definitions of prosperity, were they not?” she asks.

“Strength, too,” Masayo shouts back, a cheeky little gleam in her eyes.

The Head Girl’s smile deepens, unfazed as always. “Quite right. Ufnes. I suppose we’ll have to let our league table standing, higher education rates, and the sheer combined achievements of all our alumni sitting in this room speak for itself, won’t we?”

Applause thunders as if it’s been starving to be released but when Lexa raises her hand, the hall goes whisper-still and Clarke has never been so sure that this girl is going to be Prime Minister one day. She notes with satisfaction that the journalist is leant forward, pen poised on paper; the cameraperson’s mouth gapes ever so slightly, finger frozen on his shutter release button like he’s forgotten he’s holding a camera at all.

(God, there’s so much more Clarke can’t wait to tell these dudes about how wonderful her girlfriend is.)

(Her girlfriend.)

“Not to mention the fact that we commandeered our current premises from the local boys’ school at the time.” Lexa adds and then pauses. “Perhaps not as peaceful as I made out.”

There’s laughter and Lexa laughs, too, a melodic peal that sends her head flying back for a second. Clarke never thought she’d enjoy her chest bursting open quite this much.

“Part of what makes Polis and Polis girls extraordinary may well come from our single-sex education, in fact. A wealth of evidence has concluded that all-female schools produce girls with not only better examination results but also ones who more likely to study male-dominated STEM subjects like mathematics and physics for A-levels and at university, and more likely to continue their education with graduate studies. Girls in all-female schools engage in more group study, rate themselves as more confident in their academic abilities, and report giving more respect to—and conversely receiving more respect from—their peers than girls in co-educational schools. And all these findings hold even when demographic and school variables like socioeconomic status and school wealth are controlled for.”  

Clarke has to shake her head when Lexa’s roving eye catches hers, a disbelieving smile on her lips. How does the Head Girl come up with all these facts on the spot and not only that but weave them into the pre-written narrative like they’ve always been there?

“Wisdom, Compassion, and Strength,” Heda recites again. “These values aren’t only ideals to strive for; they’re what this school was founded on. They’re what you are right now and they’re what you will continue to be even after you leave these sacred halls.”

Lexa holds the silence for a beat and then leans forward into the podium; the whole hall seems to shift forward in their seats as if they are puppets on her string. Clarke knows the next part by heart and still forgets to breathe.

“We’ve heard a lot today about how powerful girls can be when they work together and harness their strength for the greater good: as our early women’s rights pioneers did in founding this school, as did Boudica and the suffragists and our female monarchs and countless other female figures across history and across the world.”

“In chapel this morning we sang Jerusalem, words written by William Blake about waking from our complacency and taking the responsibility to fight for a better society. Set your sights on higher things. Make your world, as Clarke said, a world in which our daughters—all our children—can flourish.”

“It starts at home—in ‘England’s green and pleasant land,’ and even here at Polis where we have a long history of neither ceasing from out mental fights nor letting our swords sleep in our hands. We can change things, even if it’s little by little. Things we have to fight for others to believe today will become unquestionable truth in the next generation. Never forget how those that came before have affected you, the effect you have on those around you, and how your actions will change those who are still to come. We all elevate each other and we are all each others’ strength.”

“So the next time someone tells you to remember that you’re ladies or to act more lady-like, I hope you will straighten your back and smooth down your clothes. I hope you will look around and take example from your fellow females. Not because you’re showing some skin or you’re speaking your mind too loudly or you’re expressing your individuality, but in pride. Because ‘girl’ isn’t a derogatory term. It’s a word of power.”

“Because girls are smart. Because girls are cooperatively-minded; Oso gonplei ogeda—we fight together. And above all else, because girls are strong.”

The silence is almost painful, hundreds of breaths held hostage by the Head Girl when she draws one of her own before delivering her kill stroke.

“The head of the Roman army jeered to his troops that Boudica’s army consisted of ‘more women than warriors.’ As if this made them weak and easily put in their place. It wasn’t true then and it isn’t true today. This false dichotomy has cast a shadow over us for too long. Hide not your light. Let it be known—we are women and we are warriors.”

Heda steps out from the podium and stands in the middle of the stage, arms behind her back.

“I will fight for what I believe in. Ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in,” she calls out and her victory cry beats its wings above the hush for only a split second.

“Ai ste yuj!” Polis calls back, girls and Old Girls, grandmothers and eleven-year-olds, powerful politicians, scientists, and mothers alike leaping to their feet and erupting in a manner Clarke is pleased to say the Headmistress would absolutely deem un-ladylike.

Forget Britain. Clarke’s absolutely sure this girl’s going to command the entire free world one day.

--

The next few minutes go by in a colourful blur, verbal praise and physical hugs becoming indistinguishable concepts during the Old Hall exodus into the midday sunshine. Clarke gets them from the head of the Parents’ Union, from the head of the Old Girls’ Union, from Mrs. Aspythe and Helen and even Coach Indra, whom she’s never even seen smile. Lexa’s even more inundated, each step out of the room resulting in another pledge of support and commendation. Bells and singing ring out at some point; it’s only later that Clarke leans that Raven had located an old Polis Choir recording and that it wasn’t all in her head. She’s not the only one feeling the adrenaline rush, apparently, the back lawn almost vibrating under their feet with movement and enthusiastic chattering.

Lexa finds Clarke once they’re outside, wordlessly taking her hand and weaving them through the throng and up to the steps of the cricket pavilion to preside down over the celebration.  A classmate hands them both balloons anchored to the ground with a piece of cardpaper and a pen; balloons are spreading across the pitch, too, passed along from one side to the other like oiled clockwork cogs.

The cards read Seek Higher Things on one side, listing the goals and contact details of Polis’s various upcoming charity fundraising initiatives. The other side is mostly blank, with a single incomplete sentence at the top.

There are three possible card variations— ‘Girl is a word of power because…’, ‘I will fight for what I believe in, and I believe in…’, and ‘I am strong because…’— and it doesn’t matter what one Clarke holds in her hand because her answer is the same. Lexa scrawls something long and doubtlessly eloquent and Clarke feels a great deal of envy for whoever finds that in their garden later. She wouldn’t be surprised if that balloon makes it all the way to Geneva.

No one seems to give it a second thought when Clarke continues to stand at Heda’s side as she calls for silence, Adenne standing at Lexa’s left.

“Sophia, Charis, Dunamis,” the Head Girl recites.

“Noun, Fiyanes, Ufnes,” Adenne follows, fire in her eyes that flares out through her words.

“Wisdom, Compassion, Strength,” Clarke finishes.

“For those who fought in our past, for our fights right now, and for those who will continue our battles when we’re gone,” Heda calls out. “We fight together and we survive together!”

Lexa commands it and the skies brighten.

Hundreds of crimson balloons are released all at once, finally unfettered and free to follow their urge to ascend, higher and higher until the heavens are filled with these arrows of desire, these signal flairs, these red supergiants on the verge of detonation.

--

Angie makes her way over to the pavilion after the numerous group photos are done and the crowd begins to meander back indoors. Clarke stays to watch Lexa be enveloped in a hug and have her cheeks and hair stroked by the kindly older woman, who tells Lexa that her mother would have been so proud and asks if she needs anything and enquires after her studies and presses an old photograph into her hands. It’s Lexa’s mother at seventeen, red cloak around her shoulders, silver pin on her lapel, and the most beautiful smile on her lips, one absolutely identical to the one that grows on her daughter.

Glancing behind herself and waving to a friend who is beckoning her over, Mrs. Rudding finally tapers down her petting and inclines her head forward and brushes her thumb over the Head Girl badge, oddly reminiscent of how Clarke remembers doing earlier that day. “Gonplei kom Heda kigon feva,” she murmurs, eyes shiny.  

“Kom ai don swega kiln,” Lexa says back, quietly and with a solemnity that might better fit a chapel service but somehow feels more appropriate under the wide open skies. She places her hand over the Old Girl’s for a moment and then slides it into the traditional Polis arm clasp.

Clarke doesn’t notice until Angie finally manages to tear herself away that there’s a line of red cloaks queuing up behind her, waiting for their turn with the Head Girl. The next woman steps up and the ritual is repeated, the former Heda running a finger along the current Heda’s pin and exchanging the same Trigedasleng phrases.

“Hey, what are they doing?” Clarke leans over and asks Adenne in a hushed voice.

The future-Heda pauses her sweep of the pavilion to ensure it’s ready to be locked up and moves closer so she can whisper. “It’s in reference to the Ascension Day ceremony, when the title of Head Girl is passed on. The new Commander promises to keep up the fight of the old Commander, to allow the spirit of Heda to continue burning across the generations. The former Head Girls are affirming that Heda’s fight has indeed been carried on and Lexa is replying ‘as I promised’. It’s usually a part of the Founder’s Feast but I guess they didn’t want to miss out on that part of tradition.”

Adenne must notice the lump growing in Clarke’s throat because she squeezes her arm gently before returning to her task.

Clarke has never been so sure that Polis will be in good hands next year.

When they arrive back at the main building, the donations box is overflowing, the journalist is interviewing girls for his article, and all in all, the victory horn for this Boudica’s revolt is sounding out, deep and potent and resonating.

--

Clarke wakes before Lexa on Monday morning, before the alarm but after the sunrise that renders dull the fairy lights around the room. For what must be the third or fourth time now, Clarke finds herself in awe at how the dawn light settles into the skin of the girl curled into her. Like it’s been waiting all night to return home.

(Also not for the first time, she wakes with a mouth full of curly hair. But that’s the smallest of tithes to pay.)

“Lex,” Clarke murmurs, moving her face closer to Lexa’s and burrowing in. A pair of lips meet hers and a hum makes its precarious way out of a throat, but her eyes refuse to reveal themselves. Lifting up onto her elbow, Clarke nudges the sleeping body onto her back and tries kissing her awake again. Lexa’s lips are pliant but otherwise unresponsive and she remains stubbornly asleep. 

Clarke remains stubbornly awake.

“Lexa,” she complains, attempting to tuck wild curls safely behind ears far too little and adorable for the mammoth task.  The strands keep springing free and Lexa keeps on sleeping.

Clarke huffs and sighs at least two more times to no avail. “Now you sleep.” She shifts her attention to Lexa’s neck, lingering her mouth over the beating of her pulse.

“Shhh,” Lexa mumbles and her heart doesn’t even speed up. Clarke can tell; she’s currently sucking on its indicator. “Nice dream.”

Clarke Griffin knows a challenge when she sees one.

“Oh yeah?” She slides a leg over Lexa and presses a little of her weight down, continuing to plant little seedling kisses along her neck and up to her earlobe.

“Mmm.” It’s not a moan, more of a distracted acknowledgement and Clarke doubles her efforts.

“Lexa. Lexaaaa,” she persists, propping back up on her arm and dragging a finger across a slumbering face, down its nose and across its lips. God, those lips are so plump and pretty and Clarke forgets the game for a short period, tracing their outline and running the pad of her finger along their length, as if there’s a hidden braille message along them and never feeling so blind.

A set of beautiful teeth padded by even more beautiful lips clamp down on her finger. Lexa’s eyes flutter open at Clarke’s indignant squeak and a smug little smile forms around the captured digit.

She sucks in her cheeks and Clarke feels a wet tongue dart out for a glorious moment before releasing her with a plop. Green eyes are dancing and all at once Clarke realises she’s lost this challenge.

Or won it.

Fuck.

Clarke lunges forward to bring their lips together, hungry for all those soft little noises and muscle movements a real kiss draws out of Lexa and she isn’t disappointed.

Definitely won it.

Definitely not straight.

Lexa tastes of sleep, the muscles of her mouth still a little languorous and her tongue a little loose. “Good morning,” Clarke whispers, taking Lexa’s bottom lip between her teeth and tugging in retaliation.

“Morning,” the head girl murmurs when she has the capacity again, smiling and lifting her head off the pillow to take control of the kiss. She tries pushing up onto her arm but Clarke doesn’t let her, shifting her weight to their lower bodies again and moving her lips to the corner of Lexa’s mouth and then down to her jaw.

“About time you’re up, lazy,” Clarke pretends to sulk, dodging another attempt to capture her mouth, utterly betrayed as always by the upturn of her lips.

Lexa groans, ceasing her struggle and shielding her eyes from the sun with her forearm instead. “Group nap?”

“Nice try,” Clarke scoffs, relinquishing her battle acquisition of Lexa’s jawline for a bigger prize. She trails her lips over Lexa’s t-shirt collar and down until she’s almost directly over her heart. Lexa hums again and her fingers find Clarke’s hair and mmm, there’s that heart rate acceleration. Her war march plows on and she eases her way down the bed, still over the shirt but with the new sensation of twitching abdominal muscles underneath her mouth and cheeks.

Itchy fingers toy at the hem of Lexa’s t-shirt, absolutely certain that skin will taste a billion times better than cotton. There’s a flash of creamy flesh at her left hip where her pyjama top has ridden up (or where Clarke’s pushed it up—who’s to know, really?) and she presses her lips to the warmth.

“Lex, can I…” Clarke asks, tugging at the bottom edge of the material jealously guarding foreign skin and looking up for confirmation. Lexa’s eyes are closed again but there’s a blissful smile on her face and she moves her fingers to tangle in the hairs at the back of Clarke’s head.

“Mmmhmm.”

“Sure?”

“Mmm...”

Honestly, it’s a bit of a relief that Lexa’s eyes are shut because the grin Clarke feels split across her lips quickly riots across her entire face and it’s probably not attractive. With a deep breath and a moment of veneration, she returns her mouth to that same delicious patch of bare skin as before but lets herself move up and over, ruching up the material of Lexa’s shirt to chart new territory across her hip bone and the softer flesh around her bellybutton.

It’s utterly inebriating, the feeling of downy-fine hairs rising up on end across the taut stomach and the taste of electricity on the tip of her tongue with each abdominal contraction is all-consuming and Clarke doesn’t notice the squirm of her own hips against Lexa’s calf until it shifts and sets her on fire. 

“Lex,” she pleads on an outbreath, shaky and uncertain what she’s even pleading for, but Lexa seems to know the answer anyway, humming and raising her arms straight above her head, raising her hips closer to where Clarke’s lips are only millimeters away. Even more milky skin is exposed, the rolling foothills of her lower ribs peeking out just below the barrier line.

Oh god oh god oh god

Sucking in a shallow breath through her teeth, Clarke manoevers herself back up to Lexa’s lips, hovering over them while almost her whole weight is draped across the girl. “Lexa,” she croaks in a tone that probably resembles a prayer more closely than her intended questioning.  She tries again, clearing her throat first this time, as if that will help. “Are you sure?”

Lexa’s lips twitch; her eyes are still closed. “Mmm.”

Clarke’s pretty sure she’s about to either burst into glitter or hyperventilate. Maybe both. She feels like she’s going to die again but this time it only makes her stronger, determined to survive this because oh god that shining light at the end of the tunnel can’t hold a torch to what’s under this heather-gray t-shirt. 

She tumbles down into a sloppy kiss, roving needy hands up and down sleep-addled limbs, heavy and loose again and —

Wait.

“Lexaaa,” she groans and rolls away, flopping onto her back and focusing on reigning her breath back into some semblance of control. “You’re asleep again, aren’t you?”

“Shhh,” Clarke’s half-asleep girlfriend mumbles, twisting herself so she’s closer and dropping an arm across her waist. “Nice dream.”

“I bet,” Clarke replies wryly. But she strokes Lexa’s hair back from her face and doesn’t temper back a smile when two lips purse and then pucker up expectantly. There’s a millisecond when Clarke considers refusing to meet those pretty lips in remonstration.

Luckily the millisecond is an exceptionally brief unit of time.

Clarke keeps her eyes open so that she can watch Lexa blink awake, properly this time, and see that little look of warmth and fondness rise up her eyes like the sun after a long night. She’s not disappointed and she moves her lips closer so she can kiss their eyelids, one after another.

“Ai haiplana,” Lexa murmurs.

“Ai Boudica,” Clarke replies with what is beginning to feel just as ceremonial and important as any of the Polis liturgies, settling back against the pillow and nuzzling her nose into the concentrated scent at the bottom of Lexa’s ear.

“Ai reshwenes.”

“Lexa,” Clarke groans and kicks her leg. “I barely just figured out that haiplana means ‘queen’ thanks to the ladies at Founder’s Day. Do you have any idea how many I had to ask? I’m running out of space in my brain for Trigedasleng vocab.”

Lexa opens her eyes and lets out a delighted little laugh and runs the toes of one of her feet along Clarke’s calf. Her face goes serious then and she rolls so it’s half-hidden by the pillow.

“My rest,” she translates quietly. “Peaceful rest, really.”

Clarke has space.

Her response requires no consideration. For just a millisecond she remembers the girl who fled her home country because she thought she was too weak to deal with her pain, the girl who wished she could find a little power of her own, the one who thought she’d never be able to cast that first stone from her slingshot. She remembers her and she doesn’t recognise her all at the same time. 

“Ai ufnes,” is Clarke’s response to the girl whose likeness ascended to the stars on a balloon string this afternoon.

Lexa closes her eyes and finds her hand. “Ai hodnes,” she whispers and ohh does Clarke know that one. She knows the word and she knows its meaning and she’s never been in any doubt of its existence.

Clarke feigns ignorance, rolling her eyes and kissing sleepy lips one at a time.  

Twinkling music fills the room, arpeggios and rising chords and voices singing to the new day, and yep, that’s a much better way to wake up.

Chapter Text

Mondays are really the worst.

Not only do they herald in triple Chemistry—almost two and a half hours in a freezing-cold science lab that never seems to lose its sulphuric aroma—but Sixth Formers also have the joy of an entire afternoon set aside for Games.

An entire afternoon.

Quadruple P.E.

It’s a nightmare.

Luckily, as the term progresses, it becomes somewhat of an unofficial free period for those not part of a sports team. Coach Indra’s a tough nut to crack, a counter-argument for every half-baked excuse—having no clue how to hold a lacrosse stick or know what to do with a netball…ball isn’t good enough—but even she relents once the mock exam period approaches. Clarke’s especially thankful on days like today when the English weather is performing its dreary stereotype of a role with astonishing aplomb. 

Still, it’s a bit of a shock to the system when Lexa enters the Sixth Form Annex after lunch still dressed in her usual school uniform and cloak instead of her games skirt and tracksuit bottoms. Especially when Heda perches herself on the edge of the desk where Clarke’s pretending to study and the sight of the Head Girl practically lounging in the middle of a school day disconnects everything in her brain expect a set of zygomaticus major muscles.

“What are your plans for Games?” she asks once they manage to taper down their grins and Clarke finishes wondering exactly how one might go about crafting wings from feathers and wax.

“Not much. I was about to go excuse myself, actually.”

Menstrual cramps twice in one month is a real possible thing. Clarke’s fully prepared to support her lies with medical facts.

“Brilliant. Do you have a lot of prep?”

Clarke glances down at the messy piles of paper and textbooks spread in front of her. “Is this Heda asking or Lexa?”

It’s definitely Lexa who bites her lip against an impeding smile. “Hockey was cancelled. Fancy a ramble with me? I cleared it with Indra.”

The textbooks get slammed shut.

“As tempting as this Chem revision is, I’d much rather go rambling with you,” Clarke drawls, leaning back in her seat. “A fancy ramble or a plain old one; I’m not picky.”

As if she’s been doing any Chemistry other than a failed quest to construct her girlfriend’s name using the periodic table.

As if she has any idea what a ramble is; ‘with me’ is all she needs to know.

(Plus, it sounds super dirty.)

But then Clarke narrows her eyes, suspicious. Surely the Head of Games approving this activity increases the possibility that it’s not the fun kind of exercise.

“Hold on.” She grabs Lexa’s leg before she can hop off the table. “A ramble is some kind of weird British sport, isn’t it?”

Lexa laughs and shifts her weight back to the table, crossing her ankles together.

“I suppose. It’s just a walk in the countryside though. You’ll manage.”

Raising her eyebrows, Clarke looks toward the line of windows. Lexa follows her gaze but doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that their view is entirely occluded by raindrop trackways. She continues to look at Clarke expectantly.

“Lex. It’s pouring out there.”

“It’s about to stop, don’t worry,” the Head Girl says calmly. “There’s somewhere I want to show you.”

Who’s she trying to kid? Clarke would follow the Head Girl to hell and back.

“I can probably manage that,” she concedes, glancing around the room before running a light finger along her girlfriend’s calf. Lexa shivers and Clarke revels in being the only one who knows, thanks to the tiny crop of goosebumps. “But only for you.”

“Sure? In the interest of full disclosure, it might be up to half a mile’s walk. Each way. But no worries—I won’t suffer you to do any running.”

“Shop op,” Clarke grumbles, shoving Lexa’s leg away. The Head Girl slides off the table and stands with perfect grace. “As long as I don’t have to wear those disgusting brown Games sweatpants.”

Sparkling green eyes rake up and down her body as if they’ve been just waiting for an excuse. “Acceptable terms. We'll need to get our jackets, though.”

Clarke crinkles her nose. “I left mine back at House today. Can’t we just wear our cloaks?” They’re just so damn warm and snuggly. Kind of like Clarke’s girlfriend, now that she thinks about it.

(That’s a lie. Clarke’s always thinking about how warm and snuggly her girlfriend is.)

Clarke’s girlfriend looks genuinely horrified.

“Absolutely not. They’ll drag in the dirt."

“Right. Can’t desecrate the cloaks. Got it.” Clarke grins and tweaks the kneecap beneath her fingers before standing and pulling her various items of stationary into a pile.

“They’re not holy, Clarke,” Lexa grouses as Clarke shoves everything into her designated cubby (yeah—cubby. Like she’s back in preschool). “Have you ever tried to launder a cloak?”

Clarke laughs and then concedes the point with a hum. “Fair enough. Although I can’t imagine dirt or mud daring to touch the Heda cloak,”

(She wouldn’t be surprised if Heda commands the tempests, to be honest.)

Lexa gives her endearing little eye roll and Clarke develops temporary vertigo on their walk out of the Annex, leaving her little choice but to keep swaying into her girlfriend’s path (and her girlfriend little choice but to keep pretending to be exasperated).

They come to a halt once they’re out of the main doors, silently contemplating the increasingly-violent downpour from the safety of the cloisters.

“Well.”

“It’ll ease up.” As confident as Lexa sounds, she declines stepping outside the rafter line.

“I think this is the very definition of your guys’ phrase ‘chucking it down,’ Lex.” Clarke crosses her arms and huddles a little closer to the warm body at her side. The warm body rubs a hand up and down her arm while scanning the horizon. Or where the horizon would presumably be located, anyway.

“Have faith,” Lexa says. She pauses, then. “It might be a little muddy out there, though.”

“Maybe just a little.”

They watch the sky grow even darker, rain droplets being flung to the earth hard enough that they can feel little splashes on their legs.

“Do you have wellies? I’m sure your Housemistress has extra if not.”

Clarke pauses. “Wait, I know this word, don’t tell me—no, I don’t have any wellies, but my cheeks are plenty warm, don’t worry.”

Lexa’s lips shake and she doesn’t even look around before pressing their coolness into said cheeks. “I see. On another topic entirely, do you happen to possess any rain boots?”

“Ah. Wellies. Rain boots. I knew that.”

“You had it completely in hand,” Lexa assures her, her smile growing too wide to be considered a smirk anymore. It's apparently too big for her neck to hold up either because her head ducks down under its weight.

On another topic entirely, Clarke’s overgrown heart is quickly growing too heavy for her legs to hold upright.

“Moving on, yes—on second thought, I do, in fact, own a pair of wellies.”

“Great. We’ll be fine then.”

The wind keeps howling.

The rain keeps coming down.

It’s getting a little biblical.

Two pairs of brown leather Mary-Janes remain under cover, dancing in place against the chill.

“My guardian’s research assistant made sure to suggest I order a pair of Hunters before I even arrived in England,” Clarke elaborates, purely to delay imminent flood-wading. "I guess she was right." 

“That was thoughtful.”

“Mmm. Maya was the one who suggested I look up Polis, too. I guess she was a student here for a bit and loved it.”

Lexa’s eyes light up and then almost immediately her cheeks burst into rose-pink bloom. “I remember Maya. She was a Prefect when I was fourteen; she came to Polis for Sixth Form.”

“Oh yeah? I figured she was older. I haven’t met her yet, we’ve only spoken via email.”

“She’s lovely.” Lexa continues to blush and study the rain like there might be a band of enemy warriors therein and suddenly Clarke thinks she knows why.

“Lexaaa,” she sing-songs, delighted. “Is this the beginning of the story of when you first realised you were attracted to girls?”

“Maybe,” the cutest little beet-red Head Girl ever mutters after a moment. Even the tips of her ears are pink and Clarke doesn’t fight the urge to lean in and feel their warmth under her lips.

“You’re adorable.”

“I am not adorable.”

“She’s pretty, then?”

“I’ll have you know my crush was based on her compassion and her wit and—”

“Mmmhmm.” Clarke hasn’t moved away from the shell of Lexa’s ear and she suspects the lack of eye contact is the only reason Lexa’s continuing to talk at all. She continues to nuzzle in while waiting for more.

“Fine. She was aesthetically pleasing,” Lexa begrudgingly admits. “But I was mostly attracted to her personality. She was always smiling and kind to everyone, teachers and younger girls alike. It’s rare for a girl that new to the school to make Prefect on her second year, but she deserved it.”

Glancing around to confirm they’re the only man or beast braving the deluge, Clarke links her fingers together behind Lexa’s head and kisses pouting lips. “I understand,” she says after breaking away. “My story’s pretty similar.”

It’s banter and Clarke’s fully expecting—hoping for—more of that extended lower lip but they only grow into a slow smile, one of those full-mouthed, toothy smiles she loves even more.

“Except that my crush is beautiful,” Clarke tells her, brushing their noses together. “Inside and out.” When she pulls back, her girlfriend’s eyes are still closed. “And she’s not a crush.” 

Lexa keeps her eyes closed.

“Although it would seem she has a thing for new girls,” Clarke teases to lighten the mood, tucking some stray curls back into Lexa’s braids like daisies in a crown. “So I should probably be keeping an eye on Victoria in Lower Six, hmm?”

Somehow Lexa manages to combine the softest eyes with the biggest eye roll when she opens them and she nudges Clarke in the direction of the Houses with her shoulders. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Clarke blinks. She looks at downpour and then back at Lexa. “Seriously? We’re going to drown.”

But then Lexa lifts up her cloak and holds it over both their heads and they make a dash for it and they’re giggling and narrowly avoiding parking barriers and tripping over kerbs and there are little ringlets curling up around their temples and Clarke decides that she really, truly has no problem whatsoever with the English weather.

--

And of course the tempest obeys its Commander.

Lexa’s standing on Brigid’s porch in her usual wool jacket when Clarke struggles outside a few minutes later trying to keep hold on the giant golf umbrella Mrs. O’Brien had pressed into her hands, half-marshmallow in her puffiest jacket, hat, and gloves.

“You won’t need the brolly. Look at that patch of sun over there,” Lexa insists, pointing to a minuscule cloud break far in the distance.  “The rain’s going to stop any second.”

Heda raises her hand to the skies and of course the skies obey.

The wind picks up just long enough to unfold the clouds and sunlight streams in through the grey and the only thing Clarke’s surprised about in this moment is how hushed the world becomes once the rain stops falling.

The umbrella and gloves get left on the front porch.

--

At first it’s just a patch of blue skies above their heads, but as they walk, the sun continues to saturate greyscale landscapes into colour and soon the birds resume their afternoon hymnody. A pair of faded Wellington boots, far too large for their wearer, stride through the lacrosse pitch, across the tennis and netball courts, and through a wooden gate. A pristine pair of red ones clomp beside them, stomping through mud puddles like their owner is three-years-old again and determined to get her new shoes as messy as possible.

At least until Lexa informs her that she’s just kicked her way through cow manure.

“Is this still part of Polis?” Clarke asks once her boots have been wiped as clean as they’re going to get against a patch of grass. They’re stood with miles of pleasant pastures spread in front of them, slightly rolling and clouded hills that luckily smell more like fresh earth than what Clarke’s just scraped off her boots.

“This field here—and one a little further on—is owned by Polis but they’re leased to a nearby farm. Sometimes we get cows or sheep in them but they must be in other fields today.”

“Good. They can stay there.” Lexa may be at home amongst the half-wild creatures but Clarke is perfectly happy keeping her distance from the beasts.

“City girl,” Lexa teases.

“Country mouse,” Clarke shoots right back and takes her girlfriend’s cold little hand and entwines it with her own before tucking both in her jacket pocket. “So where are you taking us?”

“It’s right on the other side of the field—over there, in the copse.”

Sure enough, there’s a little thicket of trees and brush bordering a larger area of untamed woodland where she’s pointing, slightly raised above the rest. Clarke’s about to ask what’s so special about some trees dotted along a tiny hill when the sun fully breaks free from its clouded cage and its reflection catches in Lexa’s eyes. There’s a look of reverence in them and it must be contagious because Clarke begins to feel something prickle at her skin as they approach, like there’s something inexplicably sacrosanct about the place.

The feeling only intensifies the closer they get to their destination, the sunlight becoming filtered through branches and the sounds of the surrounding roads fading away. It smells old here, the scent of farmlands and wet grass seeming heavier—denser, maybe. As if the same moss that covers the stones poking out of the soil has found a way to grow along the edges of the air, too. And when they stand at the base of the mound, the wind and the birds quiet their voices, like even they know something’s special about this spot.

Lexa says nothing and Clarke doesn’t know what to say. What she finally manages comes out in a whisper, as if they’re standing at the altar of an ancient cathedral. That’s a fairly good analogy for the atmosphere of this sheltered space, actually: it feels like they’re standing at the site of some timeless place of worship.  “What is this, Lex? It’s beautiful but it also feels…I don’t know, sacred?”

A soft smile and hand squeeze confirm her suspicions. “It’s not a natural feature; the mound was built by humans. It’s an early Bronze Age round barrow—a tumulus.”

“You’re going to have to refresh my memory. The Bronze Age was…pre-Boudica?”

Lexa nods, a pleased little look in her eyes. “The era right before Boudica. She was the end of the Iron Age. The Bronze Age was from about 2500 to 800 BC.”

Clarke takes a moment to let that sink in. “This little hill could have been built four thousand years ago?” She remembers how tiny she felt in the shadows of Polis’ cloisters or the bulwarks of St. Æthelthryth’s and those were mere infants compared to this overgrown monument, covered in brush and thistle.

“It may even be late-Neolithic; the surveyor suggested it’s likely on the earlier side. It’s never been excavated, to our knowledge.”

An unexplainable impulse to touch this physical manifestation of human history thrums through Clarke and she does, crouching down to bury her fingers in the earthwork at the base of the mound. She digs her fingers down further, as if she can reach through the upper layer of soil to touch the same earth that the ancients dug with antler bones and faith in something higher. Lexa remains standing but she strokes her own fingers along Clarke’s jacket collar, burrowing them under layers of clothing until she finds bare skin.

“But how can something this old, this important, just sit unprotected in some random field, covered in weeds?" Clarke stands and looks around. "It should have a visitor’s booth, or a fence, or at least some sort of plaque.”

Lexa shrugs but Clarke can see the Head Girl’s anything but blasé about it. “There are thousands of these scattered around the British Isles; you can hardly go into the countryside in some regions without tripping over one. In Wiltshire there’s a long barrow built more than five thousand years ago, older than the Egyptian pyramids. Some of them are more famous and sign-posted but most of them stand alone and mostly-forgotten like this one. They’re almost always in remote locations; ploughing and modern cities have flattened most of the rest.”

“That’s so wrong, though—something this old, languishing away until it’s forgotten entirely…”

“This one, at least, is protected by an environmental stewardship,” Lexa hastens to reassure her and Clarke wonders just how despondent she must look. “The government grants stipends to landowners with archeological features on their property to prevent them being destroyed.”

“Why do I get the feeling you set that up?”

Lexa’s eyes twinkle but before Clarke can prod for confirmation, she steps around a particularly thorny bush and begins climbing the barrow. Clarke watches her ascend, torn between some ingrained social convention that even touching the monument must be sacrilege of some form and something new, something more primordial bubbling just below the surface.

Heda reaches the top and stands at the very crest, her crown of braids wind-loosened and a multitude of strands flowing around her face. She closes her eyes and bares her throat to the skies and when she spreads her arms against the wind, the setting sun at her back, the wisps of hair around her temples catch the light and surround her head like a halo.

After a moment, she lowers her arms and tilts her chin forward again, using it to gesture to the spot beside her. Clarke doesn’t hesitate to clamber up this Calvary, stumbling around the overgrowth and through prickly bushes to join the mound’s real-life goddess.

They stand side by side and take in the landscape spread before them; the expanse of effulgent fields divided up by stone walls; the clusters of trees and lines of woodland; the silhouette of Polis in the distance, rising out of the mist like a hilled fortress. 

“It’s breathtaking, Lex,” Clarke murmurs.

“It’s my favourite place. I don’t manage to make it out here very often, but something about it never fails to refresh my mind.”

“I know what you mean. It's the same feeling I used to get looking up at the stars. There’s something…immense about it, maybe? Like we’re so small, but also like we’re not.” Once again, Clarke fails to find the words and once again Lexa doesn’t need them. She reaches for Clarke’s hand to squeeze it in understanding before pulling two plastic ASDA shopping bags out of her pocket.

“That’s how I feel, too,” Lexa says once they’re settled in a nettle-free patch of grass on top of the bags, bodies pressed close against the cold of the frozen soil. “Awe. Like we’re in the presence of something vast and unknowable, all this land and all these years of humanity coming to this very spot. A reminder that we’re part of something bigger than ourselves.”

“It’s definitely humbling. It makes me think of the big-picture rather than just about myself. Does that even make sense?”

“Yes. Me, too,” Lexa says quietly, her gaze slackening as she scans her eyes across the horizon, the sun close to its final descent.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Clarke says just as quietly. “Thank you for letting me share your space.”

“It’s not my space. But you’re welcome. It’s special to me.” Lexa swallows and looks back at the sinking star that seems almost close enough to touch, rather than 93 million miles away. “You’re special to me.”

The sentiment hovers in the breeze but Clarke doesn’t let it linger more than a few seconds because she can feel Lexa’s heart begin to pound under her hand, dropping her lips to a stiff shoulder in acknowledgement.

“Do we know why they built these round barrows?”

“To bury their dead. The early Bri—”

Clarke’s on her feet before Lexa can finish her explanation. “We’re sitting on top of a tomb?” she yelps.

Well, Lexa’s sitting on a tomb anyway—she leans back on her hands, tilting her head up at Clarke and squinting. “Yes.”

“So there’s a body—or bodies!—buried somewhere beneath us?”

“Probably. We don’t know for sure with this one but that’s what round barrows were built for.”

“Four-thousand-year-old bones and we’re just…chatting on top of them."  A shudder and then something deeper, more jagged and raw churns up in her stomach. Something like guilt, something that demands funeral black and grief, something that reminds her that she hadn’t attended memorial services and hadn’t shed tears on graves and only seconds she’d been light and carefree while literally standing upon death. "It feels wrong.”

“Death held a very different significance to the early Britons,” Lexa says gently; there’s probably a future for her in horse-whispering if politics doesn’t work out. “Some of the earlier tombs, like the long barrows, were left open and the bones inside were often moved around or used for ritualistic practices. They were a place of worship, a place of celebration of life and for those who came before.”

“That’s…weird.”

“Just a different set of beliefs and values,” Lexa says with her calm little smile and Clarke takes a deep breath before nodding. She’s avoided the thought of death for so long that the idea of making it a part of everyday life feels terrifying. And even more so the thought of celebrating it, of laughing and being happy when faced with tangible reminders of death’s ultimate victory. 

“Fine. I get that. But…” Clarke takes another deep breath and then another. “Okay.” She lowers herself beside Lexa again but doesn't go any further down than her knees.

“When I was younger, I would pretend this was where my mother was buried. When I visited, I didn’t feel so alone.”

It’s said so faintly that the words are almost lost to the wind. Clarke’s breath hitches.

“When I’m here, I remember that we’re never alone. Our loved ones are always with us. In the grass, in the moonbeams…the flickering of a flame in the dark. Look at this mound, still standing, still growing with new life thousands of years later. Death isn't the end.”

She’s talking about more than herself, Clarke knows. She knows and she knows and she knows.

When Clarke swallows and nods, Lexa rises to her knees to kiss away a couple fat teardrops. Clarke kisses ancient trackways where tears probably haven’t trod in years before allowing herself to be pulled back to the ground again.   

“Where is your mother buried?” she asks quietly after a few minutes of silence.

“I don’t know,” Lexa answers with a tight smile, twisting a clump of long grass around her finger. She doesn’t sever a single blade. “In Surrey, probably. Where she grew up.”

The depth of Lexa’s estrangement from her legal guardians hits Clarke, as it never fails to do, like a sucker punch to the gut but today she’s not willing to accept the beating. 

“Your grandparents are fucking bastards, Lexa. I hate them. I hate them.” Clarke has no compunctions yanking whatever’s under her fingers right out of the soil as she speaks, ripping them in half and then in half again, imaging they’re two low-life excuses for human beings and the blades their jugulars.

How fucking dare they continue to breathe while Lexa’s had to fight and claw herself through every single day of her life?  Their eyes don’t deserve a single ray of her light but for just a second, Clarke wishes Lexa’s grandparents could see the girl she’s grown up to be. She wishes they could be forced to see what they missed out on, forced to witness the way their granddaughter still smiles, despite it all.

The way she still comforts the little ones; the way she still kisses without reservation; the way she still wields the weight of her power not with terror but in kindness.

“You were a child. A baby,” Clarke continues to rant, glowering down at the dirt for her next victims. “You don’t just abandon a five-year-old in a boarding school and run away, you don’t—I hope they know your mother’s death is on their hands—if they hadn’t abandoned her, too, she never would have—it’s all their fault, if they’d just… God, I just hate them so much.”

With a sigh, Lexa covers Clarke’s hand with her own, freeing the grass from its senseless torture and letting it fall to the wind.  “It helps no one to dwell on the past. They did what they believed to be best, perhaps the best they could do. I couldn’t ask for a better place to grow up than Polis. I am stronger for it.”

The way she forgives, even still.

(Clarke knows and she knows and she knows.)

One day Clarke will forgive herself. One day she’ll forgive herself for all those deaths she played a part in; forgive herself for running away; forgive herself for the sheer volume of joy she’s allowed to roar through her body since. She’ll forgive herself for trying to find meaning in meaninglessness and she’ll forgive herself for creating meaning in a world her mother and father will never see.

“Besides,” Lexa adds after a moment, “this isn’t a place for wallowing on death. I prefer to think of it as a place to celebrate life.”   

It’s not today and it’s not tomorrow but one day Clarke will forgive, too, and when she digs, she’ll find the roots planted in this very hill.

“Okay,” Clarke whispers just before catching Lexa’s lower lip between her own, every ounce of righteous anger fully transformed into riotous love as soon as they connect. She manages to cradle the back of Lexa’s head before pressing her against ancient earth, some instinct she hardly has time to thank before Lexa’s tongue finds the seam of her lips. The wind is icy and the sod beneath them is frozen and Lexa’s fingertips are cold, but it’s okay because inside their mouths a wildfire is stirring.

Shifting her weight onto a single elbow, Clarke locates one wandering hand and then the other, urging them under her own jacket hem for warmth. They glide along cotton and then stumble upon overheated skin between buttonholes; Lexa freezes for a moment until Clarke traps her fleeing hands between their bodies and kisses her harder, seeking more and more closeness, more and more losing of herself inside the corona Lexa calls skin.

Lexa doesn’t stay still for long.

She surges back, raking her fingers across Clarke’s molten skin and meeting every tongue stroke with one of her own.  Even her eyes are battle-ready, dark and vigilant and unclosing. She’s all arched hipbones and straining neck ligaments that know no other response pattern—all warrior who knows nothing but her daily fight. Somewhere in amongst the hormones and screaming nerve impulses, Clarke wonders if Lexa's even capable of letting go when she’s anything but half-asleep, wonders if the statue of Boudica isn’t the only one with her spear welded to her hand. 

Her warrior queen's eyelids finally fall shut when Clarke begins planting a series of seedling kisses across her eyelids, down to where eyelashes meet cheekbone, and then south along her jaw. Taking advantage of her distraction, two warm hands launch an escape attempt but Clarke clamps down on the prisoners with her free arm, using her mouth to push aside Lexa’s scarf aside instead.

Teeth graze their way across sweaty skin before latching on to the juncture between Lexa’s neck and shoulders, and a strangled gasp rewards their effort. Clarke continues on her taste-tour across the expanse of Lexa's shoulder, from the tight trapezius bundle to the northern-most boundary of her scapula, and each twitch of muscle under her lips leaves her hungry for more. She releases her prisoners in favour of burrowing a hand under Lexa's jacket, still above her jumper but close enough that she can feel the rise of each rib, the dip of each intercostal muscle. 

(AP Human Biology would’ve been so much easier if she’d had access to an anatomical model like this.)

“Okay?” Clarke rasps when she feels deltoids jump to attention under her tongue and external obliques spasm under her fingers when Lexa nods without a word.

“Are you cold?”

Lexa shakes her head. Her eyes remain shut but her breathing speeds up, puffs of white from flaring nostrils. Clarke flattens her hands across Lexa’s stomach and shifts herself up to capture sweet lips again. The change in position causes one of Clarke’s thighs to slot in between Lexa’s—skirts apparently pushed up at some glorious point—and when she feels a firm leg muscle pressing against her centre, she neither knows nor cares which one it is.

Fuck.

(Who cares about AP Human Biology when she has access to an anatomical model like this?)

A moan resounds through the fields and in the woodlands and if Clarke thinks she can muffle the inevitable next ones in Lexa’s mouth, it should be considered further evidence for the quality of her cognition right now. The kiss deepens, loud and messy, and she hardly notices when the hand-shaped warmth on her stomach finally absconds its bonds, far too absorbed in sating what's beginning to feel like an insatiable need.

Because Lexa makes this noise.

Because Lexa makes this noise, somewhere between a whimper and a gasp, and then wrenches all her shirts out of her skirt hem. And like the best magician’s trick ever, Clarke’s hand is suddenly flat against the smooth skin of her girlfriend’s stomach.

And her girlfriend keeps guiding it upward.

Higher and higher—

Closer and closer and closer—

Clarke’s vision begins to blur when Lexa shoves aside cotton and underwire and she wonders if this is how it feels to black out. Her heart is beating so hard in her chest she’ll probably find bruises in the morning. She buries her face in the crook of Lexa’s shoulder, trying to calm her breath, and she’s not sure if it’s was a good decision or a bad one because now there’s a pair of lips fastening onto her pulse point.

“Lex. Lex,” Clarke manages to force out but her only response is the lave of a tongue against her throat before Lexa reestablishes suction. 

Their hands keeps ascending and everything’s so soft and warm and Clarke lifts her head to witness the blessed event as her hips begin grinding down with a life of their own and Lexa’s are rising to meet them and—

Clarke reaches the summit of her personal holy mound and promptly crashes skulls with its landowner, her other arm far too feeble to cope with the knowledge of what heavenly flesh its twin cups in its hand. 

Lexa bursts into laughter.

Her head drops back down and she can’t seem to stop giggling, even as she lifts a hand and brushes Clarke’s hair back from her forehead. It only takes a horrified second for Clarke to join her, cracking up even harder when she hears a snort come out of the girl beneath her.

“Sorry,” Clarke manages between several snorts of her own, something she’d normally be horrified about except that they only set Lexa off into more of her own and make her eyes sparkle with mirth and her lips taste like something red and sweet. “I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

“I’ll survive,” Lexa pretends to grumble after a dramatic prodding of her forehead. “That was…something.”

Clarke kisses the injury site and then rolls slightly to the side, resting her head on the inside of a traitorous elbow while catching her breath, still pillowing the back of Lexa’s head from the frozen ground. Her lips are so distractingly swollen but they’re also slightly wind-chapped and hiding chattering teeth; Clarke registers the outside world for the first time in what feels like ages and promptly hides her face back in Lexa’s scarf.

“I don’t care what you say,” Clarke says, voice muffled by thick wool, “I feel like a heathen for feeling you up on a gravesite. Oh god, and one that you associate with your mother. Oh god.”

“I doubt the dead would be bitter about a celebration of life,” Lexa murmurs, brushing the back of her fingers oh so tenderly across Clarke’s cheek and then adjusting her hat to cover her ears again. “Even if that was a slightly…unorthodox way to go about it.”

“Dead bones, Lexa,” Clarke persists, lifting her head. “I was feeling you up on top of a skeleton.”

“You’re still feeling me up on top of a skeleton,” Lexa observes, dropping her eyes down to where Clarke still hasn’t let go of her prize.

Clarke cocks her head and considers. She brushes her thumb over its peak and it jumps to attention. Lexa shivers. “I mean, it’s too late to take it back, now.”

“In for a penny, in for a pound?”

It’s not a phrase Clarke knows but she certainly likes the tone of voice it’s said in. She’s about to show Lexa exactly how much she likes that tone of voice when she feels another shudder ripple through the body beneath her, and Clarke shakes herself back to the present. Lexa’s beautiful little fingers are cold and her ears aren’t red from embarrassment and the sun’s completely disappeared from the horizon and Clarke’s already almost given her girlfriend a concussion—she’s not going to add hypothermia on top of it, too.  

She leans over and kisses the tip of Lexa’s chin, the most accessible patch of skin in this position, and then sits up. “Were the whole realm of nature mine,” she airily quotes this morning's hymn to elicit an eye roll. “That’s how much I’m in it for. Hey, are you up for a run?”

Lexa crinkles her nose in confusion and draws herself up to sitting, too. Her eyes are still dark and heavy-lidded and it seems to take her an extra second to parse Clarke’s question. “Pardon?”

“I just have a sudden desire to do some running right now.”

“How hard did you hit your head?” Lexa genuinely looks a little concerned. 

Clarke sticks out her tongue and goes back to rearranging her clothing and pulling her skirt and jacket back down with a single hand. “What do you say?”

A single eyebrow arches. “Are you going to let go of my breast while we run?”

“Do I have to?”

Lexa grins. “No. It might slow you and your uncharacteristic need for speed down, however.”

“Damn,” Clarke sighs. “You and your sensible facts.”

Banishing her hand to the December chill, but only temporarily, Clarke pulls off her winter hat and pulls it down over Lexa’s head. Before the head girl can protest, Clarke slips her hand into Lexa’s outstretched one and tugs her down the hill in a run.

Gravity kicks in right away and there’s a moment when they’re going so fast it feels like they’re either going to tumble straight down to the bottom or launch into flight. It’s a heady sensation, one Clarke hasn’t felt since childhood, and even when they’re on flat earth again, it doesn’t let up.

They run hand-in-hand across the empty pasture, scrambling over the wooden fence and sprinting along the side of the lacrosse fields until they’re doubled over inside the main building, one girl with laughter and the other frantically trying to suck in enough oxygen to stop her side from burning. The pink in Lexa’s skin is from exertion now and she looks ridiculous in a lime-green hat that’s slipped so low it almost covers her eyes, and every ache and stitch and mud puddle of this Monday's quadruple Games period is 100% worth it.

Clarke wonders how surprised Indra might be if she asked to join the track team next term.

(Okay, no—that's taking it a step too far.)

 --

Raven and Octavia ambush her after dinner that night, forcibly dragging Clarke over to Brigid House and informing her that she'll be participating in a slumber part in their room that night.

All night.

Her friends are unmoved by her dirty looks and protestations that ‘participation’ implies some degree of assent, and the girls and teachers they pass along the way are likewise impervious to Clarke’s cries for help. Even Lexa is in on the betrayal, it would seem, since Octavia’s been suspiciously excused from her evening School Officials meeting, probably for the very occasion of Clarke’s kidnapping.

Still, at least the menacing strip of cloth in Octavia’s hand remains there. So at least they’re not following up on their threat to gag her, too.

(Octavia’s later admission that it’s just a scrap she needs for her latest Textiles coursework does little to reassure Clarke, having witnessed several complex knot-typing maneuvers from the Prefect during their walk.)

“Spill,” Raven demands unceremoniously once the captive is securely inside their bedroom, shutting the door and pressing down on Clarke’s shoulders until she’s seated on one of the desk chairs. She and Octavia remain standing in front of the chair and every time Clarke tries to swivel away from their unblinking regard, one or the other rotates her back to centre.

The only thing missing from this interrogation is a single spotlight hanging above her head.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clarke tries and fails.

She’d gotten away with it the previous night, her friends being wonderfully British and allowing her to steer their conversation to safe topics like the TV soap updates she’s completely forgotten about and Christmas plans, but it would appear her time is up.

“Yes you do. Lexa.”

“What about her?”

Because when it comes down to it, what can she say about Lexa?

How can she possibly put into words that only sensory traces come to mind when Clarke hears her name? The weight of her swinging arm, how soft her skin feels under Clarke’s fingers…This warmth that pools in her chest and races through her veins when Lexa smiles and when Lexa pouts her lips and when Lexa exists?

What combination of syllables wouldn’t feel like she’s defacing something holy, could possibly be enough to describe even one of the atoms in the universe living in her little finger?

For the record, Clarke is perfectly aware of how ridiculous she’s being. But if awareness always led to behaviour change, there would be far fewer alcohol and tobacco-related deaths in this world.

Clarke crosses her arms.

Octavia crosses her arms. Raven does, too.

“We’ve got all night.”

“Lexa and I…we…I like her,” Clarke finally sighs, unsurprised that the words feel like crumbs in a cathedral’s offering plate. God, she somehow feels like an awkward pre-teen trying to admit a crush but also like she’s stumbling over vows she’s said a thousand times before.

Her friends open their mouths and then close them again, clearly expecting more of a fight from her, and the lines on their foreheads soften into smile-lines.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Raven comments, her gentle tone completely at odds with her wry words. “And you finally told her that?”

Clarke nods.

“And…” Octavia prods.

“And…” Clarke becomes fascinated by the fuzz on her jumper sleeve. She battles a fierce goofy-smile offensive from her lips and she’s pretty sure it’s going to be a massive defeat. “And now we’re together.”

“Together like…”

“So you’re…dating?” Raven prods when Clarke only shrugs.

Her cheeks become even hotter, to the point where she wonders if it’s possible she’d gotten a sunburn that afternoon. In December. In England. “I guess?”

“You guess?”

“Now she’s quiet. Jesus Christ, Princess—usually you can’t shut up about the Head Girl and now it’s like squeezing water from a stone.”

Everything’s so easy when she’s alone with Lexa and it’s not like she’s embarrassed or ashamed or anything; why the hell is it so hard to have a casual conversation about this with her friends? 

“Listen, Clarke, if you honestly don’t want to talk about it, it’s fine,” Octavia intercedes when the silence remains prolonged. “We’re only kidding, you know. But if you want to talk, we’re here for you.”

Raven sighs and nods her agreement, but not before shooting her roommate a withering look.

Puffing out a breath, Clarke squares her shoulders and stops fighting the grin on her lips. “She’s my girlfriend.”

The twin squeals resounding after that statement are loud enough that Mrs. O’Brien knocks and asks if everything is alright. She’s greeted with two zealous nods and a hug from her newest boarder that the poor woman may never fully understand but nevertheless responds to with equal enthusiasm.

--

What follows is an evening filled with alternating shots of doctored ‘rocket fuel’—courtesy of Raven, who of course formulated some new chemical compound to add to the cheap vodka that makes it less…toxic—and increasing difficulty for Clarke to talk about her relationship with Lexa in ways that aren’t simply descriptions of body parts.

Because fuck, her boobs.

Clarke really misses those boobs.

The right one is probably feeling jealous. She should really rectify that situation. 

“Earth to Clarke.” Raven waves a hand in front of her face. “You suddenly got all…starry-eyed there for a minute.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Clarke blurts out.

Both English girls open their mouths, pause, and then close them, all in unison. “Pardon?”

Fuck. She knew she shouldn’t have accepted that third shot. Shut up, Clarke.

Clarke doesn’t shut up.

“I…fuck, you guys, I have no idea what I’m doing. With, um, sex. Not, like sex in general, because I've had sex—well, only like twice...maybe—but like…sex with a girl? How am I supposed to know what to do? Sex Ed doesn’t cover this and there’s no internet and it’s not like I’m going to type that query into the school computers, and where do I—”

She trails off, leaving a brief uncomfortable silence in her wake. Octavia puts down her mug and Raven draws her legs up on the bed and wraps her arms around them.

“You haven’t been with a girl before?” Octavia asks gently.

“I didn’t even know I liked girls until a month ago.” Clarke’s aware that this is one of those topics they’ve let slide between the three of them and takes a deep breath. “All I know is that being bisexual means two sets of first-time anxiety. And it’s just not fair.”

The information hangs in the air, almost physical while it’s being absorbed. Raven breaks the silence this time with an ‘amen’ though and Octavia hums in agreement and Clarke suspects that’s pretty much all the assumption confirmation she’s going to get on that subject for now.

“You’re probably overthinking it,” Raven volunteers. “What was that sign on the ski lift in the Alps, O? Right before the start of the black slope, on our Lower Five ski trip?”

“Ne pensez plus,” Octavia answers promptly. “Don’t think anymore.”

“That’s all well and good except that someone accidentally dragged me down a black diamond slope in Utah once, before I’d taken any ski lessons, and I broke my collarbone,” Clarke volleys back immediately. “If I’d known what to do, I—”

“If you break any bones during sex, you’re definitely doing it wrong.”

“You laugh, but I almost gave us both concussions today. If you see a giant bruise on the Head Girl’s forehead tomorrow morning, that was me. My doing! Do you see my problem, now?”

Raven falls off the bed laughing.

“Raven. Not helping,” Octavia scolds but she’s giggling at Clarke’s ramping distress, too.

And that’s probably fair. She does feel a little ridiculous. But this is Lexa.

Lexa.

“Clarke,” Octavia soothes, reaching over to stop nervous foot-tapping with a steady hand on her knee. “It’s okay that you don’t know everything. We’re young; we’re not supposed to know everything. That’s what we have the rest of our lives for. You’ll figure it out together.” 

“Right. Right.” Clarke starts nodding and keeps on nodding. Raven presses a hand over her skull to stop it after a few repetitions and somehow that helps.  She lets out a long breath. “Okay. I can do that.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Just be careful with the delicate little bones in the boob. Not a lot of people know about those. Don’t want to break any in your groping; rookie mistake.”

Raven receives a kick.

“And ignore any advice from Raven,” Octavia adds, throwing a stuffed animal at her roommate who catches it and whacks Clarke upside the head, the ensuing pillow-fight being a fitting and much-welcomed end to drunken slumber party confessions.

When the curfew bell rings out and the Housemistress knocks on the door to remind them to turn off their lights, Clarke’s given a choice of sharing a bed with either occupant but it’s a pretty easy decision after Raven whispers that Octavia kicks in her sleep.

“I do not. Clarke, she’s a liar. A liar.”

“O. How many years have we shared a room?”

“Too many,” Octavia grumbles and a pillow is flung across the room, hitting its target square on the head. Raven only laughs though and hands it to Clarke. “God speed, Clarke—Raven’s the worst bed hog.”

“I…can see that,” Clarke comments, unable to get Raven to stay on her own pillow. She pushes her friend away and gains pillow space but loses ground over the lower half of the bed when Raven shifts to her stomach and starfishes. “Scoot over, Rae.”

“My bum leg, Clarke. Gotta stretch it out. You know this.”

“That was your left leg.”

“Both legs, now.”

“Raven,” Clarke whines, too tipsy to use her words but nowhere near tipsy enough to fall asleep in an uncomfortable ball. “I don’t have to take this. I’m going back to my room.”

“Don’t even try it,” Octavia call out across the room. “We’re getting a full night out of you before you disappear to Flidais for the rest of the year. Raven—budge up.”

“Clarke’s used to it. She’s been sharing a bed with Lexa for ages,” Raven mumbles, unmoving and half-asleep in her perfect comfort.

“Lexa’s soft. You’re all… bones and sharp elbows.”

Raven gasps and turns over but her indignation is cut off by another knock on the door.

“Octavia?” they hear a hesitant voice float in. “Are you still awake?”

The Prefect rolls out of bed and opens the door a crack, the light from the hall causing Raven to groan and throw an arm over her eyes. Which of course means a whack in the face for Clarke. Clarke has no choice but to stay silent since she’s not supposed to be in here but it doesn’t prevent her from pinching her bedmate.

“Gemma—she’s crying in her bed,” the little girl at the door whispers and Octavia fumbles for her flip-flops and hockey jumper before slipping out of the room to follow.

The struggles of Clarke’s bedfellow cease once the room is quiet again and Raven scoots over so that her back is against the wall and they’re facing each other. There’s the tiniest of glows coming in from the window, moonlight or more likely distant streetlight, and Clarke watches all evidence of inebriation fall from Raven’s face.

“You’re a master at holding your alcohol, you know,” Clarke tells her with a small smile, her mind going back to the toga party a few days ago.

Raven returns the smile and then props her head up on the inside of her elbow. “I’m a master of many things.”

“Clearly. Listen, Rae—listening goes both ways. If you want to talk about things. About Octavia or Friday night or—”

“I snogged Bellamy,” Raven lets drop like she’s discussing the weather. “I had the taxi take me to the Weatherspoons after the dance.”

Well. That wasn’t exactly what Clarke was expecting. “You…what?” 

Raven shrugs, which is an odd sensation when they’re horizontal and practically face-to-face. “Trying to move on. I’d never kissed anyone but Octavia.”

“Raven…”

“He talked me down before it could go any further. Don’t worry.”

Clarke sighs and drops her head back down on the pillow. “Did it help?”

“No.”

“Was it…good?”

“Sure,” she shrugs again.

“High praise,” Clarke teases, failing to lighten the mood when Raven just puffs out a long exhale.

“Look. I don't know what’s going on with me and O. We don't talk about it. We’ve been friends for so long and sometimes it’s so bloody difficult to figure out what’s going on between us, what’s platonic love and what’s…something more.”

“I can imagine,” Clarke says gently.

“Bellamy was easy. It’s so much easier when you don’t love the person first.”

Clarke hums in understanding and squeezes her friend’s hand. “I get it. Remember my friend Wells? The one who sent the fruit roll-ups?”

“Mmm, I like him. When’s he sending more?”

Clarke rolls her eyes at Raven’s deflection but she understands that, too. “He’d send them every week if I let him,” she laughs, reminding herself to ask for more.

(And not just because of the mental image of Lexa’s tongue wrapped around a sticky finger.)

“Anyway,” Clarke continues, “Wells and I were really close friends, too. Practically from birth; his dad was a surgeon at my mom’s hospital. We were inseparable as kids. But then came puberty and dating and I still remember how much I hated his first girlfriend. I was constantly resentful of the time he spent with her and how she was the only thing he ever talked about and god, I just missed my best friend. It was so bad that I began to wonder if I was in love with him. If I wanted to be his girlfriend.”

“Yeah?”

Clarke smiles ruefully at the memory. “Yep. I even tried to force the issue. I’d imagine myself kissing him and holding his hand; I created this whole internal narrative that I was pining after him. Somehow it was less painful, I don’t know… To be the victim instead of the irrationally jealous friend, I guess.”

“And?” Raven hurries her along when Clarke pauses to take a breath.

“Long story short, I kissed him. And it was weird. Really, really weird. Weird enough that I figured out that I didn’t want to be the one kissing him. I was just jealous that someone else got to do it. Not kissing specifically, more like that they got be the one doing all sorts of new, intimate things with him. Jealous that someone else got to make him happy.”

Raven is silent.

“Change is hard. Really fucking hard. Nothing stays the same forever.”

Raven remains silent. The light from a passing car roves across her face and Clarke catches a brief glimpse of a top lip being chewed.

“But that’s just one way it can go. And I don’t think loving someone first is necessarily a bad thing; sometimes it makes the next step better. I suppose it just depends if you want more from that love.”

“How did you know you wanted more with Lexa? That you were… you know, sexually attracted to her?” Raven’s question is voiced in such a raw, quiet voice that Clarke refrains from teasing her friend for the clinical phraseology and takes a few moments to think about her answer.

“I’m not sure it’s comparable, Rae; I’ve only known Lexa for a couple of months. I did think it was just friendship for a long time, but looking back, I was ignoring a lot of signs that I’d been attracted to her the whole time.

“Like?”

Clarke tries not to blush, thinking about those fruit roll-ups again. “Um…the fact that I couldn’t get her off my mind, for one. And how good she smells.”

“Oh yeah? What does the Head Girl smell like?” Raven asks with a grin, clearly trying to get Clarke off-topic and wildly succeeding.

“I don’t fucking know,” Clarke complains and turns her face into the pillow. “Like…sunshine or something.”

“The sun literally has no smell, Clarke. Heated metal, at the most. I suppose odor molecules move more freely at warmer temperatures, but all that means is that you’re better able to detect other scents when it’s sunny out.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean. What does Octavia smell like?” Clarke fires back.

Raven snorts. “Like herself. And whatever shampoo she’s used.”

“Stop being so literal. I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” Clarke concedes and wraps an arm around her friend and keeps it there as they let a few minutes of silence pass between them. “Does Octavia know you kissed her brother?”

“No. I’ll tell her though. Just waiting for the right opportunity. Maybe on our death beds. Kidding,” Raven modifies when Clarke swats at her, unimpressed.

“You should talk to her though. About all of this. Easier advised than done, I know…”

“How am I supposed to talk to her when I don’t even know how I feel? Sometimes I wonder whether I know what attraction feels like, if it’s there and I just haven’t labeled it. Or if it’s not there and I’m mislabeling something else. Like…Octavia’s hot—obviously—”

Clarke nods in agreement. Obviously.

“—and I like kissing her. But there’s no way in hell I’m risking our friendship unless I’m dead fucking sure.”

“I don’t know the answer, Rae, but I know who you could figure it out with.” Raven groans, long and exasperated, and face-plants herself into the pillow. “Octavia knows you so well. Maybe better than you know yourself. Besides, you need to know what she’s thinking about all this.”

“Or I could just push it under a rug and hope it all goes away.”

“Oh yeah? And how’s that working out for you?”

Raven clenches her jaw and looks away.

“It’s not like you to just… fizzle out with a whimper, Rae. Go big or go home, remember?”

“Right.” Clarke’s bedmate begins to nod, slowly at first but then with conviction. “Right. Fuck whimper—Raven Reyes has always been more of a bang.”

“I’m sure you’re a great bang,” Clarke lilts to cheer up her friend and succeeds, earning a silly seductive look for her efforts.

They close their eyes and settle into the space, somehow compromising in their leg orientation and Clarke managing not to fall off the edge as long as she remains on her side and folds her arms around herself.

“How did you know, though?” Raven asks just as Clarke’s beginning to drift asleep.

“That I was attracted to Lexa?”

“Mmm.”

“Honestly? I couldn’t stop thinking about her lips. Or her boobs.”

Raven cracks up and they’re both still laughing when Octavia slips back into the room.

“Damn, I was hoping you two would have either killed each other or fallen asleep by the time I got back,” Octavia observes as she strips off her extra clothes and gets back into bed.

“Nope. Just discussing Lexa’s boobs,” Raven says.

“Raven,” Clarke groans. “We were not.”

“Too bad. She’s got great ones.”

“Octavia!” Clarke yelps. “Stop it. How would you even know?”  Fuck, Clarke hasn’t even seen them. Not really. Not with her eyes.

Clarke glares into the darkness.

“We’ve been in boarding school together since we were seven. We’ve all seen each other’s’ boobs a million times. She was a late bloomer, if you’re interested.”

“I’m not!” Clarke lies. “Stop talking about my girlfriend’s breasts.”

This is possibly the most conflicting conversation she’s ever had because in all honesty, she could talk about her girlfriend’s breasts until the end of her days. 

(Clarke takes a momentary personal sidebar to savor the memory of their weight in her hand.)

“You’re the one who brought them up.” Raven snorts when she receives a thump and rolls onto her stomach. Clarke pushes an arm away from her side with a groan. “Fine. Is Gemma okay?” she asks the other side of the room.

There’s a rustling of sheets and the fluffing of a pillow before Octavia responds. “Poor kid’s upset because all her friends have gotten their periods except her. Thought there might be something wrong with her.”

“Too bad Lexa wasn’t around. Probably could have empathised,” Raven whispers and gets a swift kick to her leg. “We need to talk about your violent tendencies, Miss Griffin.”

“So you talked to her?” Clarke presses Octavia, ignoring Raven. It breaks her heart to imagine one of the little ones keeping a worry like that to herself. It’s an unavoidable fact of growing up but when Clarke had felt the same way as a child, she’d just talked to her mother. And that was horrifying enough. She can’t imagine only having housemistresses or teachers for such things; even the thought of talking to an older girl like a Prefect would have been terrifying. If she’d been in a boarding school at the time, eleven-year-old Clarke probably would have kept her self-doubt to herself, too.

“I did, but she was mostly feeling better by the time I got there. She had all the girls in her room consoling her, and a couple of Lower Fives from across the hall as well who were telling their own stories. Gem was giggling when I left.”

“Oh wow,” Clarke says, surprised. “That was nice of them.”

“We take care of our own. Insecurities, nightmares, homesickness, exam difficulties—there’s always someone at boarding school who’s been through it before. Oso gonplei ogeda—we fight together.” Clarke can hear the smile in Octavia’s words and feels tears prickle in her own eyes.

“Remember when I dropped my whole Chemistry notebook in a puddle in Lower Four and Anya Wasti spent all night helping me re-copy it so I wouldn’t be bollocked the next day?” Raven remembers with a tone of fondness.

“You say that like she was the only one there,” Octavia says wryly.

“You’re a given. You’re always there for me.”

“And don’t you forget it. Numpty.” Octavia's quiet for a few moments and then she clears her throat. “Anyway. Lexa’s helped me out a lot too, Clarke. That Christmas that Bellamy and I had to stay at Polis, we were supposed to be back with our mother. For the first time in years. But the day before the holidays started she was arrested again and we were left without anywhere to go.  Bellamy shut down but Lexa sat with me the whole break, watching movies she was probably bored by and holding my hand. She didn't make me talk but she did tell me to keep fighting, no matter how many times I got knocked down. I don’t think I would have made it through that holiday without her.”

“That sounds like Lexa,” Clarke murmurs, sensitive to what Octavia’s sharing but sensing it’s not something her friend is interested in further discussion about. Not tonight, anyway. She swallows, then. “Thanks for tonight, you guys. You’ve been such great friends to me since I came here and I really appreciate it." Octavia 'aww's and Raven pats Clarke's face but she's not done yet. If she's fated to over-share tonight, might as well take advantage of it.

"You know, when my family died, I thought boarding school was the perfect place to hide away from the pain. Little did I expect you Polis girls were going to arm me to overcome it, instead. So yeah. Thank you.”

Any détente in bed space between Clarke and Raven is shot to pieces when Octavia throws herself on top of them but it’s okay because, as it turns out, three girls can easily fit on a twin-sized bed when they’re hugging each other this close.

“We love you, Clarkie,” Raven whispers and Octavia echoes the sentiment.

“I love you guys, too.” They’re still squished together when Clarke takes a deep breath—one that almost causes them to fall to the floor—and bites her lip. “And I love her. I, um. Lexa. Not just like. I thought you should know.”

There’s a split second of silence and then Raven and Octavia erupt into laughter, hard enough that Octavia does fall off the bed this time.

“Oh my god. You said that so seriously, like it was some huge secret,” Raven forces out, curling into a ball and holding her stomach. 

“We’re shocked, Clarke,” Octavia joins in once she’s caught her breath, rolling to her side and climbing into her own bed again.

Clarke frowns and folds her arms, unperturbed when it means an elbow to the head for her bedmate.

Or at least she frowns until she realises those were the words that she’d been struggling to find earlier, three simple words to describe Lexa that don’t feel like she’s defacing something holy.

Her abdomen hurts when they finally manage to stop giggling, when no one collapses again and sets off the rest for long enough that they manage to regulate their breathing into something oxygen-providing.

“No, no, no,” Clarke orders Raven, who has resumed her impression of a starfish once they’ve settled down and the bedding is untangled. “Don’t you dare. Scoot over.”

“Never.” Raven yawns and burrows further under the covers. “Pretend I’m Lexa back when you were ‘platonically’ sharing her bed.”

Clarke squints at Raven, a mischievous smile rising up her lips. “Your choice,” she says, stretching her legs out to tangle with Raven’s and pulling her hand up between their bodies. 

Raven stills but she doesn’t break when Clarke tucks her chin down on top of her head, nor when she snuggles closer.

And then Clarke starts playing with their joined fingers.

“That’s so gay, Clarke,” Raven huffs, finally wrenching herself away from Clarke’s smirking clutch. She launches out from under the duvet and into Octavia’s bed, who lets out an ‘ooph’ but otherwise endures the invasion with a practiced sigh. “Seriously. How the fuck did you not know how gay you were for her?”

Clarke stretches out in the empty bed with a happy noise and pulls the covers up over her head. “Sometimes love's really complicated,” she sings out over the sound of brushing pajama material and skin on the other side of the room.

Except that sometimes it’s not.

Sometimes, love is the easiest thing in the world.

Clarke should really stop being surprised by that.

--

Regret for tricking Raven out of bed comes about an hour later when Clarke wakes up shivering under a cold duvet, her feet somehow burning hot. She re-arranges the bedding and huddles up in a ball and tries leaving her feet outside the coverings, but all that results in is beads of sweat and frozen toes.

Clarke clears her throat. Silence.

“I’m going back to my room,” she whispers, testing the waters.

When neither girl on the opposite bed stirs, she slides out of icy sheets and tiptoes to the door, willing it not to squeak as she cracks it open and slips out before the light from the hallway can wake her friends.

Lexa’s all confused and drowsy at the disturbance and her nose scrunches up and her lips pout at her half-asleep lack of understanding and oh god she’s everything. “Shh, go back to sleep,” Clarke whispers and closes the door as gently as she can manage.

Golden-hued Christmas lights guide a path to the bed but Clarke smiles and makes a quick detour to the window first, giving herself a minute to watch the LED candles cast flickering ribbons of light across Lexa’s face before switching them off one by one.  She leaves the fairy lights on, though, and not just because Lexa looks even softer in their glow.

“I missed you,” Clarke murmurs as she peels away the red lacrosse hoodie and lifts the covers, warm before she’s even touched the mattress. Two practiced arms fold around her, two bodies lining up head to toe and filling in each other’s dips and hollows, and the rhythm of breath on the back of her neck lulls Clarke into instant peacefulness like Pavlov’s dog with its whistle. 

Lexa’s little feet are cold despite being under the covers and Clarke’s last thought before joining her in sleep is how easy it is to toe off her girlfriend’s socks and cover her feet with her own overheated ones.

That, and her girlfriend’s little snuffle of pleasure.

Clarke wakes up cupping Lexa’s right breast and all is right, indeed.

“Sunlight definitely has a smell, right? Lex?”

“Pardon?” dozy-Lexa mumbles, the muscles in her mouth clearly still fighting off the last of her sleep. 

“Raven said the sun couldn’t possibly possess olfactory properties. But it totally does.”

Lexa flips over so they’re face to face but immediately buries her face in Clarke’s neck like her head’s still too sleep-logged to hold itself up. “Clarke. I thought you were staying in House last night.”

“I did. I spent all night there. And then came over here in the morning.”

“How early in the morning?” sleepy-Lexa asks with a smile Clarke can feel on her shoulder.

“Early bird gets the worm.”

“Your terms of endearment leave something to be desired,” still-nightime-Lexa quips and Clarke has no choice but to cover her face in kisses. The snooze button gets hit twice before she’s willing to loosen her grip.

But the sun is up and there’s no hiding that, much as Clarke contemplates the logistics. Lexa extracts herself with a sigh and a finger-rake through wild curls that does little to tame what Clarke has riled up. She begins rummaging through her shower caddy to make sure she has all the necessary toiletries for a shower while Clarke stretches and eventually stumbles out of bed, somewhere in the direction of the sink.

“Smell is a subjective concept,” Lexa tells her while shaking the conditioner bottle to see how much is left in it, and the girl watching her with a mouth full of toothpaste furrows her forehead at the conversational segue. “Sunlight,” the head girl prompts with a smile over her shoulder. “There isn’t a one-to-one correspondence between the molecules that enter your nose and how you perceive their scent—it’s all about context and what you associate it with. So sunlight can have a smell, even if it’s different for everybody.”

Lexa smells like sunshine or sunshine smells like Lexa. Same difference, Clarke decides.

And she'd file the information away to taunt Raven with later except that Lexa chooses that very moment to pull her grey t-shirt over her head enroute to her towel and it would appear Clarke’s brain is scheduled to be short-circuited by a solar flare this morning instead.

Not even the Housemistresses look surprised that Clarke shows up late for breakfast.

--

There’s no poetic way to put it. Tuesday’s Art lesson finds Clarke taking a break from her coursework and drawing boobs.

Lots and lots of boobs.

Chapter Text

Clarke thinks she understands part of mankind’s obsession with cause-and-effect.

It’s everywhere once you look for it; most living beings spend their whole lives, cradle to grave, in pursuit of effects.

It begins the moment infants first instinctively suckle at their mother’s breast and, lo—warm milk appears. Babies will happily repeat the same action, over and over and over again if it has a predictable result: shake a rattle and hear a noise; touch a button and a light turns on; cry and someone will pick you up; shake your head and (sometimes) the strained peas will disappear. That first smile might well be gastrointestinal distress but oh when your mother mirrors it back, that instant, genuine grin before she’s even consciously aware of what’s happening—that’s the start of it all.

Writers write stories and politicians draft laws and protesters persist and soldiers go to war, all so they might leave their mark on the world. The knowledge that they were here, that they made a difference, that they won’t be forgotten; this need for some illusion of control when death keeps taking and never gives back, this yearning to achieve immortality from specks of dust in an unfathomable universe. 

For what is death but the final lack of response? It’s the same way a pause between a question and an answer feels like a thousand tiny deaths and bullies become furious when their victim doesn’t react. It’s why unpredictability and uncertainty can feel like physical pain and why the human species is hard-wired to impose rules when faced with the unknown: laws to uphold order and omniscient deities to explain the unexplainable. It’s why we seek contingencies in chaos, Virgin Mary in burnt toast and goddesses in the stars— meaning-seeking creatures poking at the encroaching dark of a meaningless world, hoping for a reply. 

But that’s all a little heavy.

Clarke’s more preoccupied with chasing smaller effects in the following few days, shorter-term effects, in the instant gratification of causing effects to play out across the human body.

More specifically, across Lexa’s body.

And, oh, does she ever find that gratification.

She finds it in the emotional effects, in the way a corny innuendo brings a twinkle to Lexa’s eye, the way a compliment makes her blush and a squeeze of her hand gives rise to the cutest little duck of her head. The way even just walking into the room causes her to light up and the way a smile draws forth an even bigger one. 

She finds it in the physical effects, in the way cold fingers pressed against Lexa’s bare neck makes her gasp when Clarke runs into her outside the science block on Tuesday morning, how the pulse rate in her wrist jumps when she’s pulled into a private alcove, in the physiology of her breaths becoming heavy and her eyes darkening when Clarke urges her to shield them both inside the Heda cloak.

It really does feel like part of her brain has regressed to infancy because all Clarke can think about (all she can imagine and plan and enact) is how to cause effects in her beautiful girlfriend. Reaction and equal reaction; a smile or a bite of the lip, being pushed away with an eye-roll or being pulled closer as if there’s no other choice.

“Clarke, we don’t have time—what are you doing?” the Head Girl laughs, swatting Clarke’s hand away. “We have to get to our next lessons. Clarke.”

“We have at least three minutes and I just want—Jesus Christ, Lexa, how many layers do you need?” Clarke complains as she finally manages to unbutton the white school blouse and tug up the undershirt only to find another vest top underneath. She pushes it up, too, finally in sight of the final obstacle.

“Polis gets cold,” Lexa mumbles and it’s the last coherent thing she says for a while because Clarke spies her prize and ducks her head into the warm cavern between their cloaks.

She finds proof of her existence in the flush of sweat of across Lexa’s collarbone, in kiss-swollen lips and shivers and choked noises. In the way Clarke leaves further proof on sweet skin below the collar line with her mouth, in the way her tongue commands the power to harden soft buds of flesh under its touch.

(It might be fair to place the blame for Clarke’s new obsession entirely on Lexa’s boobs, now that she thinks about it.)

More than three minutes pass before Clarke re-arranges the Head Girl’s clothing back into perfect place—it’s not like creases matter when they’re under a thick school jumper—and finally releases her with a pout.

Lexa pulls her arms through the openings of her cloak and smiles fondly at sulking lips, kissing Clarke’s forehead and turning to go to her next class.

“Oh, and Clarke?” she adds over her shoulder.

Clarke hasn’t moved an inch. She licks her lips. “Mmm?” 

“Your hair is a mess. And pull it back, please. School policy.”

It’s Heda talking, albeit a slightly mischievous Heda, but Clarke smirks and refuses anyway, running her hand through tangles and shaking it out behind her as she turns on her heel. She looks back to see only a glassy-eyed Lexa in her wake, and oh god, cause-and-effect really does make the world go round.

--

Moreish.

The first time she hears the word, it’s in reference to a bag of crisps Raven’s inhaling and Clarke’s too busy curling down the corner of her lips at the thought of prawn cocktail flavour to think much of it. Her American ears have gotten used to filtering out all the little British slang words, in any case, accustomed to figuring out the gist using context.  It’s not until she hears the word again, this time with regards to Jaffa Cakes—cakes that are not cakes, in Clarke’s obstinate opinion— that she realises she’s been spelling it wrong in her head, that it’s not describing the food as belonging to a Muslim culture in the Iberian peninsula but as being difficult to stop eating.

Moreish /ˈmɔːrɪʃ/ adjective: Causing the desire for more. Can’t have just one bite. So delicious it’s addictive. See: Lexa.  

Because at this point, Clarke’s suspects she may be addicted to that pretty Head Girl, the thought of the next fix always on her mind. Craving the sounds she makes in dark corners, the quickening of her heartbeat and the softening of her sinews under Clarke’s touch. The need for bigger and bigger responses, the itch of her fingers to discover which locations cause the greatest effect, a toddler who bursts into a face-splitting grin when they get clapped at for their efforts and gambler who will do anything for that little bell to ring.

Causing an effect feels so damn good.

Which is why she’s so exceptionally proud of herself for the simple act of pulling out her sketchbook that evening while Lexa’s downstairs saying goodnight to the younger girls. She knows Lexa needs to do some reading for tomorrow and Clarke knows she’ll need to occupy hands prone to wandering over to that sweet, sweet sunlight-flavored crack cocaine.

Lexa looks between the occupied bed and her desk when she gets back, clearly torn, but she sighs and goes over to turn on her laptop. Overworked computer fans whirl to life and the long boot-up sequence flashes, and Lexa fills the time unequally between finding her glasses, changing out of her school skirt and tights, and kissing her girlfriend.

(God bless Microsoft.)

Clarke wets her lips when Lexa breaks away at the (un)welcome chime, eyes roving up and down the head girl appreciatively. She’s disgustingly adorable in her thick glasses, especially when they’re paired with a starched collar and Head Girl pin over pink pajama bottoms. “Aren’t you going to change out of the top half of your uniform?”

“It’s chilly in here,” Lexa says simply, curling a leg underneath herself at the desk and thumbing through her history book.

It’s anything but cold in this room, but then again, Clarke’s just lucid enough to suspect that might be her addiction talking.  She starts to pull Lexa’s lacrosse hoodie over her head, intending to toss it to its rightful owner but Lexa stops her.

“No,” she booms out in what’s almost her Heda voice and Clarke raises an eyebrow, the sweatshirt covering half her face. Lexa flushes and moderates her tone. “No, I… It looks good on you.”

Clarke grins. “Does it?” She lets it fall back down and continues her tongue-tipped smirk over at her blushing girlfriend.

Declining to answer with anything other than an eye-roll, Lexa busies herself with something on her laptop. Clarke wrenches her eyes away and glares down at her empty sketchbook page with a sigh.

“Just the two chapters?” she clarifies after a few minutes.

“Probably. I need to get through the lead-up to the storming of the Bastille.”

“No essays to write?”

“Not tonight.”

“Good.” Clarke pauses and scrutinises the figure of her hard-working girlfriend. “Are there essays you should be writing tonight?”

Lexa laughs and tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear, shifting so she can rest her elbow on one of her folded knees and use it to prop up her chin as she reads. “No. I promise. I’m all caught up for the rest of the term.”

“Good, good.” Clarke chews on the end of her charcoal pencil. “Can you play music on that thing?” she asks after a minute, gesturing over at the computer.

“Technically. But all I have is Dr. Peters’ collection of choral music he left on it.”

“That’ll work.” Maybe the sound of music will distract her ears away from craving Lexa’s delicious little noises.

It does not.

“How many pages in those chapters, would you say? Ballpark.”

The Head Girl turns around in her seat this time, a smile toying at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t you have any prep work?”

“Nope,” Clarke pops. “Finished everything during your make-up Hockey practice this afternoon.”

“Impressive.” Lexa blows her a kiss and turns back to her book. Clarke rummages through the pockets of her sweatpants for an almost-empty roll of Fruit Pastilles. Maybe they’ll distract her tongue away from wanting to taste something far more succulent; maybe they’ll distract her mouth away from someone else’s skin she’d rather suck on. 

They do not.

“How far have you gotten, now?”

“Clarke.” But Lexa takes pity on her and brings the book and her beautiful self over to the bed. Clarke straightens up from where she’s been slumped over, languishing away, and sits against the wall with her, side-by-side, shoulder-pressed-to-shoulder.

The blank sketchbook page becomes filled with a series of cute little ears while Lexa reads, knees propping up her book but not for long. As more and more words are vanquished, Lexa’s muscles soften and soften until she’s laying on her side, head tucked into her elbow and book flat on the bed, and Clarke follows. Charcoal is abandoned in favour of finger-painting the living canvas curled up in front of her, occasionally adding the multimedia of lip- and nose-brushes and polishing masterstrokes across the sculptural masterpiece.

Clarke’s touch remains light and undemanding through the first chapter.

And through the second.

She doesn’t even say anything when Lexa starts the third chapter, nor when she finishes it, but when the topic changes to Robespierre and his reign of terror, Clarke begins to stray from innocent paths in pursuit of her own revolution.

Careless brushes of her lips become open-mouthed kisses, rebellious touches organise their own leadership and government, rogue scouts check the safety of the route from throat to breastbone before the rest of the finger-cavalry gallop after.

Lexa’s breath catches and Clarke suspects she’s won this first skirmish uncontested.

It’s not the most efficient passage to the mountains, though, and Clarke decides to chance the southerly route instead, moving her hand from under Lexa’s collar to under the hem of her jumper. No risk, no reward, and oh god she knows first-hand of the treasure in those snowy peaks.

(But she’ll save that innuendo away for a rainy day.)

With the tip of her finger, Clarke circles the summit of a mount and Lexa squeaks, but it ends up being a dual-offensive that finally wins the battle, sweeping braids away from that creamy neck and planting her lips into newly-conquered soil

Lexa’s book falls to the floor and Clarke finally has her full attention.

“All done?” she asks with innocent eyes. “No primary sources or notes to write?”

“I’m all yours,” Lexa probably tries to respond tongue-in-cheek but the crack in her voice gives her away.

Clarke smirks and nudges at her hips until Lexa’s flat against the bed. “Good. Because I’ve been waiting to kiss you for ages.” She removes Lexa’s glasses and puts them on her own face, letting them rest on the tip of her nose.

Lexa scoffs but the hint of a smile tugs at her lips. “It can’t have been more than an hour, Cl—”

“Ages, Lexa.” Clarke pushes up so she’s hovering over her girlfriend, lips lowering closer and closer to those that reach for them back, but she stops just out of range. “Sure you don’t have more reading? Other reasons to delay this kiss another century or two?” she teases, watching the way Lexa’s eyes trace her features but keep getting stuck at her mouth.

Clarke moistens her lips and Lexa immediately shakes her head so vigorously her neat little plaits probably fall apart from the friction of the pillow.  Not that it matters in the grand scheme of things; if Clarke has her way, they’ll be in complete disarray before long.

With a grin, Clarke catches Lexa’s lower lip between her teeth, nibbling on it. When she pulls back, Lexa gives chase and Clarke smirks. “Then let’s begin,” she murmurs, pushing up on the bridge of the glasses just before ceding to the hungry kiss. 

A vaguely familiar choral oratorio provides the soundtrack for Clarke’s somatotropic charting of the new world beneath her mouth, vision not required in her oral cartography, in her mapping of peripheral sensory nerve endings and their corresponding motoric reactions.

Lexa’s lips are more sensitive than her tongue but both elicit little noises when they’re stroked; kisses peppered across the jawline cause green eyes to close but the same kisses draw forth breathy moans when applied to a particular patch of skin under her earlobe; fingers tangling in the nape of her neck make Lexa sigh when they’re gentle but send shivers rocketing down her spine when they tug.

The sovereign of this wondrous geography complies with the map-making expedition patiently—cooperatively, even—but when Clarke pulls back to admire the mark she’s left on the delicate skin above Lexa’s heart, the little warlord doesn’t hesitate to capitalise on the opportunity to roll them over and map her own long-won conquests. 

The warlord’s girlfriend isn’t quite so patient, nor is she cooperative, but her whining is promptly strangulated when Lexa sits upright, straddles her, and peels off her jumper. Unbuttons her blouse. Tugs her undershirts and bra up under her chin in one swift movement.

Clarke requisitions the glasses to the bedside table without a second thought, supposing she might as well some visuo-manual surveying of the topography while she’s here.

Lexa’s explorations are so gentle: a single finger ghosting up Clarke’s side and down the other, the slow caress of a thumb across her cheek, the press of lips to her clavicle and the dip of her throat. They’re so gentle and her eyes are so tender that they seem to contain whole anthologies of sonnets, her mouth silent psalmodies. 

Clarke squirms. Because she’s an addict, now.

She drinks in a last wistful look at the perfect view of perfect breasts in her hands and then rolls her hips to bring both girls back to their starting positions.

Because she’s twitching for more.

More causing.

More reactions.

Bigger reactions, faster reactions, novel reactions. Reactions that reside solely in the sanctuary between sheets and behind closed doors, reactions that reveal more about Lexa than words and syntax can ever tell, reactions Clarke wants to be the first, last, and only person to extract.

So much more effecting of so many more effects.

Pressing her mouth in a line straight down the centre of Lexa’s torso, digging in her teeth a small amount and sucking pink mementos along her way, Clarke rings kisses around a taut little bellybutton—tummy button, she’d remind herself with amusement on any other day—before dragging her teeth along the slight swell below until she’s caught enough skin to leave her calling card there, too. Pale little stretch marks radiate out like sunbeams along Lexa’s sides, barely-visible proof of a body too small for the expanding universe inside, and Clarke lowers her lips to each ray in turn. 

Her writhing is delicious, fingers curled around the base of Clarke’s scalp, simultaneously holding her still over her ministrations and trying to pull her away.

“Is this okay?” Clarke lifts her head to check, luxuriating in the sight of Lexa’s head thrown back against the pillow and her eyes screwed closed. “I’m not falling for that again, Lex—use your words.”

“Yes,” she hears in choked response and an arch of her spine when Clarke pulls the elastic of her pink pajamas low enough to engulf a jutting hipbone in her mouth. The imprint she leaves behind is aesthetically pleasing, to say the least, and it’s soon joined by a symmetrical mark on the other side—Clarke’s an artist, after all. 

Lexa appreciates the bodywork, too, judging from the way her toes curl into the bedding, and Clarke moves back up to cause the curl of her lips, too. The kiss is sloppy from both sides and sloppier still when Clarke attempts to multi-task by deploying her fingers down the same path recently-forged by her mouth. They slide down collarbone trails and through hilly valleys, across golden plains that burst into the goosebump-bloom at the lightness of her touch.    

Dropping her forehead, Clarke stills the tips of her fingers, thumb hooked just under the waistband. “Can I?” she asks against Lexa’s lips, the words vibrating against them.

Lexa vibrates back, a fresh shiver as she nods her assent. When Clarke doesn’t move, she opens her eyes and Clarke catches a glimpse of blown pupils. “Yes,” she adds verbally with the tiniest bit of a huff. “Yes, Clarke.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Biting her lip, Clarke continues to hesitate. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” she feels the need to confess—or maybe warn, she’s not sure.

“Neither do I,” Lexa whispers.

Clarke swallows. She looks down at her hand and then back up. “Okay, then.”

Except, as it turns out, she doesn’t need to know anything. Clarke doesn’t need to know anything because she’s been practicing the way to learn since infancy. Babies learn to smile because their caregivers smile back. Simple as that.

Cause an effect. Learn from the effect. Repeat.

It’s the way Lexa sucks in a breath when Clarke slides her fingers through warm curls, in the way she exhales it in a hiss when those same fingers slip between them. The way Lexa’s hips launch completely off the bed when Clarke skims across what she’s looking for and the way it happens the same way on the second and third trial, too—Clarke’s a scientist, after all.

It’s the way Clarke finally appreciates all those exultations in her mother’s trashy romance novels because oh god, Lexa’s so wet and Clarke is the cause of that wetness and she feels like a god and like she’s on her knees all at the same time. And those noises—oh, god oh god, those noises Lexa makes, the muffled gasps and hums and the—

And the utter silence.

Clarke’s explorations of her personal holy land have grown so single-minded that she doesn’t even notice the tapering away of Lexa’s vocalisations until they’re gone. The darkness deepens when she registers that previously convulsing thigh muscles are now trembling with the effort of holding themselves still, previously shallow breaths now slow and regulated, and when Clarke lifts her face from where it’s been mindlessly latched onto to Lexa’s shoulder, she can’t even see her girlfriend’s face to check its expression. 

It feels like death. It actually feels like death.

“Lex?”

Lexa’s eyes are shut, her head turned into the pillow and as Clarke props herself up to get a better viewpoint, she finds it’s not Lexa at all. It’s Heda beneath her. Heda, ageless and unchangeable, body held motionless and unwavering whether she’s in battle or in bed. Heda, the unaffected warrior, Heda who has no choice but to push down the weakness of emotion if she’s to win her every war.  Heda, arrayed in her full panoply, sword and shield gleaming at her side.

And while Clarke would be lying if she said she didn’t find this side of her girlfriend beautiful—okay, fucking sexy, too—it’s nothing compared to the girl under the suit of armour.

“Lexa,” Clarke breathes.

Shifting her weight to her other arm, she runs the back of her knuckles across Lexa’s cheek, trying to coax those pretty eyes to open. Lexa tries to flinch away from the touch but she’s too slow and Clarke wrenches her hand away when she processes what she’s feeling under her fingers, horrified.

Those are tears.

Not many, admittedly—a couple of drops at most—but it doesn’t matter.

This is so much worse than death. Clarke caused those tears.

Clarke caused those tears and those fucking choral singers on the laptop keep singing their fucking praises like there’s something good left in this world worth singing about and her traitorous lungs keep pulling in oxygen like everything’s fine—and why the hell is the moon just sitting there, shining through the window like there can ever be light in this darkness again.  

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world and Clarke’s the one who pulled the lever to make it happen? 

“Baby,” Clarke pleads, devastated, trying to scramble away to give her space, but Lexa quickly clamps down an arm and a leg to prevent her going anywhere. “We don’t have to, oh god, I’m so sorry, you’re not ready, I’d never—”

Her eyes snap open at that and the fact that they’re dark as the night should be—as dark as the whole world should be right now—doesn’t even register once Clarke sees confirmation of moisture in them; she immediately begins drawing up shopping lists for shirts made of hair and whips for self-flagellation. The song changes to some dude singing in mournful lament, all angry and discordant, and finally, something appropriate from this playlist.

Lexa opens her mouth and then hesitates for what feels like the chaos of eternity. She closes it, then, swallowing and affecting a composed expression again. Even Heda can’t hide the emotions in her eyes, though, not when Clarke’s learned to read her as well as she does. “No,” she croaks out, closing her eyes as she clears her throat and then tries again. “No, no, it was very nice. I liked it. A lot,” she emphasises when Clarke obviously looks unconvinced. Her voice is so thick it sounds like she’s developed an accent.

“You can tell me to stop. Anytime. The only thing I care about is you, Lex. You know that, right?”

A tongue darts out to wet her lips. “I didn’t want you to stop.” Lexa’s reassurance sounds more like a confession.

Clarke blinks down at her. “You went all quiet and there are tears in your eyes,” she says incredulously, wiping away the single trail of evidence and pushing back the veil of hair that’s fallen over her face. “Was I hurting you?”

“No,” Lexa insists, beginning to squirm again. She pries open her fingers where they’re clenched around the duvet and moves them to Clarke’s jumper, limp and awkward. After a moment, she moves them to cover Clarke’s hand, immobile on the bed. “It…felt good,” she forces out her mouth and Clarke can see it’s like squeezing water from a stone for her. “I’m sorry, it was…intense and I was caught off-guard. It won’t happen again.”

When she receives only a stare back, Lexa rears up and reverses their positions with a graceful roll of her hips, taking back control as easily as she flicks her wrist and the whole school falls into silence.

And like lightning, Clarke thinks she understands another small part.

Even as she’s being distracted by a pair of hungry lips, roving hungrily across her neck and down the slope of the sweatshirt collar, Lexa retaliating with all she’s got.

Which is a lot.

Fuck.

It’s clear that—fuck. Clarke draws in a sharp breath and then closes her mouth, trying to calm her rapidly escalating respiratory rate by breathing through her nose and trying to hold tight to her revelations as they attempt to disintegrate like sand through her fingers. 

Oh god, Lexa’s good at this. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Lex. Baby,” Clarke tries but Lexa only redoubles her efforts and it’s only when she registers it feels like some form of penance that her mind clears of its fog. “Lexa, stop,” she says as gently as she can.

Lexa freezes straight away.  

Clarke soothes by drawing her back up again and kissing her slow enough that she can feel Lexa’s heart begin to slow, too.

“You’ve never touched yourself, have you?” she asks after she’s convinced Lexa to rest her forehead down on her shoulder, pretty sure she knows the answer. She can’t see Lexa’s reaction but she feels a hot breath through several layers of material.

“No,” she hears softly, muffled.

Of course she hasn’t. Lexa probably came into this world putting others’ needs ahead of her own; giving but never expecting to receive, fighting but never being fought for, serving and not being served. Loving, wholly and unconditionally, but never daring to want. Not for herself, anyway. 

Clarke may have struggled to define these unexpected feelings of sexual desire over these past few weeks but it’s likely nothing on how hard Lexa’s struggled with the feeling of desire itself. She can still see the flash of terror in Lexa’s eyes right before she kissed Clarke that first time after the dance, the worry that this wanting might ruin everything, the fear that a single taste of pleasure might lead to an unassuageable hunger for things she can never have. It’s clear as day and not just because she saw that same look in Lexa’s eyes when they finally opened a few minutes ago.

“Okay. No wonder it felt overwhelming at first. Don’t worry, Lex.”

Lexa lets out a noise of self-derision and Clarke rubs circles on her back, gratified to feel her girlfriend begin to release a few tense muscles. It gives her an idea, recalling Lexa’s admission that she enjoyed Clarke rubbing her shoulders the other day.

“I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t be,” Clarke assures her, pressing a kiss into sweet-scented hair. “Do you want to try again? Or we can wait for another day—whatever you want.”

Another eternity passes in silence but just as Clarke’s about to reiterate that it’s all good and settle in for the night, she feels a nod against her chest. "Yes."

“Okay.” With another drop of her lips, this time into the curls at Lexa’s temple, Clarke sits up and gets off the bed. She nudges Lexa up to a seated position and manoeuvres her closer to the edge of the mattress. The Head Girl is rigid and clearly uncomfortable but she complies without a sound.

Part of Clarke is tempted to ease her discomfort by telling Lexa how much she loves the unrestrained responses to her touch, but that would be getting to the right destination via the wrong path; it wouldn’t be the right destination at all. In her selflessness, Lexa would probably smile through a thousand lashings if she believed it would make someone else happy.

No, Clarke wants Lexa to believe that she deserves to want, that she deserves to receive, that she deserves to be served instead of always serving. Even if she only manages to believe it for a few minutes, if only in one specific instance. Baby steps.    

Kneeling on the floor in front of her, Clarke kisses the Heda pin on the collar of her school shirt and then uses both hands to unclasp it, reattaching its backing and setting the protective talisman on the bedside table next to her glasses with care.

She unbuttons the cuffs of Lexa’s white shirt next, worn and soft from years of use but still in perfect condition, and then slides the whole blouse off her shoulders. Folding it so it doesn’t crease, she drapes it over the desk chair and turns to similarly divest Lexa of her sensible flesh-coloured bra, taking the time to kiss each of its treasures before laying it above the shirt.

“Your needs are my needs, too,” she repeats words she’s said before, words she knows Lexa believes when she’s the one speaking them, words Clarke will repeat again and again until they sink in.  For all Lexa’s intelligence, it would seem she needs the important things said more than once.

Lexa’s throat bobs, naked and exposed from the waist up, and she fidgets with her fingers for a moment before folding them in her lap. Her back straightens as she nods and she parts her lips as if she wants to say something, or rather that she thinks she should saying something, but Clarke gently shushes her and stands up again.

“Lay on your stomach?”

Lexa furrows her forehead at the question.

“Just…” Clarke cups Lexa’s face and strokes it with the pad of her thumb. “Trust me, okay?”

“I do trust you, Clarke,” she says without hesitation but the way she lowers herself to the bed is anything but easy. She looks like she’s physically fighting herself every step of the way, like she’d rather be doing almost anything else. Her back is arched to the extreme when she finally settles, her head high and her neck twisted toward where Clarke’s switching on all the LED candles and bringing them closer.

Perching on the edge, Clarke begins sliding out metal grips and untwisting hair baubles, unhurriedly loosening Lexa’s hair from its crown until the curls unfurl themselves and stretch across the bare expanse of her back. Lexa tries to help but finally drops her head into the cradle of her hands when she’s swatted away. When all her hair is wild and free, Clarke presses her lips to the bare expanse of her back and then hauls herself to her feet to rummage through Lexa’s neatly organised shelf of toiletries; Lexa swivels her neck to watch but she stays quiet despite the questions in her eyes.

Or at least she does until Clarke lets out a noise of triumph and any muscle relaxation that may have been achieved in the last few minutes is for naught when Lexa jerks her head up from the bed so violently it makes Clarke’s neck hurt just to watch.

Her eyes are wide and maybe even mildly alarmed; Clarke looks down at the item in her hand and has to wonder what in the world Lexa thinks she’s planning on doing with this bottle of floral-scented body lotion.

“That’s not necessary, Clarke, really, I—”

“Shhh. Let me do this for you,” Clarke cajoles as she turns off the ceiling light and climbs on the bed again, situating herself beside the small of Lexa’s back. Squeezing out a generous dollop of body lotion, she lets it warm in her hand and uses the other to twist Lexa’s hair together and set it out of the way above her shoulder. Before she goes any further, though, she leans across soft skin and brushes her lips against a tense cheek, staying there while she checks. “Alright?”

Clarke finds herself lifting and falling at the deepness of Lexa’s acquiescent sigh and grins, pressing a messy kiss to the side of her nose before sitting upright again. 

Lexa’s body cream turns out to contain millions of tiny sparkles, much to Clarke’s amusement, and she makes sure to frost ever accessible inch of skin in its shimmer, tilling into stubborn muscles with her own equally stubborn ones and applying long, deep strokes across the plains of Lexa’s back, the nape of her neck, her ticklish sides, up and down strong arms and in-between beautiful fingers.

She kneads with her hands and she kneads with her words, lulling softly in low tones that don’t stop long enough for interruptions.

The strength in her shoulders and the softness of her eyes, the gracefulness in her every stride and the light that pools under her skin, the grandeur of each of her little ears and the star traces in her palms, each of the ridges and contours Clarke feels under her hands as she massages into them.

The ferocity of her mind and the gentleness of her heart, the grace in her acts and the illumination she shines in the dark, the splendor of her compassion and the universe inside her that she never hesitates to share, the universe she shares with her throat, with her lips, with her hands and on her knees. Each of the shades and contrasts of her existence that Clarke feels as she sinks her fingers into each of her hallows and hollows.

Lexa is stiff as a board but Clarke keeps on kneading and kneading until she feels muscles droop and shoulders drop, kneading and kneading until her words don’t renew the tension. Kneading and kneading until there’s no way Lexa can’t know, until she can’t plead deafness to the single voice singing a song that somewhere a heavenly choir of ten thousand times ten thousand must be echoing back.   

How beautiful the uncensored noises from her tongue sound out, how beautiful it is when she shows her naked emotions, how beautiful when she wants, when she admits to pleasure and when she admits to weakness.

How beautiful she is when she’s wrapped in her mantle of selflessness and duty and how blinding her majesty when she’s stripped bare of it.

Clarke kneads and she kneads until risen shoulders drop and eyes flutter closed, until the body beneath her is almost molten in its pliancy. There are a lot of habits to undo, a lot of tension in those muscles and thought patterns that can’t be kneaded away in a single night, layers of armor half-melded into to her shoulders, but for tonight, it’s enough. 

Feather-light kisses begin to alternate with deep strokes up and down her back, touches become lighter and lighter and enacted more through lips than her fingers. Lexa continues to loosen but when Clarke sweeps her hair aside to check whether Lexa’s fallen asleep, she’s met with eyes so burning they suck the oxygen from her lungs.

Stretching herself across the whole of Lexa’s star-jacketed back, Clarke runs her nose up her arm and nuzzles into her hair. “Still okay?” she enquires into the shell of an ear and Lexa rolls on her side to better pull Clarke in for a manna-in-the-desert kind of kiss that receives an equally hungry response.

“Thank you,” she whispers into Clarke’s mouth, unguarded and raw; Clarke swallows the words, letting her lips respond in lieu of a response words would only butcher.  

And the violins swell and skin begins to singe overheated skin and Clarke learns Lexa’s body.

It’s in the way she learns Lexa with her eyes, with her mouth, by carving her up with lip-painted lines: the slope of her jaw, the point of her chin, the linear convergence of her arms down to splayed fingertips; the most adored freckle on her top lip, the speckle above her eyebrow, the cluster that blossoms across her nose; the contours and shadows of her shoulder muscles, the contrapposto of her face twisting away while her hips lean into Clarke’s touch. The smudge of colour across her cheekbones and the luster of gold spread across her ribs, inside her elbows, in the translucent skin below her navel. 

In the way she learns Lexa with her fingers, curling herself behind her until they’re flush from head to toe and travelling again the nuances of her fields and forests, her vales and mountains and meadows and seas: the pools above her collarbones, the notches of her hips, the sinews of her waist and the jutting of her pelvic bones. The familiar scent of sun-ripened wildflowers that wafts up at the stroke of her neck and the piano of her ribs that play fugues when Clarke tickles their ivories.   

The way Lexa teaches her yet another new language in the sepia of candlelight, one spoken with the pressure of her fingertips in Clarke’s side, with quiet gasps and quickening breath and the escalation of her pulse in response to equally-wordless questions.

The way her eyes flutter shut when Clarke dips beneath her waistband and sinks between wet folds, the way her hips shudder at first touch, the way she sucks in a gasp when Clarke’s found the right spot and begins rubbing gentle circles, the way her eyes fly open again when it’s almost too much and not nearly enough. 

The way her head flings back and the sweat springs up behind her neck, the way her muscles elongate, the way she’s Heda outside this room but she’s just a girl right now, flesh and bone, bare and supplicant under Clarke’s touch.

The way Lexa’s breath hitches and so does time itself, tripping and flailing and grasping for a hold in empty space, and the way Clarke ekes out her hallelujahs.  

Every straining ligament collapses and it sets off a riot of effects across Lexa’s body—every temple arch crumbles, every wall comes tumbling down, and even the fingers, previously so tightly threaded through Clarke’s hand, fall heavy and boneless. 

She’s so beautiful—she’s so beautiful in her fortress but it doesn’t hold a candle to how beautiful she is in her undoing, in her ruin. She’s so beautiful right now Clarke can hardly stand it.   

Lexa’s back is still rising and falling with vigour when Clarke props herself up one elbow to better view the girl-shaped glow in front of her, keeping their arms and torsos firmly pressed together. She watches the air flow past parted lips, the flushed skin of her chest stretching and softening as it rises and falls, enraptured enough that she only belated notices two blurry eyes opening and quietly watching Clarke's idolatry. 

“You’re so beautiful right now I can hardly stand it,” Clarke finds no reason not to voice aloud. It’s not like she has any other words right now, anyway; there may not be any other words left in the universe. She kisses the drowsy smile the evoke and smiles herself when Lexa’s eyes fall closed again, sated and lax. 

Clarke and her fucking cravings, on the other hand, are in no way near satisfied. It’s more like they’re on fire and it’s no innocuous little flame like from the electric candles dotted around the room. Running her fingers up and down Lexa’s arms, she tries to wrangle her racing heart and shallow breath under control but only mildly succeeds.

This girl couldn’t be more moreish.

Clarke’s fucking addicted to her (and every other combination or permutation of those words).

Which is why Clarke’s so exceptionally proud of herself for what feels like the insurmountable task of keeping her wriggling legs motionless, inhaling the longest, slowest breaths she can manage without seeing white spots in her peripheral vision. She imagines the silage of her fingertips, imagines the lines of their wake tattooed across Lexa’s unmarred skin, imagines painting other graffiti and planting so many more flags on this wondrous land, this brave new world.

When Lexa comes back to herself enough to try reciprocating and her hair smells like shampoo mingled with arousal and Clarke’s mouth actually waters in response, she somehow manages to shake her head, pulling the covers up over their bodies with a shush. Lexa tries again, eyes hazy but determined, but Clarke only presses a kiss to the tip of her little nose and swaps their positions so she’s on her usual side of the bed, curled up and facing her beautiful girlfriend again.

“Next time,” she murmurs. “Go to sleep.”

“Clarke—” Lexa’s eyes flicker across her face, deep and limitless, and Clarke must be successful in conveying her own feelings, too, because pretty lips close before they can say another word.

The final strains of music fade away and Lexa closes her eyes; after a few moments two more eyelids follow, warm and snug beneath the covers, before succumbing to dreams that aren’t much different. Clarke’s last thought is the realisation that it’s been the Messiah score playing this whole time, that the singing she’s been ascribing to those angels in her head in the last few minutes is none other than the Hallelujah Chorus.

And, fine, maybe the playlist's been appropriate all along.

--

“Clarke, what the fuck did you do to the Head Girl last night?”

Her eyes widen; only swift intervention from the Prefect prevents Clarke from toppling backward from the desk chair onto the floor.

She stares at Octavia, who returns to her hands-on-hips stance at the entryway to Lexa’s study.

“Um…” she tries to hedge but luckily it seems to be a rhetorical question.

Or the Prefect’s not done yelling yet.

“She was normal in hockey granplei and our DofE meeting last night but today it's like she's a whole different person. Which brings me back to my question—what did you do?”

Damn. Not rhetorical, then.

“I…What’s she like today?” Clarke hedges while she furiously casts her mind back to this morning, horrified she might have missed something unusual about Lexa’s behaviour. But they’d woken up tangled together with sunbathed smiles, and the way Lexa had rolled over and kissed her long past the alarm doesn’t exactly bring up any obvious warning flags.

Octavia crosses her arms and ignores the question. “Did you do something stupid?”

“I…oh fuck, did I?” Clarke begins to panic. It’s true that not a lot of talking happened this morning, in amongst all the lazy kissing and groping. Is there something she should have said? Is Lexa having lingering doubts? Did Clarke take things too fast or—oh god, what if last night had been so awful she’d been faking it and she regrets it now or—fuck, where is Lexa, anyway? She should’ve been back from the Shakespeare performance by now. Clarke’s been waiting in the Head Girl’s study to sneak in a few kisses before her pre-supper commitments for what feels like aeons, now.

“I don’t know but either way you need to fix it,” Octavia says sternly, finally stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “I’ve never seen her so agitated. She was a bit tense on the coach ride out there, I suppose, but bloody hell, after the lunch break she almost snapped at the driver when he was late meeting us!”

“She what?”

“I know!” Octavia softens her tirade for a moment, probably noticing the stone cold fear in Clarke’s eyes. “Well, she didn’t actually snap at him. Obviously. She was perfectly polite. But it’s the closest I’ve ever seen her come to it.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The Headmistress is back as of this morning, too. Clarke didn’t get a chance to see Lexa after chapel before she and the rest of the English Lit Sixth Formers left for their play in the nearby city. If that fucking demon so much as glanced at the Head Girl, Clarke’s fully prepared to dig a hole deep enough to kick Nia back where she belongs.

“Did you get in a row with her?” Octavia asks more gently, now, when Clarke only opens her mouth and closes it.

“No! Not that I know of, anyway!”

“Okay,” Octavia soothes, apparently placated that Clarke’s not the culprit for this calamity. “I’m sure it’s alright. Maybe she’s just having a bad day.”

Clarke’s already in full-panic mode, though, shoving her books into a messy pile and frantically searching the room for her backpack until she remembers she doesn’t even own one on this continent. “You know as well as I do that the Head Girl doesn’t have bad days.”

“True,” Octavia muses. “Not natural, that.”

“Shouldn’t you be in your Prefect’s meeting with her right now?” Clarke asks, glancing at her watch as she tugs on her jumper and slides her shoes back on.

“That’s part of it. Since most of us were on the trip, Lexa held our evening meeting on the bus ride home and asked us to dispense the minutes to the girls who were absent. She was practically twitching in her seat the whole time, tapping her foot and drumming her fingers on the seat.”

“Fuck.”

Octavia pats her arm. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m off to fill in Chiyako on her weekly duties but Lexa asked me to tell you she’d be in her room.”

Clarke narrows her eyes. “She’s in House right now?” She'd be surprised if Lexa had ever been back to Flidais before dark.

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that to start with?”

“I wanted to make sure you weren’t being a dumbarse about something,” Octavia says, shrugging.

Clarke halts in place and then backtracks across the room to give her friend a hug. “Thanks for watching out for her.”

“Of course. For you, too. And Clarke?” Octavia adds when Clarke’s almost out the door. “If there’s anything we can do, if anyone’s hurt her…let her know she’s got a whole school full of girls ready to fight back.”

Smiling, Clarke nods. “Will do. Thanks, O.”

She hurries out of the school and across the quad to the row of boarding houses, leaping up the steps of Flidais and whipping open the door. Mrs. Daisy is hovering between the sitting room and the entryway but doesn't say anything about the clatter, doesn’t even make her sign in. She only waves Clarke toward the staircase with an unusual degree of urgency. The two staff who appear behind her nod to themselves in relief.

Clarke hastens her speed to two steps at a time.

If even the staff have noticed there’s something up with Lexa, it must be bad.

Three floors get scaled in what feels like a single bound and when she sees Lexa’s door is cracked open, she barely knocks before bursting in.

She freezes in her tracks at the sight before her.

Lexa’s pacing the room, hair down and a little wild, and when she turns to Clarke, her eyes are dark and dangerous. She’s down to her skirt and white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and bare legs. There are tiny beads of perspiration on her forehead and a flush across her cheeks that spreads down her unbuttoned collar.

“Lexa, wha—” is all she manages to get past her lips before Heda advances across the room—Clarke sees her own death in vivid technicolor, flashing in front of her eyes—and captures them between her own.

The door clicks shut as Lexa knocks her off-balance against it, kissing hard and greedy like she’s seen her own death, too. When Clarke has to turn away to gasp in some oxygen, Lexa doesn’t rest, dropping her mouth to suck on exposed skin, moving along her jaw and dipping down onto her throat, urgent and needy.

“Fuck,” Clarke hisses, spots of light flashing behind her eyelids. “Lex, oh fuck,” is all she can whimper as Lexa nips at her, simultaneously snaking a hand up the back of her sweater and pressing their bodies even closer together. The jolt of electricity and heat that rockets down her spine is so intense that some instinct almost makes Clarke push Lexa away to save her from electrocution

A much stronger instinct makes her yank Lexa closer instead, fingers so tightly clenched into the head girl's blouse a crowbar may become necessary to pry them away.

“Jesus, Lexa, god, fuck—that’s good,” she gasps out when Lexa nudges a naked leg in between her tight-clad ones and begins rocking, the rhythm of her open-mouthed kisses down her chest intensifying in time with the beat. There are stars, stars that aren’t the glow-in-the-dark ones shining across Clarke’s vision and she forgets it’s not a normal sensation in favor of rocking back, grinding against Lexa's thigh with all she has. “But what—why—fuck, Lex, hold on a sec.”

Lexa lifts her head but she doesn’t move away; her eyes are almost black as she traces over Clarke’s features, lingering at the lips. Her mouth is parted, lips swollen and welcoming, and the subject of her inspection pants and tries to remember why she’d stopped the proceedings.

“Are you okay?” Clarke finally remembers, even as her body aches and seems to be trying to fling itself, cell by cell, into this blazing sun. “Octavia said you seemed upset today. Did Nia do something or…?”

A glint of recognition dawns across Lexa’s face along with a faint blush and she dips her head forward so their foreheads press together. “Everything’s fine. I missed you,” she says, low and slightly hoarse.

For a moment, Clarke doesn’t understand the connection between the question and the answer but when she does, her mouth slides into a grin. “Did you?” she drawls, spreading her palms to cover more of Lexa’s waist and tugging her closer.

“I couldn’t wait to get back to you and do this,” Lexa elaborates, punctuating her words by seizing Clarke’s greedy hands and pinning them against the door. “Oh, no you don't— it’s my turn now,” she tuts with a hint of a smile.

Clarke’s grin drops right off her face.

Fuck.

“Couldn't wait to do this,” Lexa continues, using her free hand to burrow under the back of Clarke’s skirt band until she finds naked skin. “And this." Her whisper is hot on Clarke’s lips before she nibbles down on them. “Is this alright?” she asks more softly between kisses.

At which point Clarke feels herself literally dripping under the heat of this girl’s flame.

“Mmph,” she emphatically agrees, lunging forward for more.

She fails.

With a finger pressed against Clarke’s mouth, Lexa foils her quest for self-immolation, laughing at the resulting grumble when she turns her attention to clothing instead. A compromise is quickly reached whereby Lexa kisses her again and Clarke stops impeding her progress, hardly noticing the shedding of her school sweater except in the brief period of darkness it entails away her girlfriend's plump lips.

“Can I...?” Lexa murmurs and her attention snaps up to black eyes with only the faintest of green coronas.

Clarke bites a lower lip between her teeth that isn't her own and forgets the question. “Hmm?” A light tap at her clavicle prompts her to open her eyes and glance down at Lexa’s hand at the top button of her blouse. “Anything you want,” she finally manages, eyes slamming closed as Lexa shifts her weight, allowing her thigh to press up against Clarke again. “Anything, Lex.”

It comes as little surprise that Lexa is fluid and agile at undressing all the various pieces and complexities of a school uniform, even one-handed after a failed coup for power leaves Clarke's hands requiring constant guard above her head. Undaunted, Clarke rebels again by arching herself harder into Lexa’s leg, a move that ends up being mutually beneficial, judging by the gasp it evokes.

“Lexa,” she complains with a squirm and a shudder; she's being denied touch privileges and she doesn’t appreciate it. Not one bit. “Let me—”

Lexa hushes her around a laugh—as if this is funny—and slips Clarke’s skirt button free with a deft flick of her fingers. “Let me,” she says simply and Clarke is so fucking in love with this girl she might explode.

Any niggling concerns that she might need to perform an exorcism on her girlfriend tonight—later. much, much later—are vanquished when Lexa takes a step back and catches sight of the lingerie under Clarke’s blouse.

Silky, lacy, pink lingerie.

Lexa actually trembles.

She chokes out something that’s probably some garbled version of Clarke’s name and all disrobing prowess goes down the drain, her hands are shaking so much. Her eyes keep darting between the bra and each of Clarke’s breasts like they’re some unsolvable enigma, fingers furiously fumbling with the skirt zipper like it’s an even bigger mystery.

All in all, it’s a piece of cake for Clarke to free her hands, and she tugs down the zipper tab to her skirt and slides down her tights to reveal the matching piece of the lacy set she’s so so glad she was brave enough to purchase on Saturday.

Lexa stops breathing entirely.   

It’s the ideal opportunity to divest her stunned girlfriend of her skirt, time leftover to slip each of the buttons out of her blouse and fling it across the room to die in a forgotten heap.

Clarke whets her grin once she’s done and then ducks her head to kiss some sense into the unblinking head girl. Lexa’s lips are slow to respond, muted and distracted as if they need some time to reboot, but she eventually recovers and presses Clarke even harder into the door, the kiss quickly turning heated and needy. The tips of Lexa’s fingers skate across her bare waist, hesitant for less than a blink of an eye before they dive in, flattening across burning skin and taking their time to explore.

With a shiver and a fresh wave of warmth spreading through her body, Clarke grinds down harder and savors the moans she can taste from Lexa’s throat in response. She thinks she may finally win the upper-hand when she grips Lexa’s hips and pulls her closer, shifting her weight so she can better press her leg into hot flesh. 

She fails.

Lexa’s arms get trapped between their bodies and with a noise resembling a growl, she snatches up Clarke’s hands again and holds them captive against the wall as she steps back, just out of reach. Her mouth purses to hold back a smile at the sound of Clarke’s pathetic whimpers in response. “Any more objections?”

Clarke shakes her head with vigor, eyes probably heavy-lidded. Her entire existence has contracted down to the space of those two lips and she keeps her eyes fixed on them even as her neck swivels back and forth.

“Then let’s begin.”

“Lexa,” Clarke whines at having her own words thrown back at her when what she really wants is those lips back on her.

“Clarke,” the head girl mimics in an American accent, eyes twinkling.

And just as Clarke’s about to negotiate for the removal of Lexa’s bra if she’s forced to stand here, touch-deprived and languishing away, Lexa hooks her arms around her thighs and lifts her right up off the floor. She fastens her lips to Clarke’s neck and walks them toward her bed as easily as if she were carrying a teddy bear.

“Fuck, Lex,” Clarke pants, locking her arms around her neck, entirely sure Lexa can feel how wet she is against her stomach—how much wetter she’s gotten in the last few seconds. “Baby, how the hell—”

“I told you I’m stronger than I look, Clarke.”

“Well, fuck.”

Clarke shifts to unclasp Lexa’s bra enroute to the bed. When she goes to similarly dispose of her own, though, she finds it already undone and for a moment she assumes Lexa’s done it with the sheer power of her mind. She flings it away as her girlfriend lowers her down onto the bed, lips chasing lips until the brush of naked skin reorients Lexa’s attention to other matters.

She struggles to her feet, one knee bent on the mattress, and stares. Her eyes blink rapidly a couple of times and then stop altogether, her lips falling open.

Somehow Lexa manages to look as if she’s being blinded by the light of some heavenly body in the sky above even as she’s looking down at Clarke.

“Come here,” Clarke urges, possibly a little self-conscious at the intense stare she’s receiving but mostly just impatient to get to those freshly-sprung boobs. She sits up on her elbows and wraps a hand behind Lexa’s neck to pull her down a little but she resists.

Lexa wets her lips, instead.

And then again.

“Lex.”

“I just,” Lexa tries and then trails off. She looks deep in concentration, tongue bit between her teeth. “Can I just look? For a moment?”

Clarke follows the direction of her awe-struck gaze and snorts. “Baby, you can touch them if you get down here,” she tempts.

“Just…give me a minute,” Lexa grits out between clenched teeth. She looks so serious that Clarke bursts into laughter.

“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous.” Never mind that she hasn’t taken her eyes off the glory of Lexa’s breasts in the last few seconds, rosy nipples beaded and a sheet of sweat between them.

(It’s not like Clarke’s going to admit to being a hypocrite.)

“Clarke, have you seen your breasts?” Lexa insists, a bit of levity returning to her tone.

Pretending to ponder, Clarke glances down and prods a finger at one of her own boobs. They bounce a little and she smirks at the way Lexa’s eyes go glassy in response. “Thanks. I worked hard on them.”

Lexa grins and with a final longing look, crawls onto the bed properly and covers her eyes’ temptations with her body, heading right for Clarke’s lips, kissing her slow and sweet. “Your efforts are much appreciated.”

“All for you, baby.”

They both hiss when two pairs of naked breasts slide against one another, pebbled and sparking with electricity at every contact and oh god, when bare legs rub against bare legs, smooth and silky, every nerve-ending tingling. Everything’s so soft and warm and keeps getting more so, can’t possibly get enough so, flowing and fluid and skin slipping across slinky skin and oh god oh god oh god how would every girl not be gay if they knew what this feels like? 

Lexa pushes herself down Clarke’s body. “May I?” she asks before she lowers her mouth to a stiff peak and cups the other in her hand but Clarke can’t find any words, arching her back in response, instead.

“You’re so beautiful. Ai ething, my everything.” The words roll from Lexa’s lips, wet and buzzing around her nipple before she adds suction, and if Lexa’s a whole universe pressed into the shape of a girl, Clarke currently contains that whole universe’s supply of champagne, fizzy and bubbly and pressurized.

It’s too much and not enough and Clarke can’t handle the sweet agony of these lips, she can’t stay passive a second longer because fuck, she needs to taste Lexa this way, this way and right now. She arches her back again and rolls her hips, knocking her girlfriend off-guard and attempting to flip them both over.

She fails.

Clarke’s girlfriend has the reaction time of a professional athlete, even distracted; Clarke makes it as far as lifting one arm off the bed before being pressed back down again.

“Lexa,” she groans, trying again but the muscles above her are hard as steel. “I just want to—”

Lexa looks up at her, eyes dilated and firm. Clarke is panting but Lexa’s breath doesn’t betray any sense that she’s exerting herself. “I believe you’ll find it’s still my turn,” she informs her calmly before moving to the other side of Clarke’s chest and charting lazy new pathways with her lips. A thumb passes over a wet nipple and Clarke jolts, squirms.

“Fuck, Lexa, I—”

“Stop fighting, Clarke,” Lexa says quietly.

She freezes.

And like lightning, Clarke thinks she understands, if only another small part.

To cause. But also to be caused upon.

To be bare and vulnerable instead of always being in control. To allow herself to be disarmed. To loosen forgotten armor and letting someone else undo the rest.  

It’s terrifying.

(Clarke Griffin is a fucking hypocrite.)

“Okay,” she finally says, as quietly as Lexa’s entreaty had been. “I can do that.” Her heart is beating like the wings of a bird and she knows Lexa can feel it, too.

Eyes softer than the light from the setting sun, streaming in through the window, Lexa rises up on her hands and presses a gentle kiss at the corner of Clarke’s mouth. Clarke grapples her lips in empty air for more and Lexa grants her supplication without delay, lips moving across lips and tongues stroking across tongues and fingertips catching fingertips, lacing together and holding on tight. 

Whispering a “thank you,” when Lexa starts to pull away, Clarke hums happily when she rethinks it and drops back down, two lips around her lower one and a thigh rocking between her legs again. It’s sloppy, this kiss, noisy and breathy and juddered in its rhythm by gasps, by moans, by curses, and it only gets messier.

Lexa grins when she does eventually succeed in detaching herself from Clarke’s mouth, a gleam of something sinful in her eyes. A gleam Clarke likes very much, indeed. She leans down, breath hot against Clarke’s ear. “Hold those thanks until I’m done.”

“What—ohhh,” Clarke can only gurgle out as slender fingers hook themselves into the band of her last remaining piece of covering, Lexa’s eyes fixed only on hers in question. “Fuck, yes, but Lex—”

“Shhh, Clarke.”

And with that, Lexa kisses her way down the plane of her stomach, taking her time around protruding hipbones and the sensitive skin along her sides, and when her lips brush damp lace, they don’t stop. She presses a kiss on top of the pink lingerie and then uses both hands to pull down the scrap of fabric, kicking it off with her foot once it’s far enough down, and still her lips keep trailing down and down and —

And it really does go both ways, this cause-and-effect addiction.

She feels it in the way Lexa curls an arm under her thighs and they unfold as if to the sun, loosening and loosening until they’re flat against the mattress. The way Lexa presses her mouth first to the skin of her pelvis and Clarke breaks out in goosebumps; the way she sucks marks above one knee and then the other, the way she teases her way up one leg and then the other with tiny kisses until blushes become flushes and frustrated groans turn more desperate. The way her hands blaze burning paths while her lips are busy tormenting, skimming up and down needy skin until Clarke’s stretched open and bare for her, until she’s humming like a live-wire.

Feels it in the way Lexa’s mouth finally—finally—forms a gentle seal at the juncture of her thighs and Clarke’s hips buck.

The way her tongue flattens and laps and Clarke’s lungs buckle.

The way Lexa seems to know exactly what she’s doing, the way she increases the pressure and then softens it, over and over. The way she gives and takes away, pushes and pulls, stokes and tames, teases and soothes, winds every nerve fiber and sinew until Clarke’s strung too tightly to play anything but whimper-pitched sounds.

And then fucking uncoils her and starts all over again.

The way Lexa must have sold her soul to the devil because this has to be witchcraft. 

“Fuck, Lexa—fuck, how are you so good at this?” Clarke gasps out when Lexa slows down for a moment and the room stops spinning long enough to see. “How do you—”

“I read a book,” Lexa unlatches herself only long enough to say, preoccupied. She replaces her mouth with a finger, breaking her absorbed stare to watch Clarke’s eyes, to watch the effects under her command.

“You read—oh god, no, go back, there, fuck—what?” Clarke’s words are coming out as more of a barely-syllabic pant by this point. 

“Would you like to stop and discuss?” Lexa asks, eyebrows arched but the eyes under them asking a genuine question, unfair though it is since she also presses the heel of her palm down and traces maddeningly-easy circles. Another wave of heat floods through Clarke’s body and white spots reappear in her peripheral vision.

“Not in the least, fuck, Lex—”

“Alright then.” Lexa lowers her lips down again with a pleased little hum and Clarke doesn’t even remember how to talk.

She feels it in the way her hand flies to chestnut hair the instant there’s a pause, even just for a breath, in the way the touch remains light until Lexa licks her lips and there’s no choice but to pull at the strands until she’s face-to-face with their owner. The way her skin feels feverish, the way Clarke tastes herself on Lexa’s tongue and the way her moan is swallowed down Lexa’s throat. The way Lexa wipes her chin with the back of her hand before working her way back down Clarke’s body and the way she knits their fingers together even tighter at the sound of a bereft whimper.   

The way Lexa checks and double-checks before sinking a long slender finger into her, the way that long slender finger slips inside like it belongs there. The way it feels when she crooks it—oh god, the way Lexa moves a single finger—and the sound of sliding flesh and the taste of metallic anticipation. The touch of their joined hands moving over her belly to steady convulsing hips and the way everything feels on the edge of detonation: her lungs, her mind, her heart.

The way Lexa’s mouth falters for the briefest of moments and Clarke arches, twists, squirms, aches to get that tongue back where she needs it, the way her hips roll into her as if of their own volition. The way Clarke flings her head back against the pillow, the way she grasps for purchase wherever she can find it: the skin between Lexa’s fingers, the ropes of her hair, the head clamped between her knees.

“Ai haiplana,” Lexa intones against her, just when Clarke’s sure she won’t survive another millisecond, and that’s all it takes.

Clarke dies.

She definitely dies, because somewhere in all the white light she swears she sees the face of God.

Here, between her legs or behind her eyelids, she’s not sure; unsure whether the sounds torn from her throat are in the tongue of man or angels, unsure if this sensation is one of flying or falling. Lexa responds to the unintelligible babble either way, easing up and bringing her back to the ground gently.

At the first flinch of sensitivity, the shape of a smile-tipped kiss is pressed into her before Lexa’s mouth begins its northward march, travelling the slow path and lingering in high camps and between valleys.

Lexa treks northward and Clarke can only stare sunward, vaguely wondering whether her lungs will ever be able to catch up on all the air they’ve lost.

Whether she really cares.

Taut nipples skate up the skin of her torso, light and almost painful in her hypersensitised state, and Clarke hears herself yelp when they brush against her own. Pretty lips kiss them better and then the comforting weight of Clarke’s most beloved body drops down, half on top of her, and fills the empty spaces with her warmth.

“Lexa,” Clarke exhales, mouth muscles still limp and tremors still tapering away. There’s a rushing sound in her ears, sunspots behind her eyes. She watches Lexa play with their tangled fingers absently, flattening her palm and changing the interlocking pattern. After a moment, Lexa brings them up to her lips, lips that Clarke notices are glistening and promptly loses the plot again for at least a minute. “Baby. God.”

“I’ve been thinking about that since lunchtime,” Lexa sighs with the cutest little self-satisfied smirk. Her face is partially hidden in Clarke’s hair, strands floating up in the air in the rhythm of her respiration.

“Octavia thought you were angry about something today,” Clarke remembers and laughs, which turns out to be a mistake because she’s still rather breathless and has to spend the next few seconds catching up again. “She was worried about you. And all that time you were just—”

Lexa makes a noise, one she probably intends as a hum or simply to halt Clarke’s next words, but it comes out as more of a whimper. She clears her throat and busies herself in finger-combing matted blonde tangles.

Clarke eyes her watchfully and rallies a weakened arm to drape across her back, rubbing mindless circles across the silken expanse of bare skin. The sky's turned a soft orange colour, pink clouds lit up by the last vestiges of the sinking sun, and leftover glitter on Lexa's back reflects back the light like she's clothed in the sunset. “Why since lunch?”

“I…” Lexa drops her head back down so she’s occluded in Clarke’s shoulders, sweeping her lips across the skin and kissing every freckle she comes across. The tips of her hair sweep along with her in sweet torture, tickling in ways that are only part-funny. “I spent the lunch break in Waterstones.”

Clarke squints.

“In a bookstore,” Lexa clarifies and then pauses in such a way that Clarke knows she’s blushing a little. “In the lesbian erotica section.”

Eyes widening, Clarke stills her hand’s motions. “So when you said earlier you’d read a book…”

“I happen to believe in the importance of obtaining a variety of primary and secondary sources of research,” Lexa says primly into a side-boob.

Clarke blinks.

“You figured out how to do all that from a book?” Clarke feels a little nod against her neck. “One book? A few hours ago?” Another nod, one that ends in a warm mouth fastening down onto her throat, sucking fast and furiously. “Because holy shit, Lexa. That was…some big word I can’t remember right now. I’m not even sure what country I’m in right now. What century.”

She expects to feel a smile, a squeeze of her hand or something, but instead there’s an involuntary jerk of Lexa’s hips and it draws Clarke’s awareness down to her leg and to the damp patch she can feel from white cotton. Lexa stills herself immediately and slows the work of her swollen mouth and Clarke’s the one who ends up grinning.

Re-energised all at once, Clarke bends her leg at the knee, pressing up into her girlfriend and devouring the sound of her breath hitching in response. Smooth strokes on Lexa’s back become light scrapes of fingernails that leave quickly-fading white lines; Lexa shivers under her hand.

“Baby. I know it’s my turn, now.”

Lexa shakes her head, lifting it and repeating the action with hair curtaining her face when Clarke snorts in disbelief. “I’m fine.”

“Lex.”

“In any case, supper is in a quarter of an hour. We need to get dressed.”

But Lexa doesn’t move away and Clarke isn’t about to let her. “Fine,” she agrees, surrendering her larger desire for a compromise, ceding the battle to win the war. She slides her hands down to the swell of Lexa’s backside and urges her to rock forward against the waiting leg.

Eyes flickering between their bodies, Lexa is obviously conflicted, but there’s no missing the quickening of her breath. Or the black of her eyes.

“Please, Lexa,” Clarke coaxes. “Beja.” She finds Lexa’s mouth with her own, nipping down, and that’s all the convincing she needs.

Lexa cants her hips into Clarke’s thigh, her eyes squeezed shut and her moans swallowed by ravenous lips, hungry and sloppy, teeth clicking as her breath grows more erratic by the second. Clarke moves to taste the skin below Lexa’s ear once it’s clear her girlfriend doesn’t currently possess the attentional capacity to kiss, heart clenching the same way she begins to feel around her leg.

“My commander,” Clarke whispers into her ear, guiding her to grind down harder, and it’s only a couple more rolls of her hips before Lexa’s coming with a stifled cry, warm and wet and searching for Clarke’s mouth again. She gives it right away and Lexa collapses her whole weight into waiting arms, biting on Clarke’s lower lip as if it’s all that’s keeping her from ascending up into the skies.

Two shades of hair are tangled together on the pillow, sweat-sculpted and wild, and Clarke rakes her hand through the strands while she waits for Lexa to catch her breath, idly twisting their lengths around an index finger until they’re every shade of light and dark along the spectrum and then watching the curls spring free.

The light in the room has shifted again, any remaining sunlight from beneath the horizon all blown out. Visible in the contrast now, the fairy-lights come out like stars, like Lexa’s flung them up there in her ecstasy.

Clarke nuzzles closer to the naked girl with the wrung-out muscles as she star-gazes, slotting a calf between shaky calves and kissing each of Lexa’s fingertips, one by one and with reverence, Her skin is hot and sticky but the sheen of sweat between them cools quickly and before long Clarke’s fumbling behind herself until she locates the duvet. She pulls it over their bodies and the heat immediately multiplies, warmer than the sum of either of their bodies alone.

“You’ll have to tell me the name of that author,” she murmurs into the pulse point on Lexa’s wrist after a minute. “I think I owe her a bouquet of flowers. At least.”

Lexa laughs, breathy and half-giddy. She’s so human right now, so undone and disheveled, and Clarke longs for her camera, for her paints and charcoal even as she knows that a still-image could never capture the energy of life pressed into her.

After a minute or so, Lexa moves her weight to an elbow and traces the marks she’s left on Clarke’s chest in the filtered light under the sheet, delicate until it’s clear they’re not bruises and then a contented little smile pulls at the sides of her lips. She drops her lips to an out-of-sight one on the inside of Clarke’s forearm, sucking over it and biting down just enough that it’ll survive the night and then laving her tongue over the spot.

Clarke rises up to see for herself, this proof of Lexa’s existence painted across her body, to bask in these effects and the one who caused them. She marks the equivalent spot on Lexa’s arm with equally tender teeth and tongue and tries to ignore the supper bell when it rings out.

“We have to go,” Lexa says, gently prying her away and rolling to a seated position.

“I’m not hungry,” Clarke grumbles, setting her jaw and crossing her arms across herself as she remains supine on the bed. “Not for dry chicken and over-boiled vegetables, in any case.”

“If only that were a valid excuse.”

“It should be. I’m sure the Housemistresses would understand.”

“Mmm,” Lexa laughs, pulling Clarke to her feet despite her whinging. She studiously keeps her eyes away from Clarke’s blatantly distracting naked stretches, turning instead to sorting through identical pieces of school uniform. “Spit spot, Clarke. The sooner we get there, the sooner it’ll be over.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.” Clarke snatches a school shirt from Lexa’s pile. “But fine.”

“Clarke.”

“Lexa.”

The head girl holds her gaze but her lips soon twitch and her eyes are brighter than the fairy-lights and Clarke hardly notices leaving their safe haven for the chaos of the world outside, not when their hands remain entwined all the way to the Dining Hall.

--

Clarke may be a hypocrite but Lexa is a fucking liar.

Supper is long.

Excruciatingly long.

There’s something wrong with the air, too. It’s way too thick and Lexa’s all the way on the other side of the room and neither problems are responsive to her glaring.

Raven and Octavia watch with amusement—or at least they do once Clarke assures them there’s nothing wrong with her or Lexa—as she squirms in her seat and barely touches her minted lamb, chewing and sucking on her own lips and rubbing a finger across her forearm as she fixes her eyes on the sea of bodies that only occasionally part in the right way to catch a glimpse of the High Table.

She’s not the only one watching the Head Girl. Nia’s back at her usual spot, gowned-up and at Lexa’s left hand. They barely speak other than curt nods but Clarke can see the Headmistress’s side glances, the slight unease with which she studies Heda and her clear distraction as if she’s suspicious Lexa’s planning something. Clarke pays her little mind and neither does Lexa.

The dining hall feels colder than usual, probably colder than it really is compared to the heat in Lexa’s eyes when they lock or the warmth bubbling in Clarke’s stomach, eager to return to the balminess under Lexa’s covers and between her legs.

Wednesday night choir granplei is a bucket of ice water in the face.

She’d totally forgotten about its existence—well, a lot of things’ existence—until Raven reminds her to grab her music from her cubby and Clarke sulks all the way over to the Sixth Form Annex. Dr. Peters is still away and the realisation gives her a brief burst of hope that it will be cancelled, but oh, no.

No, no, it would seem the Head of Choir has decided to simply take practice herself.

Clarke would scowl at the Head of Choir, except that she seems to be doing a good job of it herself. Lexa is composed and perfect—of course she is—but for anyone watching her like a hawk like Clarke is—of course she is—it’s easy to see that she’s a little…antsy. If Clarke didn’t understand intimately, she’d probably be just as concerned as Octavia had been earlier today.

Beats are tapped out with both hands and feet and Lexa’s fingers never stop moving, untying her distractingly-casual bun and tying it back up again, pushing defiant strands back behind her ears as if they’ve personally offended her. She flips ahead in her sheet music, itches her arm, and plays staccato scales and arpeggios on the piano whenever there’s a break for the girls to find their next piece of sheet music.   

Meanwhile, Clarke’s going to need to find some chapstick because she can’t stop licking her lips. The Lower Six girl next to her whispers that it’s fine to pop out if she needs a loo break and Clarke shoots her a tight smile and wills her squirming limbs into submission.

“Thirds, stay on the bottom line, please: I know it’s tempting to join the melody but we need you down there. Everyone, circle the dotted minims in the third bar of page three and top line, mind the crotchet rest before you come in. And can we all kindly pull our hair back—it’s not the end of the day, yet.”

Clarke feels the exact same frustration.

“I know you Americans like your independence but that includes you too, Clarke,” the Head of Choir adds when most of the choir is done hastily tying up their hair up in baubles from around their wrists and Clarke’s still tapping her watch to test whether it’s broken.

Okay, maybe not the exact same frustration.

“Sha, Heda,” Clarke replies without the slightest sass, taking her time to run her fingers through her hair to make sure it’s neat before wrapping the ponytail tie around it.

Lexa crosses and uncrosses her legs. “Thank you. Now, let’s take it from O beata Virgo on page three. One and two and—”

The music proceeds without another pause and the whole choir whips their heads up when Heda pounds down on the keys in a musical huff at the end of the song, not quite able to find the final chord.

“Right,” Lexa decides, closing the lid to the piano. “The Christmas service is Tuesday and we haven’t even opened In Dulci Jubilo. Take a short break while I track down the sheet music, but don’t go too far, please.”

The silence transforms into yawns and stretching and the locating of water bottles and Clarke pulls her hands inside her jumper sleeves to stop herself defying Lexa’s instruction again and going over to grope her girlfriend in the middle of the Old Hall.

But then Lexa cocks her head and Clarke gallops out the side door with her, catching her lips the second they’re under cover of the night, devouring and clutching at woolen uniform pieces. Somehow Lexa manages to guide them backward without breaking for air, down steps and then up some more, and it isn’t until Clarke hears the low clang of the metal on wood that she notices they’ve made it to the chapel.

“Wait. There’s actually music?”

Lexa flattens her lips. “Why else would we be in the chapel, Clarke?”

But then she bolts the giant door from the inside and Clarke feels a little more optimistic.

The Head Girl makes it three steps down the centre aisle before Clarke catches her by one of her girdles, reeling her back with a grin so big her cheeks hurt. She still has little clue what these long tail-things are for but this is a pretty good side-purpose.

The exasperated ‘Clarke,’ doesn’t hold much weight when it’s said halfway to her mouth, lips too stretched in a smile to kiss properly.

“Music,” Clarke agrees, pulling Lexa’s shirts out of her skirt with a frenzy that astonishes even her.

“Music,” Lexa confirms. Weakly. She takes Clarke’s hand and drags her toward the vestry where Dr. Peters stores the sheet music but she doesn’t bother tucking herself back together.

They make it exactly as far as the altar before their hands are in each other’s skirts.

Clarke chooses the wrong path, attempting the bottom-up approach through Lexa’s legs, but the tights stymie her for a moment and she has to navigate up and then down again through high-waisted tights and cotton at an odd angle until she finds the dripping heat she’s been craving.

Lexa slides under the waistband of Clarke’s skirt and straight down through her tights, positioned exactly right, but she falters at what she finds below.

“Your knickers, Clarke,” she gasps out, eyes widening in surprise. “Where are they?” 

Surprise and a whole lot more, judging from the darkening of her eyes.

“On your bedroom floor, I believe,” Clarke informs her with a coinciding flick of a single finger, the only movement she can really execute with her wrist twisted like this. “It’s not the only piece of lingerie crumpled in a heap on your carpet, if you care to check.”

Lexa does indeed care to check and they almost fall to a tangled heap on the chapel floor when she stumbles off-balance, one hand between Clarke’s legs and the other cupping a bare breast.

“Jesus, Clarke,” Lexa groans, and Clarke locates her mouth again, greedy for those lips that are usually so careful with their words but even more eloquent when they don’t.

Reluctantly withdrawing her hand to try the quicker path this time, Clarke growls in frustration when the three sashes belted around Lexa’s waist are too tight and deny her access. “I hate these fucking girdles,” she grumbles, attempting to loosen their knots and failing.

Distracted and continuing to distract with her fucking perfect fingers, Lexa is less than no help at all.

Two of the three girdles eventually fall to the ground but the third resists Clarke’s every effort, impressive that they probably aren’t with two fingers inside her. “Lexaaa,” she whines and her girlfriend finally shifts her attention to where Clarke’s struggling.  

Snorting, she withdraws and unties the final knot, both hands needed, and Clarke hates those things even more, now. “You’re probably right to get rid of the deportment girdle,”  Lexa acknowledges with a laugh, glancing around at their surroundings and tossing the long scarlet strip somewhere out of sight.

“Deportment?” Clarke mumbles as she backs Lexa up against the nearest flat space and crashes their mouths together, teeth digging into her lips, thrumming.

“Rewarded for propriety. Tidiness. Good posture.”

“Screw propriety.”

“Good.” 

“Goo—fuck, baby—good, good.”

And it is good, it’s so good and it’s with her finger finally inside Lexa and Lexa’s fingers back inside her, not sure which feels better and moving together that Clarke sees it. 

She may never comprehend the grand unifying theory of all creation, all its mysteries and complicated equations, but all at once, she doesn’t just think she understands a small part of it.

Like lightning, Clarke knows.

(She’s always known.)

It goes both ways, this cause-and-effect obsession, causing and being caused-upon, giving and taking, serving and being served, but it’s more than that.

It’s the way they effect and affect each other.

It’s the way it’s all one big dance, this life—this leading and following, this perpetual adjustment and coordination, acting and reacting, over and over again. The way causes are sent across nerve-endings and return as effects, changes in one system causing changes in the other and back again.  The way a mother’s heart literally beats for her fetus and the way heartbeats move heartbeats even outside the womb, calming to calm another or rousing until the whole room is in riot. Quantum biological effects, breath and hearts, sympathetic and parasympathetic physiology, limbs and atomic particles entangled together until there’s no longer any way to distinguish between the cause and the effect, just an endless loop of causing and being caused-upon.

It’s the way nature yearns to fall into synchrony, from subatomic particles to the universe as a whole—the biological ballet of birds and fish moving together and miles of firefly lights waltzing in perfect unison. It’s in the entrainment of clock pendulums and menstrual cycles and neural oscillations, in the self-conducting orchestra of hearts beating together, in the rhythm of rowers and the contagion of euphoria. In the pull of endless chapel calls and responses, in the way many singers become one voice and the way melodies and harmonies blend together into a single song, echoing out across empty space.

It’s the way everything is too tightly stitched together to ever unravel, particle connected to particle, mind to mind and face-to-face. In power of words to connect people on opposite sides of the world, in the comfort of rules that everyone follows, in the spontaneous chant of a crowd and in the uniformity of an army, marching off to battle. Writers write stories and politicians draft laws and protesters persist and soldiers go to war, not for themselves but to be part of something bigger than themselves. It’s the way the universe will always be driven toward randomness, toward entropy and chaos, and the way it's held in check by the opposition party, by this pervasive drive toward synchrony and order. Lexa’s right, death really isn’t the end, not when every single life permanently changes the course of the universe, not when stars shine out across the galaxy long after they’re burnt up, forming pieces of constellations and part of the wonder of children, craning their heads up at the night sky in awe.

(Lexa’s always known.)

Clarke knows from the way two chests rise and fall together as one, the way they turn their heads to catch a breath at the same time. The way Lexa understands the gentle tug of her hair—the way Clarke causes her to understand and come back up for a kiss. Known in the way the desperate acceleration of Clarke’s fingers causes Lexa’s to move faster, too. The way Clarke’s, oh fuck, she’s so close—fuck— and she tries to slow her respiration and Lexa slows right along with it.

She knows from the way the way they’re fucking against a church altar and all she sees is the pillars of Lexa’s throat and the buttresses of her arms, the rose-windows of her eyes, the clerestory of her ribs and the nave of her heart. The way all this biting and sucking is a communion of broken bodies into one, the way the colours of the stained-glass blur together into white and the way the chapel bell is silent but it rings for them both.

She knows from the way they’re inside this consecrated space, knuckle-deep inside each other, and it doesn't feel like a sin; how they’re kissing like heathens, wild and unrestrained underneath these painted rafters and Clarke feels like neither pagan nor saint, servant nor queen.

Clarke follows Lexa’s throat-bared gaze up to the rafters and for a moment, it’s like the roof is gone, like the plaster gilding reveals the nighttime skies above. For a moment they’re neither women nor warriors, commanders nor queens. For just a moment they’re children, taking turns to count the stars.

The universe is big, it’s so big, but it’s so much more manageable when there’s someone at your side. It’s so much easier to stand at the cusp of it all with a hand clasped in yours; when two girls’ hands folded together comprise the final part of a single trinity.

Yourself, myself, ourselves.

(They know because they’re known.)

It’s the way Lexa’s eyelids drop and Clarke goes blind, the way their moans harmonise into a single chord, the way it’s impossible to know the difference between Lexa’s orgasm and her own, tangled and knotted together as they are.

(As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end—)

Lexa’s mouth wraps around Clarke’s name like a sevenfold sung-amen, and though they’ve been rehearsing Christmas anthems, all Clarke hears is the morning chapel hymn, pounding through her veins.

Holy, holy, holy.

“Fuck, Lex. Holy fuck.”

“I never cared much for that deportment girdle, anyway.”

Clarke grins and slides her back down altar panel, pulling Lexa with her. They face the empty pews and choir stands, panting.  

“Posture,” she snorts and then bursts into slightly hysterical giggles that set Lexa off, too. “Oh my god, Lex. Fuck that.”

“Quite right. A good example of a Polis tradition I don’t mind phasing out,” Lexa decides, dropping her head onto Clarke’s shoulder. “I’ll take it off in protest of the inherent misogyny. Remind me. Tomorrow morning. I might forget.”

Sleepy, sated-Lexa is Clarke’s new most-beloved human being. Period. Full stop.

“Oh, I will.”

“Clarke. Stop. We do have to get back in there eventually. And just because I’m not wearing the deportment girdle doesn’t necessitate you mussing up my hair, Clarke. Clarke…”

“Shhh, we’re in a church, Lexa.”

“That’s…a valid point. I’ll allow it.”

“No more talking, Head Girl.”

“I would prefer you not call me that when your hand is up my top, Clarke.”

“Shhh.”

 --

Raven looks unimpressed when they return to the Old Hall, music in hand.

Also, somehow, extremely impressed.

She crosses her arms and raises a knowing eyebrow at Clarke wiping freshly-washed hands on her skirt and she’s just about to open her mouth when Lexa intercedes, passing out the sheet music and instructing Raven to lead an acapella version.

Raven pales and shuts up.

(Her pitch is, in fact, perfect.)

Heda frowns down at her hands after she names the last song of the night, her fingers still slightly shaky as she splays them across the keys.

She flexes and straightens them only once before asking Vivian to take over the piano accompaniment. 

And it’s the way that Clarke decides that maybe those long-term implications of cause-and-effect are even more obsession-worthy than in their instant gratification, because of all the new effects and affects she’s seen play out across her girlfriend’s body in the past 24 hours, this one might be her favourite.

She just wonders if she should be quite so turned on by it.

Chapter Text

Nia strikes on Friday.

It comes after Zoe plucks out a movement of Bach’s Hunting Cantata on her harp, after the most banal of daily announcements and after an even more prosaic prayer. After the Headmistress licks her lips and her eyes flicker across the assembled masses, calculating and crafty.

“One last piece of news before you go. The Deputy Head, Dr. Peters, has decided to start his retirement early, effective yesterday.”

Girls murmur on the floor and teachers whisper in their seats and Heda presides over them all, sat upon her wooden throne on the stage of the Small Gym with nary an eyebrow raised in acknowledgment. The Head of School calls for silence but it isn’t until the Head Girl raises her hand that it falls, instant and absolute.

“I imagine it must come as a shock to you all, and I share in your mourning," Nia simpers, "but I hope you will also join me in commending his service to this school and congratulating our Augustus on what is sure to be a peaceful change of pace.”

Lexa stands and the eye of every soldier whips over to their leader. She lowers her chin and leads a watery smattering of applause, her own eyes fixed on Nia as her hands clap together, slow and rhythmic and meaningful.

“I will fight for what I believe in,” Heda says with dangerous calm, her gaze on the Headmistress before turning to face her legions. “Ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in!” she calls out across the room, steady and powerful.

“Ai ste yuj!” the school calls back their valediction, girls and teachers alike, strong and with complete faith in their Commander.

Nia nods, the tiniest, wolfish smirk toying at the corner of her dried-up old mouth before it disappears, but it’s not worth worrying about.

With Lexa on their side, who can be against them?

Sheep May Safely Graze, indeed.

--

“So what’s the plan? He obviously didn't leave of his own accord. Who should we call first?”

Lexa smiles, brushing back errant blonde strands from where they’ve escaped Clarke’s braid in her haste to find her girlfriend after assembly. “First, you’ll go to Art.”

“Good thinking. Miss Gauthier loves you, she’ll totally cover for us. You call Dr. Peters to get the full scoop and I’ll—”

“You’ll go to class and work, Clarke. I’ve got this.”

Clarke furrows her forehead, lips puffing up into a pout. “But Lex, I want to strategise with you. How am I supposed to focus on painting right now?”

“If I haven’t sorted it by lunch, you can strategise with me then.”

“You have lessons, too, you know,” Clarke insists.

“My next double is meant to be Greek with Dr. Peters. I’ve got time.”

Nia forcing the Deputy Head into early retirement is obviously bad, but it’s not until now that the full weight of its implications hits Clarke.

“Wait. What happens to Choir if he doesn’t come back? And who’s taking over your Greek lessons and running the Music department and whatever else a Deputy Head does?”

“He’ll be back by next week, January at the very latest. Whatever Nia’s done, it won’t hold. Dr. Peters has the law on his side, I’m certain of it. It’s not the first time we’ve defeated the Headmistress lately; the cogs of our machine have never been more oiled.”

“She won’t even know what hit her,” Clarke agrees, grinning and pressing her grin into a matching one. “The arrogance. She’s an idiot if she thinks she can take her revenge with something so easily overturned.”

“Go to your lesson, Clarke,” Lexa laughs when fired-up lips finally let her free.

(Whatever. Clarke’s surely not the only person in history to find talk of power and victory to be unbelievably sexy.)

“Sha, Heda. But I’ll find you after.”

“After Biology.”

“Lexa. Surely this is important enough to skive off double Biology.”

“Valiant try. Plus, I know you enjoy Biology.”

“I enjoy you more. Fine,” Clarke sighs when she knows she’s lost. “I’ll meet you at lunch.”

“I look forward to it. Hopefully I’ll have good news.”

“I have all faith, baby.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Clarke lingers, caught up in the glow of power and purpose radiating around her girlfriend right now. They’re in one of the many forgotten nooks and dark crannies Lexa has the advantage of knowing about, having grown up in the school, and as usual, Clarke wonders why they bother hiding when Lexa shines this brilliantly; her light can probably be seen in the next galaxy over.

“Art, Clarke.”

“I’m going.”

“The studio is in the other direction.”

Clarke turns on her heel, narrowly avoiding a wall. “I knew that.”

--

One o’clock rolls around and Clarke bounces off to her girlfriend’s study room after quick stop along the way, never thinking she’d miss Dr. Peter’s sharp eyes when it’s painfully easy to sneak food out of the dining hall.

Lexa’s lounging back in her chair reading, legs crossed on her desk, and her perfunctory smile at the interruption grows into a lazy grin when she sees who it is.

“Hey there,” Clarke drawls, taking a moment to drink in the sight of her beautiful girlfriend. Her hair’s in a loose top-knot again, spiral flyaways around her temples and flung out against the curve of her neck. The sleeves of her jumper are pushed up, downy little hairs on her forearm reflecting the sunbeam streaming in through the open window.  

“Hello, you,” Lexa drawls right back, nimble eyes needing no external source of light to shine out.

Clarke salivates.

She ducks down and kisses Lexa before remembering the actual—but far less delicious—food she’s ferrying in her jumper sleeves and hops up on the desk.

“I brought you yogurt.” Clarke tosses over a raspberry tub and spoon before peeling back the lid of a strawberry one.

“Pardon? What was that?” Lexa laughs, delighted.

“What? Yogurt?”

“Yowh-gerrrt,” Lexa mimics, exaggerating the syllables with happy flourish.

“Yoghurt. Yah-gut,” Clarke valiantly tries in a British accent and failing spectacularly. Even when she echoes it immediately after Lexa’s pronunciation, it sounds wrong. Lexa can’t stop giggling and Clarke eventually has no choice but to concede that it’s one of the words Americans just can’t say.

“Anyway,” Clarke changes the subject after confirming that the fruity-milky stuff does indeed taste better licked off her girlfriend’s lips. “How far did you get on Dr. Peters?”

Lexa scrapes up one last bite and cleans her spoon; Clarke tries not to watch the utensil with envy. “He confirmed to me, confidentially, that he was all but strong-armed into resigning after Nia threatened him with his pension. He hasn’t been on family leave at all, just under a gag order.”

“She can’t do that!”

“She really can’t,” Lexa agrees. She tosses the empty yoghurt tub in the bin across the room, nothing but net. “It’s against the law. Dr. Peters is entitled to his pension regardless. He has a written contract from the previous Headmistress that has never been legally superseded.”

“Okay. So what are our next steps?”

“I contacted a law professor at Oxford I know and she’s helping me pull together a case. There’s little precedence for an employee wanting to continue working in these circumstances, being paid his full pension, but it’s not complicated. We’ll file the lawsuit on Monday and he’ll be back in time for the Christmas service on Tuesday once Nia realises it’s not worth going through the legal battles.”

“Nice. Well done, Heda.”

“It was nothing,” she brushes off but the colour in her cheeks belies the glibness of her response.

Clarke kisses both spots of pink and then the red of her lips before settling back on the desk, crossing her legs and taking a messy bite into an apple.

“How do you know this high and mighty law professor?” Clarke asks curiously, scooting closer to the edge of the desk so their legs can better press together.

“I met her on a pre-interview visit to the university, back when I was deciding between PPE and a law degree. Professor Erstwyth still thinks I made the wrong decision,” Lexa tells her, rolling her eyes with fondness.

“Meeting with faculty members before your official interview? My eager little beaver,” Clarke jokes, hooking a leg into Lexa’s chair and pulling her closer.

“They requested the meetings, actually.” Lexa snags a bite of Clarke’s apple while holding a perfectly good one of her own and smirks at the responding gasp. Clarke tries to re-coup her losses but forgets her plan as soon as she reaches Lexa’s lips.

(Smug-Lexa, unsurprisingly, tastes tart and sweet.)

“I don’t understand why Nia even bothered,” Clarke says when she eventually sits back with a sigh, reluctantly getting back to the topic at hand. “If he’s being paid his pension early, it’s not like she’s saving any money or anything. It doesn’t make sense—why go to the effort at all when it’s so easy to overturn?”

Lexa shrugs and uses a knife to cut herself a delicate slice of apple and popping it into her mouth before replying. “Perhaps she didn’t realise it would be so easy? I doubt she had a cogent plan, to be honest. Just another of her petty acts.”

“After ordering her son to hit on me, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Still. What a bitch.”

“She probably thought she was being clever, announcing it right before the weekend so we couldn’t file anything until Monday. It only gives us more time to make a bulletproof case.”

“And time to rally the troops, just in case your stuff falls through. The school is so riled up after Founder's Day, I bet we could organise a bad-ass protest with a snap of your fingers.

Lexa doesn’t look up from cutting her next slice of fruit. “Fortunately, that won’t be necessary.”

“But maybe we should prepare some things, behind-the-scenes. Just in case.”

“It won’t be necessary,” Lexa repeats firmly and then her gaze travels down and up Clarke’s body. “Now then. I have a Young Enterprise meeting in ten minutes and then I need to kit up for Games, so any lunchtime snogging is going to have to commence sooner rather than later.”

Clarke bursts out into laughter. “I can’t believe I heard the word ‘snogging’ come out of your mouth, Lex. Call the press,” she gasps out as she hops off the desk and straddles her ridiculous girlfriend.

“Frenching, then” Lexa says in her atrocious American accent.

“Maybe you just don’t talk right now.”

“Fine by me,” she mumbles, lip between Clarke’s teeth, and pretty much everything is forgotten after that.

The day slips by without further worry, thoughts no more weighty than the feasibility of crotch-less tights.

--

The Polis Christmas Feast is set for that evening, the final Friday before term lets out for the holidays, so after the last lesson is over, the girls head over to their Houses to dress in their full formal uniforms—blazers, dusty vestcoats from the back of the wardrobe and all. By the time they’re back in the main building, the cooking and serving staff have emptied out of the kitchen, off to their own homes to change.

It’s the first real solo responsibility for the House Prefects and they take their duties seriously, leading the younger Form Prefects in directing the Houses into their pre-assigned duties for the Feast.

Aveta and Brigid Houses have the most enviable task of decorating the Formal Dining Hall, a tinsel fight predictably breaking out until every girl is covered head-to-toe in gold and red strips of metallic paper. On the other hand, the floor looks very festive.

Flidais sets the long tables, some girls laying out the fancy plates with the Polis crest while others distribute the heavy wine goblets and the formal cutlery. A shiny Christmas cracker is doled out to each place setting in alternating colours, and the Upper Fives are wise enough to light the candles only after the younger girls are done, only one or two minor disasters on that front. The fire extinguishers don’t even get used.

The girls in Rosalind are slated to serve the food and they wait around impatiently, poor Adenne attempting to wrangle excited girls into a lesson about silver service. They all have white tea towels on their arms, at least, so if nothing else they look like they know what they’re doing. Kyndall and Cordelia Houses are on the unlucky duty of clean-up this year, so they’re absent for now.

Meanwhile, the combined Sixth Form invades the kitchen.

It’s, predictably, a disaster.

Almost every girl at Polis has gone through the requisite Home Economics lessons in the dingy Cooking Lab, where pots and pans are never quite clean from their previous chefs and store-room food always has to be sniffed several times, so it’s not as bad as it could be. Cooking for one or two people, however, proves to be very different from cooking for an entire school, staff and teachers included.

Despite being pre-dressed and stuffed by kitchen staff, needing only warming—either in empathy or in the desire not to die of food-poisoning—the turkey all ends up a little dry. The Brussel sprouts and roasted parsnips, which they’ve been left on their own with, don’t really have any glaze left when they’re belatedly removed from the oven, but at least they’re a pleasant golden colour. The roast potatoes can’t claim the same but the burnt bits are easily hidden. The bacon-wrapped chestnuts…well, it’s just lucky they hadn’t printed up the menu. No one will know they were ever intended to exist.

(The fire extinguisher definitely gets used.)

The Christmas pudding is easy, thank god, disgusting as it tastes upon Clarke’s tentative nibble. It only needs to be sliced into bowls and topped with a dab of white icing. Lexa ends up with powdered sugar on her cheek and Clarke hushes every single girl who loyally attempts to alert their Heda to its presence.

(It’s gone before they go into the hall. Clarke and her tongue and a lovely dark corner make sure of that.)

The kitchen staff are adorable, all frocked up in dresses and smart suits and ooh-ing and aw-ing over every burnt vegetable on their plate. Even cuter is the way the little ones deliver them their food, all solemn with tongues sticking out the sides of their mouths.

The girls are served only after all the staff and teachers have gotten their food, Heda up at the High Table with her six Prefects and her six House Prefects, Dr. Peter’s spot left empty and Nia noticeably absent from the occasion. Lexa calls out a blessing, in Trigedasleng and then in English, and there’s a palatable sigh of relief as the meal finally begins without a major hitch.

Crackers are popped last, not until the pudding course is served and everyone can properly relax in a job well done. Octavia holds the other end for Clarke, who receives a corny joke, a tiny plastic sword she promptly stabs and kills her fruit cake with, and a gold tissue-paper crown. She catches Lexa’s eye as she puts it on her head, the Head Girl in a one of her own, droopy and too-large for her head, and when she sees pretty lips form around two silent words across the noisy room, Clarke’s pretty sure she hears every syllable.

“My commander,” she mouths in response, winking, and Lexa’s cheeks turn the same color as her crown.

--

There’s leftover wine from the staff table in the Polis water bottle that Lexa passes her later that night, Clarke spluttering in surprise as she takes a sip, and they pass it back and forth on her bed until everything’s just a little more warm and hazy. Carol music plays from Lexa’s computer and fingers play across her skin and this, right here—this is the meaning of Christmas.

Clarke’s working on her second feast of the night, one certainly not dry—not even in the very least—and burnt only in the sense of her tongue against Lexa’s heat, when Lexa’s eyes widen and her hand flies to still Clarke’s head.  

Alert instantly, Clarke freezes, too.

There’s a knock at the bedroom door and for a wild moment, Clarke thinks guards have come to take Lexa away and she digs her fingers more possessively into her hips.

But then they hear a tentative little “Heda?”

Lexa sags in relief and Clarke follows in kind. Finger over her lips, the Head Girl rolls off the bed and pulls on whatever items of clothing she can find in the dark, which happen to be Clarke’s rocket ship pajamas and a vest top of unknown origin. She cracks open the door only after smoothing down her wild bed head and checking that the naked blonde in her bed has flung the duvet over herself.

“Sorry, Heda,” Clarke hears and a comforting hush in response before Lexa steps out into the hall, pulling the door almost-shut behind her.

There’s a soft little murmuring of voices, a high childish one—the girl can’t be more than eleven, puberty definitely hasn’t set in—and the Head Girl’s soothing one in response. It’s hard to pick up most of what they’re saying, but through snippets and single words Clarke gathers that they’re discussing a bad dream.

It goes quiet and one of them must sway into the door, probably Lexa bending down to give the girl a hug, because the door opens a little wider and Clarke can hear the next part of their hushed conversation clear as day.

“Were you having a nightmare, too, Heda?” the little voice asks, nervously. “I heard noises before I knocked, like you were moaning in your sleep.”

A pillow becomes necessary to muffle Clarke’s strangled laughter; there’s an extra beat before Lexa replies.

“If I was, thank you for rescuing me,” she says softly.

Clarke can almost hear the little girl puff up with pride and straighten up. “Of course, Heda.”

Lexa comes inside a moment or two later, walking toward the bed slowly, as if in disbelief. Her lip is bit back so tightly it looks painful.

“Oh my god,” she breathes.

“Well, that happened,” Clarke chokes out and has to find that pillow again.

“That actually happened.”

Lexa falls down on top of her and buries her face into Clarke’s bare stomach with a groan, body shaking in silent laughter of her own.

It’s a few minutes later that Clarke steadies her breath enough to pull her girlfriend up into a kiss but when Lexa lets out a little moan in response, they crack up again, abdominal-aching, inescapable giggles, and yep, it’s all a bit of a lost cause tonight.

Luckily there’s the morning. Twice.

(An impressive feat, seeing as they need to leave for Lexa’s Saturday lessons by 7am.)

(Some things are worth an early rise.)

--

Oddly enough, not everyone feels the same way.

It’s 6:55am so Clarke doesn’t bother knocking, just flings open Raven and Octavia’s door. “I’m going into town with Lexa but meet me for lunch, yeah? 12:30, at China Wong’s.”

She’s met with a groan and Octavia pulling the duvet further up over their heads, blocking the light from the hall.

“Clarke,” one of them bemoans.

“Do you mind?” the other grumbles.

Clarke shrugs; it’s not like she’s shocked to see the two friends sharing a bed, it’s not like she’s interrupting—

Fuck.

She backs away, closing the door and then opening it again a crack to whisper her apologies. “Sorry! Sorry. Um, yeah. Half past twelve, though.”

Something flies through the air and bangs into the door.

“Right. Er, sleep well.”

Fuck.

--

Lexa has some research she wants to do in the public library, an odd little building that seems abandoned and nothing like the public libraries in New York, and Clarke walks her over after her lessons end at noon before meandering over to the other side of town.

She waits outside the Chinese food restaurant at half-past without much hope, suspecting she should have just stayed with Lexa despite her girlfriend practically pushing her away to prepare for her phone call in the library’s meeting space—as if Clarke’s the distracting one, as if she’s the one with those ambrosial lips—but Raven and Octavia are right on time.  Her eyes automatically dart down to their hands, tucked away in their respective jacket pockets, and then bites her lip.

“You’re here!”

“Of course we are,” Octavia says with a confused smile. “You burst into our room before the sun had risen and ordered us here.”

“You’re forgiven, though. It’s been way too long since I’ve had that chicken-fried-rice in my tummy,” Raven adds, and okay, everything seems pretty status quo. Good. That’s good.

Clarke’s mouth has a gift for making it awkward, anyway. “Sorry for, um, waking you up this morning.”

“No worries,” Raven says breezily, reaching for the bag in Clarke’s hand to rummage through her purchases. “What’d you buy?”

Clarke smiles in relief before remembering exactly what the bag contains.

Having spent the morning looking for a Christmas present for Lexa, Clarke has conclusively determined there isn’t anything good enough in heaven or on Earth. Or at least in this tiny little town, in any case. The best she could come up with was more lingerie from La Senza, but that’s more a gift for Clarke.

On the other hand, Clarke has decided she’s perfectly in her rights to treat herself to Christmas gifts.

Christmas gifts that probably shouldn’t be pulled out of bags in the middle of public.

“Clarkie,” Raven enthuses with a waggle of her eyebrows and a wiggle of pink ribbon. “Aren’t you a dark horse? I might have guessed lace but a garter belt, too?”

Clarke snatches back the bag and crosses her arms across it and her body. “Fuck off.”

“Anyway, let’s go in. I’m starving,” Octavia saves her, albeit after an eyebrow waggle of her own.

And it’s all fine. Strangely…normal. Raven and Octavia aren’t any more or less affectionate with each other than usual and once they move onto safer topics, Clarke starts to doubt whether she’d walked in on anything after all this morning.

At least until Octavia excuses herself to use the loo.

“It was weird, Clarke! Really, really weird!” Raven looks so pleased as she leans forward and practically shouts in joy.

Scrunching up her forehead in confusion and then looking back at where Octavia’s disappeared, Clarke decides it might be best to let Raven take the lead in this conversation.

“Like you said with your guy friend,” Raven vaguely elaborates, her grin growing. “Wells. When you kissed him.”

“I thought you’d already kissed Octavia?”

“Yeah, that was fine, I guess, but then I went big and it was nothing of the sort. When we fucked—well, almost-fucked, thank god—it was the worst. Even more awkward than I bet you felt this morning when you barged in.”

“O…kay?”

Raven takes a huge bite. “Like, every time she did something, I knew exactly why she was doing it, and vice-versa—we’ve read the same Mills and Boon novels and laughed about the sex scenes in movies, even discussed wanking techniques back when O had no idea where her clit was, so when we actually enacted all that it was like…I don’t even know. More funny than sexy. Like when she had her mouth on my tit—”

“Raven!”

“She won’t mind me saying.”

Clarke’s doubtful but there’s no stopping Raven, it would seem.

“Anyway, she was sucking on my tit and all I could think about was how we used argue over the words ‘latched on,’ in books, like the bloke was a man-child suckling on his lover’s teat. And, like, I’ve seen her boobs a million times anyway, at one point we measured them to see whose were bigger—mine, by the way, don’t listen to her.”

“I... Um. Okay. Did you talk about it, though?”

“The suckling? Of course. She disagrees with me, the little weirdo.”

“Oh my god, Raven.” Clarke closes her eyes for a moment; this is all a little surreal, sitting in a restaurant discussing the interplay between mothers and lovers with regards to Octavia’s lips on Raven’s naked body. “No, the whole situation. Your feelings and all that shit.”

Raven leans back in her seat and takes another giant bite of rice with her chopsticks; half of it ends up on the floor enroute to her mouth. “Oh yeah. She felt the same way. Wasn’t sure about her feelings and was just as creeped out by my hand in her knicks as I was. Thank fuck.”

“And you resolved everything?”

“Yep! We stopped and promised we’d never try anything like that ever, ever again. Friendship never stronger. I’m not sexually attracted to my best friend—life is good!”

Clarke has to laugh, raising her water in the air. “Cheers, then.”

“I love her though,” Raven says more seriously as they’re clinking glasses. “She’s still the most important person in my life. And I’ll kill Lincoln if he touches her.”

“Um…”

“In an untoward way. Obviously,” Raven amends, only slightly convincingly. Clarke suspects it’ll be a bit of a learning curve for her friends, especially when it comes to sharing each other. “But anyway, don’t you agree about the suckling?”

Octavia sighs when she returns, pulling out her napkin while Raven rains rice from her mouth all over the floor. “Please tell me we’re not discussing the word ‘suckling’ again.”

“It’s literal infantilisation!” Raven protests and Clarke purses her lips in a grin, sinking back in her seat and watching the two friends debate with amusement.

“There’s a biological link between maternal and sexual love, Rae—why do you think we use words like ‘sweetheart’ and ‘baby’ for both children and lovers? Same way we want to bite cute things and tend toward food-related nicknames.”

“That’s so gross. You’re making the natural act of nursing sexual.”

“It’s not. I’m just saying there’s an overlap, sugar tits.”

“Fuck off. Settle this for me, Clarke—do you think about food when your mouth is on Lexa’s boob?”

“No, wait, I have a better question,” Octavia interrupts when Clarke can only open and close her mouth like a fish. It's really not her fault that her sexual awakening is inextricably linked to red fruit roll-ups. It’s also not her fault that the very mention of Lexa’s breasts makes her spin out into fantasy land. “Does the idea of Lexa breastfeeding a baby turn you on?”

Clarke’s brain promptly explodes.

“Oh my god, it totally does. Oh my god, Clarke; you’re so adorable.”

“Are you sure she’s not just thinking about Lexa with a baby?”

“Good point. Clarke? Sweetie?”

“I think you broke her, O.”

“Clarke, are you even breathing? Clarke? Raven—get your chopsticks out of her noodles!”

--

Lexa’s still in the library after lunch and a quick round of the shops with Raven and Octavia a couple of hours later, tucked into a corner with a pile of books and print-outs.

“I thought you were done with writing essays this term,” Clarke tuts, pulling out the chair opposite and tangling their legs together under the table.

“I’m working on the last part of the legal documentation for Dr. Peters. And hello, Clarke.”

Clarke feels her lips sliding into a disgustingly besotted grin. “Hey, ba—Lex. How was your phone call with the fancy lawyer lady?”

Lexa squeezes Clarke’s knee between her own before replying. “It went well, thank you. Oh, and I forgot to mention earlier, Lincoln was asking after Octavia in Politics this morning. He wanted me to pass on his regards.”

“That’s so cute and Victorian of him. I’ll tell her.”

“He’s a good person; he and Octavia would probably work well together.”

“I think you might be right.” Clarke thumbs through the collection of books, frowning when several are philosophy textbooks. “How exactly do you envision Foucault and Kant making Dr. Peter’s case?”

Dropping her eyes, clearly caught out, Lexa tucks her hair behind her ear. “I may be preparing for my Oxford interviews in January. Professor Erstwyth gave me some insight into what topics might come up and political philosophy is not my strongest suit.”

Which probably means she’s only more skilled than 99.9% of the population, but Clarke lets it slide. She’s become extremely appreciative of Lexa’s rapid knowledge acquisition, lately.

“Oh right, I’m supposed to check—what day are those on, again?”

“My Oxford interviews? The fifth of January.”

“Perfect. I talked to my guardian today; I mentioned them and he has some business with some collaborators in Oxford anyway. He can drive us there at the end of Christmas break and then we can head back to Polis after.”

“I don’t want to impose—”

“You’re not.”

Lexa wets her lips and then nods. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Oh, and Marcus wanted to know if you have a passport.”

Clarke watches Lexa hesitate again. “Why?”

“I don’t know. He just asked.”

“Clarke…”

“I honestly have no idea, Lex.” She reaches across the table and finds Lexa’s hand, threading their fingers together.

Glancing down at their fingers, Lexa swallows. “Yes, I have one. From a school ski trip to France a few years back.”

“Awesome, I’ll tell him.” Lexa’s palm is sweaty and Clarke lifts it to her lips for a moment and waits for the hammering of her pulse to slow. “Are you a good skier? I haven’t been for ages but even when we went regularly, I never quite got the hang of it. Never got past skiing pizza-style—you know, with your skis in a wedge like the little kids do?” she adds when Lexa looks like she has no clue what Clarke’s talking about.

“Ah.” Lexa’s smile comes back, probably at the thought of a nearly-full-sized Clarke skiing like a three-year-old (she wouldn’t be wrong). “I never made it out to the slopes, so you’d have me beat.”

“Why—” Clarke starts to ask and then stops herself. She knows exactly why Lexa would go on an expensive school ski trip and not actually ski. “Even so, you’d still have the edge,” she insists instead, swallowing away the image of a younger Lexa earning her holiday by assisting the school staff back at the chalet.

“I’m sure you’re better than you make out.”

“Come back to school with me and I’ll prove that nothing’s better than how I make out,” Clarke lilts, tongue between her lips. Lexa’s eyes slide right down where she’s luring them and so do her legs shortly thereafter, packing up her things into her messenger bag and following Clarke back to Flidais.

Lexa’s tongue slaloms and swooshes down gentle slopes and black diamond trails like a pro half-an-hour later and in her brief moments of lucidity, Clarke plans so many more futures than just ski holidays.

(She certainly doesn’t think of food. Not once. Not even when it’s her turn and she crashes down the snowy peaks and happily face-plants into their valleys.)

(That’s a lie. Lexa tastes like milk and honey.)

--

“Clarke. Did you buy more candles today?”

“Baby. You have no idea what you look like in the glow of candlelight.”

“It looks like we’re officiating a Christmas midnight mass in here.”

“Mmm. That only makes it better.”

“I’m putting my foot down if you come back with incense.”

“You love it.”

Lexa sighs. “I love it.”

--

Sunday brings a watered-down Matins service, Vivian at the organ for the second week in a row, and when Clarke climbs the stairs to Lexa’s room after lunch, she finds a chess game already set up and the school cat lounging in a sunbeam near the radiator.

“Oh, hello there,” Clarke coos after kissing her girlfriend, dropping to her knees next to the beautiful cat and trying to pet him. “What are you doing here? Hmm?” She receives a swipe of a claw for her efforts. “Fine.” Clarke pulls her hands back, palms out. Pauna puts his head back on his paws and returns his unblinking gaze on Lexa. “I’ll win you over—just you wait.”

“He can be slow to warm up,” Lexa says with affection and then pats the bed beside her.

“I’m pretty sure he just rolled his eyes at me.” Clarke flops down after receiving a second eye-roll, a human one this time. Chess pieces go flying and she earns a third.

The game board is faded and the pawns are mismatched, several sets clearly mixed together, but it’s playable and they hunch over it, two girls cross-legged and hair falling across their faces in the dappled afternoon light.

Pauna pads over at one point, slinking between arms and sniffing the ancient chess set and then Clarke’s eager hand with his little whiskers before turning his tail on them both, unimpressed.

“I see you pretending not to watch us,” Clarke calls him out from where his paws are tucked under himself on the desk chair but the sleek black cat doesn’t even flinch, slowly closing his eyes and opening them again a few moments later in utter apathy.

Lexa laughs and makes a little clicking sound with her tongue; the fickle beast hops down and then up onto her lap, turning around a few times before settling down. Clarke swears the cat gives her a haughty glare before turning on the purrs.

“Yeah, well, your name translates as ‘big ugly mutant monkey’, you know,” Clarke mutters, barely noticing where she slides the white rook.

“Don’t listen to her, pretty kitty, that’s not true at all,” Lexa clucks at the feline, who rubs his cheeks into her hand, exposing a row of sharp little kitty teeth to Clarke in the obviously-deliberate process. “It means gorilla because you’re smart and fierce and protective like one, aren’t you, Pauna? Aren’t you, puss?”

“I like my translation better,” Clarke sulks.

“Gorillas aren’t even monkeys, Clarke. They’re great apes.”

“Shh, I’m trash-talking him, Lexa.”

“Which begs the question—why are you trash-talking a cat?”

“Are you going to move a piece or not?”

“It’s your turn, Clarke.”

“Oh. Stop distracting me, gorilla-breath,” Clarke retorts in the cat’s direction. The cat continues to ignore Clarke’s existence.

A few minutes later, Clarke swings her leg over the side of the bed and sidles up behind Lexa, untwisting what’s left of her braids and combing her fingers through the curls as she plots her next move.

Pauna makes a little noise and Lexa strokes his head; Clarke makes a little noise and Lexa twists her neck back to brush their noses together. The cat receives a triumphant glare over Clarke’s nose as she nuzzles into his favourite human’s hair, but then he kneads his paws into Lexa’s thigh and her glare becomes a little more jealous in nature.

Even upside down and distracted by the smell of a sweet, sweet neck, Clarke fights a mean chess fight but so does Lexa, no matter how much she’s distracted by lips pressed into soft skin whenever she’s trying to think. The sun’s beginning to set by the time they give it up as a stalemate, but Clarke writes it up as a victory when Lexa gently pushes the sleeping animal off her lap and kisses her when she stands.

When Clarke’s done gloating over at the creature and Lexa’s done putting the pieces away with her usual precision, the head girl pulls back the duvet cover and it’s with wordless agreement that they burrow under for a quick nap, fingers entwined in the fading light.

Pauna skulks over to the radiator again and Clarke’s not too wrapped up in her girlfriend to claim her second victory of the afternoon.

They wake at the sound of some younger girls squealing outside the window as they return from Sunday prep, legs braided together and fingers plaited together and not a single urge to untangle themselves. Clarke tugs her snuggle-deity closer and buries her face into her neck; it’s at least another ten minutes before they rise from the bed.

And even then, it’s only because Pauna is mewing pitifully at the door.

The mangy cat definitely looks back and winks an eye at Clarke before he slips out the crack, no matter how hard Lexa laughs at her accusation.

--

Lexa stays up late working that night and Clarke doesn’t object. She can see how antsy Lexa’s getting, how she’s been so calm despite all their confident swaggerings all weekend, and she can’t begrudge her looking over the Dr. Peter’s legal papers one more time. Clarke falls asleep watching the flex of her arms and the chew of her lips with one eye open until she’s not sure if she’s dreaming or not.

“Come to bed, little red riding hood,” Clarke mumbles at the shallow crest of a sleep cycle and Lexa hums in agreement, switching off the desk lamp and taking off her glasses, folding them neatly on top of the pile of books and standing with a long stretch of her arms out to her sides. The cloak she’s been using for warmth gets hung on the back of her door and she takes off her jumper and socks, flicking off the LED candles one by one. She washes her face and brushes her teeth and slips into bed, pressing her face in the dip between Clarke’s shoulders like it’s all part of her routine nightly ablutions.

“All set on Dr. Peters. I’ll file the appeal at 9 o’clock when the courts open,” she murmurs quietly, as if she’s not sure if Clarke’s still awake. As if she doesn’t know that Clarke’s always awake when it comes to her.

“Awesome. Good job, baby,” Clarke praises around a giant yawn. “I almost feel sorry for the Headmistress, having to go up against you. It’s not a fair match at all.”

“It’s easy when you’re on the right side,” Lexa brushes it off. She presses a kiss on each of Clarke’s shoulder blades, running a finger across each after as if she’s checking for evidence of wings.

Clarke turns in her arms and kisses the sweet tip of her nose, the caramel apples of her cheeks and the candy canes of her lips.

“Do you think she knows she’s the devil? Like, actually the devil?”

Lexa sighs, a serious response to Clarke’s dozy musings. “Of course not. Villains never think they’re the villains.  I’m sure she's doing what she thinks best. She simply happens to be wrong.”

“Hmm. Another question for you—what if we never left this room, this bed? Like, ever again?”

Lexa laughs and runs frozen toes along warm calves, laughing again when Clarke shivers and squirms away while also holding tight.

“We might get hungry.”

Clarke refrains from explaining that problem’s solution. Too easy. She kisses the grin right off her girlfriend’s lips, instead, sure that they’re on the same wavelength anyway.

“Lex?” she asks after they’ve burrowed deeper into the sheets and their breathing is evening out again.

“Mmm?” Lexa’s eyes are closed but she has the cutest little blissful expression on her face in the glow of the fairy lights.

“Has this always been the Head Girl’s room?”

“For the most part, or at least for the last half century. I believe it was sometimes shared before Polis added the final two boarding houses and space became less of an issue.”

“So Adenne will have it next year?”

“Mmmhmm.”

It’s such a nice thought, the tradition and closeness of all the Head Girls, occupying the high tower of their castle and carrying on the family line, sharing the same desk with its little engravings and the same view out the window. “And it’s the same room Anya had, and—oh my god.” Clarke sits upright and nearly whacks Lexa in the process.

“Clarke?”

“Your mother slept in this room.”

Lexa’s mouth slides into such a sweet little smile. “She did. I grew up on bedtime stories of this tower room; of the red cloak and the head girl pin like they were magic talismans in fairy tales. My mother would tell me that I’d be here one day, that I’d wear her cloak and carry on Heda’s legacy.”

Clarke looks over at the door, or at least what she can dimly see in the door’s direction. “That’s your mother’s cloak?”

“Yes. It’s the only thing I have left of her. I have to admit I’ll be a little sad to hand off the Head Girl pin; it was my goal and connection to her for so long, watching it on other Head Girls’ collars like a part of my mother lived on in their strides. But at least the cloak stays with me.”

Clarke tries not to think about the things she’s done inside that Heda cloak but it only reminds her of why she sat up.

“Firstly, I don’t think you need a little silver pin to have a part of your mother sitting on your shoulders, Lex.”

Lexa turns onto her side and wrangles unruly curls behind her own ears and then Clarke’s, her eyes soft and unwavering the whole time. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“However, we need to discuss this whole my-mother’s-slept-in-this-very-bed thing. Because I’m not sure she’d like the things I do to her daughter in it.”

Snorting, Lexa reaches up and pulls Clarke down to the pillow again. “I’m sure they’ve changed the mattress. Probably the bed, too. It’s not literally my mother’s bed.”

“Metaphorically then. Figuratively. Whatever. And don’t you dare try to tell me she’d appreciate the celebration of life,” she adds when Lexa’s mouth opens in protest.

“I…” Lexa collapses into laughter, unable to continue whatever she was going to say, the hand around Clarke’s waist moving to her own stomach. “Oh my god, Clarke. I wasn’t going to say that.”

“It sounds like something you’d say,” Clarke insists.  

“It does,” Lexa concedes and then finds and kisses Clarke’s fingers. “But all I was going to say in this instance was that it’s not worth over-thinking. It only has meaning if you ascribe it meaning.”

“One day these sound bites of yours are going to make the press very happy.”

“You make me very happy,” Lexa segues in only the loosest sense of the term, but it doesn’t matter—Clarke’s happy to move the topic onto other things. Happier things. Softer things. Things that aren’t barred away under a bra like they usually are at night.

“You make me happy, too,” Clarke slurs into warm skin.

“Are you speaking directly to my breasts?”

“Maybe.”

Nuzzling closer, Clarke listens with half an ear as Lexa starts murmuring about zeitgeists and zeitgebers, of things that move with time and of things time entrains, and Clarke’s not entirely sure what her girlfriend’s talking about, drowsy and intoxicated on the smell of sunlight, but it sounds nice.

She wants it all to stay this nice forever.

How can it not, when such goodness as this goddess exists in the world?

--

They march into school the next day certain in their victories, chins up as Lexa takes Clarke’s hand and leads them both across the Holy Ground on their way. Airtight legal documents have been submitted before breakfast even begins and the Headmistress’s smirk in Lexa’s direction as she sits down is overshadowed by a much cockier one.

Nia announces an all-school assembly to take the place of morning chapel before dismissing them from the dining hall, one heretofore unknown to the staff and teachers, judging by their reactions. She then places a hand on the Head Girl’s shoulder, holding her still before she can join the rest of her classmates. Clarke stills, her silverware almost clattering to the floor enroute to the clearing station, and watches the woman suspiciously.

Lexa only nods politely in response to whatever Nia says to her but Clarke watches with satisfaction as the Head Girl sits back down and takes long enough to finish up her bowl of fruit that the Head of School huffs and flounces off without a backward glance.

“What does she want now?”

Lexa rolls her eyes. “She wants a word,” she answers calmly. “I’m sure she’s heard about the legal proceedings by now and she’s irritated. It’s in her best interest to simply reinstate Dr. Peters and she knows it.”

“Sucks to be her. Want me to come with you?”

Lexa shakes her head, standing with plate in hand and bringing it over to the staff member waiting with a tray. “No need. I can handle all her bluster and faffing.”

“Do you know anything about this assembly?”

“No. But I’ll find out. Nothing to worry about.”

Something’s off about this though and Clarke chews on her lip, glancing over at the doors. “I don’t know, Lex—she didn’t look angry or defeated. She looked more…serpentine. Like we’re giving her everything she wants.”

“You worry for nothing. Go to Registration, I’ll fill you in after the assembly. Miss Gauthier won’t mind you being a little late.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Good luck.”

 “Thanks but I don’t need it. Nia’s nothing but petty.”

“You’re nothing but pretty.”

“Clarke.”

The Head Girl goes off to meet Nia with red little ears and Clarke decides her Monday is already off to a better start than usual. She might even kit out for Games today, if this keeps up.

--

Once again, girls murmur on the floor and teachers whisper in their seats and Heda presides over them all, her face bland and unmoved by the throng before her.

Unlike on Friday, though, she’s flanked by six out-of-place-looking business men in suits and ties, sitting on wooden chairs. The interlopers look vaguely uncomfortable, like they’re not sure what to do with their hands or legs, and Clarke notes with a smirk that part of their discomfit comes from their chairs being lower to the ground then the Head Girl’s throne.

 The Headmistress calls for quiet once everyone has filed inside and once again she doesn’t get it until an imperial flick of the Head Girl’s wrist.

“Good morning, girls,” the Head of School starts.

“Good morning, Headmistress.”

The business men glance at one another, one or two flashing patronising smiles at one another as if these rituals are cute little children’s’ games. Clarke narrows her eyes.

Lexa seems perfectly composed though, her power palpable as always, and although Clarke’s a little too far away to see her eyes properly, she has no doubt they’re just as calm and unruffled as they’ve always been. She breathes out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding and squares her shoulders before turning her attention to the Headmistress.

“It seems this term is one for announcements, but unlike Friday’s sad news, I’m pleased to say that this announcement is only positive. As you may have noticed in our lack of upkeep and the need for major refurbishments school-wide, Polis has been beleaguered by financial difficulties as of late. Costs have escalated and alumni endowments simply aren’t what they used to be.”

Right. Because last Sunday’s Founder’s Day hadn’t doubled the donations of any past event in the school’s history.

“Far more concerning, Polis has also slipped on the league tables for exam performance and a preliminary meeting with an Ofsed official suggests we may have difficulties during the next school inspection, too.”

Okay, Clarke knows that’s not true but a glance over to Lexa reveals not even a crooked eyebrow, her face calm and steady as always, and it makes her feel a little better.

“These men up on stage with me are members of the new Advisory Board and together we have come up with a solution. It may seem drastic and it is only natural to fear change, but I ask that you trust us.”

Clarke shifts her weight and raises a hand up to her mouth, biting on a fingernail. This definitely isn’t good.

She watches Lexa carefully and on second inspection, she can see that her girlfriend is a little paler than usual, her jaw clenched rather than still. Her nails are dug into the arms of her chair, as if she’s having to hold them down. Nothing else escapes the steel-trap of her visage, though and Clarke wishes she was close enough to read her eyes.  

“Please join me in welcoming Headmaster Titus of Dominicus College to the stage,” Nia says, indicating to the side door. Necks all swivel to watch the tall, bald man enter, head ducked and dressed in a floor-length academic gown. Clarke joins in the dutiful clapping as he climbs the steps and stands beside the Headmistress at the podium, and she reminds herself that she can’t take a man nicknamed ‘Titty’ by his students seriously.

“Although only a few years old, Dominicus is already a highly-regarded primary and secondary school for boys. Together with Dominicus, the board has formed a mutually beneficial trust, aimed at the advancement of scholars from both institutions.”

Most of the school crinkles their foreheads, not entirely sure what Nia’s talking about.

“Many of you girls have already benefitted from the trust, in fact. It was this very trust that instigated and funded the dance between the two schools at the beginning of the month for our Sixth Formers. We were delighted to hear such encouraging feedback on the experience, most notably how well the students got on together and on the impressive structure and features of the Dominicus itself. In fact, I think I heard more about the school espresso machine than anything else,” Nia notes with a hiss-like laugh. “I was expecting to hear praise for the schoolwide Wi-Fi access and iPad initiatives, the Michelin-starred chef menus, or the brand-new facilities, but I suppose you girls have your priorities.” 

Nia’s little joke falls flat and Clarke begins to feel very uneasy, indeed.

The Headmistress clears her throat at the lack of laughter from anyone but her sweaty Advisory Board. “With that in mind, I hope you all will be excited to hear that the next school year will bring major changes, most notably the merging of the two schools.”

The Headmistress’s words hang in the sickly silence for a moment and then the room erupts into commotion, the teachers making just as much fuss as the girls—it’s clear that they didn’t have any advance warning about this, either. Clarke whips her eyes over to Lexa but Heda’s expression is shuttered of all emotion.

But that’s fine. It’s expected. They’ll regroup in a few minutes and find yet another way to overturn this. Lexa’s probably already come up with several dozen counter-attacks and strategies.

“Girls, please—” Nia tries, tapping the microphone when the upset doesn’t settle, finally doing something with the device that causes the high-pitch screech of feedback; the room silences, in pain more than anything else. “That is quite enough. I will not tolerate this kind of disrespect. I understand this is unexpected but you will remember your place. Behave like ladies, please.”

Girls cross their arms across their chest and so do the teachers, but hush is reluctantly granted.

“Thank you. As I was trying to explain, this merger will benefit both schools not only by sharing the most excellent teachers, facilities, and funding bodies, but also on a personal development level. Many parents have endorsed their desire for a co-education environment in these modern times and having boys and girls working side-by-side has been shown to enhance educational and social opportunities for both. I am confident that, together, we will rise to greatness again.”

How can Lexa not be responding to this nonsense? She literally cited evidence to the contrary a week ago at Founder’s Day. Then again, Clarke decides as she watches her bulwark stand at the front of the battle lines, her calmness can only mean good things. If she’s not worried, neither should they be.

They’ll fight this, just like they’ve fought everything else this year.

“As such, starting in September, our combined secondary school and sixth form college will move to the Dominicus site while the junior schools will be housed here on the former Polis site. I will act as the executive principal of both campuses, based at the senior school, whilst Headmaster Titus will be the vice-principal and based at the junior school.”

Nia continues to go through the process in a little more detail, boarding arrangements and governing structures, staff reduction and timelines, and Clarke just watches those wrinkled old lips move with detachment, sure that this is all so horrible it can’t possibly come to pass.

“In celebration, tomorrow’s Christmas service will be replaced with a formal announcement to the press and the first of many shared ceremonies with Dominicus in honour of the occasion.”

The sound of whispers gets louder and louder and even the teachers at the back are muttering over the Headmistress’s words. Everything feels electric, ready to combust at any moment. The board members at the front are beginning to look little nervous, glancing at the door.

It’s not until Nia blithely comments that they haven’t settled on a name for the new shared school that it all ignites. Teachers jump up out of their seats, shouting, and there’s enough noise from the girls—soft sobs, loud hiccups, denials, and protests—that even Headmistress’s next feedback screech is barely audible above the din.

“Heda!” rises above the chaos, one beseeching plea that quickly turns into a unanimous chant, teachers and girls alike, turning to their fearless Commander for help, for her assurance that this cannot possibly come to pass.

It can’t. This is too much of a nightmare scenario to actually be real.

Heda stands and takes a step forward and yep, this is it—there’s fire in her eyes and danger in her stride. The eye of every soldier moves over to their fearless leader, ready for their signal to fight, to show Nia and the men on stage what it means to behave like a lady, ready for the spark to set the entire Small Gym ablaze.

She raises her hand in the air, holding the room’s attention hostage in her hand as she makes a cutting motion for quiet. “Stand down,” the Head Girl booms out, deep and formidable enough that the entire school freezes.

Everything plays out in slow-motion as the six board members rise to their feet and stand at the Head Girl’s back. Nia steps out from behind the podium and stands beside her, hands clasped behind her back and terrible victory in her smirk.

All the blood feels like it drains out of Clarke’s body.

The Head Girl’s face steels up even further “You will respect this decision,” she calls out, eyes flashing. “I support the Headmistress and the Advisory Board in this merger and anyone who speaks out against it speaks out against me.”

Hundreds of mouths drop open.

“You are dismissed,” the Head Girl orders, snapping her wrist toward the exit. When not a soul makes to move, Heda sweeps out of the gym, her cloak streaming behind her and the sound of the slamming door deafening.

There’s no school valediction today.  

Only stunned silence.

Chapter Text

It’s just a feint.

It’s just another of Lexa’s feints. It has to be, Clarke repeats to herself when she finally escapes the walking zombies once known as girls and staff, shuffling out of the small gym in disbelief. The teachers half-heartedly usher them to their first lessons but it’s clear they’re just as bewildered by the news as the girls.

Lexa seems to have vanished off the face of the earth but Clarke’s stubborn, checking every classroom, every forgotten meeting room, every dark corridor. Polis is massive though, large enough for the whole school to have once lived inside the main building before the boarding houses were acquired, and there are a lot of places to look. It must take her half an hour to cover the space, all the dark corners and forgotten spaces, although a fair portion of that time comes from students stopping her and trying to understand what’s going on. As if Clarke has any idea herself.

She keeps the concern off her face as best she can though, shaking her head and reminding them that it’ll be fine.

Because it will be fine.

Because Lexa has a plan. She must. Otherwise…

Clarke’s about to brave the rain to check the Houses when she hears voices in a Sixth Form teaching room that had been empty on her first round. She creeps closer when she hears Lexa’s voice.

Heda’s voice is calm, steadfast as she lays down what’s surely battle strategy to her generals and clan chiefs, and Clarke sighs in relief and leans against the wall, attempting to parse the content of Lexa’s words while chasing her breath.

She never catches it.

“Polis must come together to support this decision,” the Head Girl commands, loud enough for the words to drift through the door. “It is your responsibility to ensure your Houses and years are respectful in the ceremony tomorrow and throughout this transition.”

“But Lexa, it’s not right, we can—”

“No more of this! I will not stand for defiance in this matter,” Heda snaps, clear from her tone that it’s not the first time she’s heard it. “Not from the girls and certainly not from my Prefects.”

Clarke gapes at the doorway.

“Sha, Heda,” Clarke hears Octavia mutter.

Lexa’s voice softens, but only slightly. “I understand this is difficult to accept but we will be stronger, united with Dominicus. I’m asking you to trust me on this—please believe that this merger is the best way for both schools to prosper. The only way.”

Clarke’s had enough; she pushes open the door and it slams back against the wall. She doesn’t care.

At the head of a long conference-style table, Lexa stands in front of her six Prefects and her six House Prefects, shaken but solemnly queuing up in front of her. Lexa looks up from where she is forearm to forearm with Sophie and the expression that crosses her face is enough to stop Clarke in her tracks and shut her mouth. She waits as each School Official vows her fealty to their Commander with the traditional school arm clasp and then file out of the room, an unnerving silence hanging over the proceedings.

The air is still thick once they’re alone and it seems to congeal in Clarke’s lungs when Lexa keeps her back toward her, ostensibly to gather up her papers.

“What did Nia do?”

It takes Lexa a few extra seconds before she turns around to face Clarke. There’s a splash of anguish leftover in her eyes but it doesn’t survive long and stony impassivity conquers the Head Girl’s face.

Lexa’s throat bobs but she holds her chin high. “This isn’t about Nia. I made the choice once she presented me with the facts, I am the one who decided this was the best path.”

“I don’t understand.” It comes out more heated than she’d intended but Clarke’s chest is tight and it’s only getting tighter.

“It isn’t for you to understand. Please, Clarke, I know it’s a shock but—”

“It isn’t for me to understand? What the fuck, Lexa? You honestly believe it’s in everyone’s interests to let more than a hundred years of tradition and values die, lines of Head Girls and Trigedasleng and school songs and the beliefs of our founders—female empowerment and the three pillars and never becoming complacent—all so that we have, what, a newer building and Wi-Fi?”

Lexa’s fingers clench up in a fist but immediately straighten again. “It’s more than that. The Headmistress…made me a deal. One I would have been arrogant and foolhardy to refuse. There are costs but they are costs I am willing to pay in order to save my people.”

“What about—how could you—I…” Clarke’s speechless in her anger and confusion, in equal parts. She tries taking a slow breath and fails miserably. She’s become so used to the softness of Lexa, at least behind closed doors, that this lack of response from her hurts. It physically hurts. “Okay, help me understand, then. You made a deal with the Headmistress. For what?”

The desire to look away is evident in Lexa’s eyes but she holds her gaze on Clarke, even if it takes on a detached quality. “The conditions of the deal include my silence. I’m sorry. It had to be this way.”

“Fucking hell, Lexa—tell me. Tell me. We’re in this together, remember?”

The words bounce right off Heda’s armor like rubber arrows. “I’m sorry, Clarke,” she repeats and it’s only the flicker in her eyes that belies the apathy in her words. “Those were the terms. The alternative was far worse.”

“Is she blackmailing you? Oh my god, she’s blackmailing you—over what? I’ll fucking obliterate her.”

Lexa doesn’t hesitate. “She’s not blackmailing me. She simply offered…better terms in exchange for my endorsement and support. I must ensure the ceremony tomorrow goes without a hitch, please don’t do anything to jeopardise that. Please.”

Clarke’s vision speckles around the edges and she tastes metal under her tongue. “That’s extortion. That’s extortion—”

“It was a business deal,” Lexa is quick to clarify, clearly regretting saying anything at all. “Nothing more.” She looks terrified that Clarke will actually go and punch the Headmistress and she’s entirely justified in her worry. There’s so much furious adrenaline in her blood that Clarke could restart a whole hospital of hearts.

“You’re a minor and she’s extorting you. Lexa, you can’t—”

“Please, Clarke. I need you on my side. We need to get the rest of the school to accept this. It’s the only way.”

“The only way for what, Lexa?” When Lexa only clenches her jaw closed, Clarke closes her eyes and drops her hands down to the table, gripping the edge so tightly the tips of her fingers turn white. “Stop talking in circles and tell me what’s going on! We can fight it, just like we have all year, please.”

“No,” Lexa growls, fire in her eyes and it’s no candlelight. Her nostrils flare as she regulates her respiration and regains her temper. “The deal is done,” she says, quieter now, more beseeching. “There is nothing we could have done, regardless. Nia was further along in the process than I could have anticipated. All her trips away this term have been for this very purpose. The documents are in order. This is happening, like it or not.”

“There has to be something we can do. Call up your fancy law professor, I’ll call Marcus, he has a law background, he can—”

“Please, just trust me,” Lexa pleads, her emotions finally breaking over in the crack of her voice.”

“Trust you? I don’t feel like I even know you right now! How can you be so calm? Polis will be gone in nine months. Gone. How can you not care about that?”

Lexa swallows and moves her hands behind her back, but not before Clarke sees them shaking. “I do care, Clarke. But there are things more important than a brick and mortar building. My duty to protect the girls and the staff will always come first. Blind patriotism to an institution does no one any good; people are more important than loyalty to a way of life. What use is strength if it doesn’t defend the vulnerable?”

“Lexa…”

“It hurts to lose all this,” Lexa goes on, gesturing around her with her eyes, “but I made this deal with my head, not my heart. This is the best way to protect everyone.”

“But how are you protecting them?” Clarke insists, still missing that vital piece of the puzzle that will allow her to agree.

“I…that is something I cannot say.”

Clarke forces herself to take a couple of breaths before replying. “Fine, but why can’t we be strong and compassionate? Why can’t we use our strength to fight this so that we can keep things the way they are? Things are good right now. They don’t need to change.”

“You think I don’t know we could fight this? You think I don’t know the strength in my girls? This isn’t about strength, it’s about wisdom. It’s about knowing when you are beat and negotiating for the best possible outcome lest you wind up with nothing.”

“We haven’t been beat, not yet!” Clarke advances on the Head Girl, backing her against the side of the table. Lexa inhales in a little gasp as her back hits the edge and any other day this would be unbelievably sexy but that’s the furthest thing from Clarke’s mind right now. “And no, I don’t think you do know. You’re so used to doing things yourself, to fighting alone, that, no, I don’t think you do understand the power at your fingertips. One word, Lex. One word from our Commander and together we can bring Nia and her fucking advisory board to their knees. Show Nia how powerful you are—how powerful we are.”

Lexa presses her hands back against the table but otherwise remains defiant. “It isn’t worth the risk,” she grits out between clenched teeth. “These are lives we’re talking about. It isn’t life or death but it’s close; I know you don’t understand why and I can’t tell you, but please. Please, Clarke, believe me. I don’t take any of this lightly.”

Ducking her head in acknowledgment, Clarke lets her forehead fall against Lexa’s and they stand there, unmoving for a long few seconds and breathing each other’s air.

“I know you don’t. I know there’s more going on behind the scenes than anyone knows. But Lex…where’s your fight?” Clarke tries, softening her voice and raising a hand to cup her girlfriend’s cheek; Lexa closes her eyes and turns her head away. “Where is my Boudica?”

The question causes any slight softness that’s escaped in Lexa to harden and she yanks herself out of Clarke’s space, hands fisted again as she crosses to the other side of the room and then whirls around. “Boudica killed herself, Clarke,” she spits out and Clarke feels like she’s been slapped. “She became arrogant in her victories, thinking her inexperienced warriors could go up against an entire Roman legion, and thousands of people died because of it. Thousands and thousands, children and civilians, too. That rousing speech you had me say at Founder’s Day, about heaven being on the side of a righteous vengeance and conquering with glory? Boudica spoke those words before the Battle of Watling Street; she looked her soldiers straight in the eye and then sent them off to be slaughtered in her name. I won’t make her mistake. Not again.”

“Now Nia’s provocations make sense,” Clarke realises slowly. “She knew you’d accept her challenge by fighting Dr. Peter’s early retirement. It was a trap, so we’d be distracted.” God, it must be why she tried to cancel Founder’s Day, too, and continually tried undermining the Head Girl and kept trying to replace traditions. She’s been planning this all year, if not longer.

From her stiff nod, Clarke can see this isn’t a new revelation to Lexa. “This is the second time Nia has won because I wasn’t on my guard, because I was sleeping on the job. I will not let it happen again. When you get overconfident, you forget that your enemy has strengths, too.” Lexa says this last part bitterly, as if she’s repeating it from elsewhere.

“So we do nothing? Just let them raze Polis to the ground?”

“Clarke.”

“Don’t ‘Clarke’ me,” Clarke snaps and then clenches her fists, trying to calm down. “Sorry. I just…What did she say to you, baby? What could she possibly coerce you with that you’d agree to this? She’ll never know you told me, I promise. Please, Lexa.” She’s begging at this point but it’s beyond her to care.

Lexa pulls her cloak closer around her body and turns her back on Clarke, toward the door. “I can’t tell you because it’ll only incite you to fight. And you can’t, Clarke. It’s my duty to ensure this merger moves forward without a hitch.”

“I won’t,” Clarke implores, even if she’s not entirely sure Lexa’s wrong about that.

“Yes, you would. Of course you’d fight—it’s why I love you.”

They both freeze when the words register but after a moment Lexa juts her chin in the air as if she’s daring Clarke to challenge it. Clarke just bites the inside of her cheek and pushes down that little ball of helium in her stomach for later.

Because right now, Lexa is wrong.

“We can win, Lex. We can beat her and her stupid advisory board and nothing has to change.”

Lexa turns around and sighs. “I know you’re just trying to help, Clarke, but there’s nothing you can do here.”

“You can’t just let her end Polis, Lex. You can’t help her enact this hell, either. You can’t be the last Heda; you can’t.”

“If that is to be my fate, then it must. You’re driven to fix everything for everyone, Clarke, but you can’t fix this.” Lexa’s voice is quiet now and she takes a hesitant step toward Clarke, wetting her lips and moving a hand toward her arm.

Clarke feels herself turn to stone and wrenches herself out of reach; Lexa whips her hand back as if she’s been burnt. “I won’t just sit here and watch Polis die. Not after everything it’s done for me, after everything it’s done for you. Lex, you can’t seriously be considering—”

Heda returns to Lexa’s visage and Clarke’s stomach sinks. “I’m not considering it. It’s done. Polis and Dominicus will be merging next year and you need to accept that.”

“Like hell I do.” Clarke pushes past the intransigent Head Girl and storms down the hallway, her feet stomping heavily enough that more than one teacher pokes their heads out of their classroom in concern.

--

Fine. If Lexa wants wisdom, Clarke’s going to give her wisdom.

She fires up a computer in the Sixth Form Annex and taps her foot as she waits for it to boot up. The door to the Common Room is cracked open and conversation spills out from inside, no television sounds perceptible for once.

“As if the Head Girl cares—she won’t even be here next year.”

“Stop that. You know she cares.”

“Yeah, yeah. I just can’t believe this is happening. Dominicus was creepy—all…big and hollow. Plastic.”

“Why should we be the ones to move, anyway?”

“My sister was supposed to start next year. I doubt she will, now. My parents chose an all-girls school for a reason.”

“This is fucked up. What happened to fighting for what we believe in? I don’t believe in this, let me tell you.”

“Lexa better have a bloody good reason for agreeing to it.”

Clarke’s over at the door in three long strides. The group of Lower Six girls look up in surprise and then in slight shame. “You know Lexa has a good reason for everything she does,” she says; it comes out as somewhat clipped but that’s an improvement on the snarl she feels pounding through her veins.

“We know,” one of them—Phillipa?—finally responds, a guilty look in her eye. “We’re just in shock.”

With a long sigh, Clarke nods. “Me too. Look, Lexa has the final word as far as I’m concerned, but I want to make sure she knows we’re all ready to fight. And that she has all the facts. Want to help?”

Slumped bodies straighten and Clarke acquires her first rebel soldiers. They follow her out to the computer lab and others soon join them, the mood just as heavy but with a sense of purpose, now.

For what is more powerful a weapon than hope?

--

The Head of Sixth Form unilaterally cancels afternoon Games, to the astonishment of absolutely no one given that she and Indra are right in the middle of their secret army, checking figures and spell-checking emails. They gather enough intelligence for Clarke to pay Lexa a visit before school’s out for the day. Pretty-coloured graphs under her arms, Clarke climbs the steps to the Head Girl’s study but pauses outside when she hears low, dulcet tones in response to gradually decreasing hiccups.

For a horrifying moment she thinks it’s Lexa crying but luckily for Nia and her still-beating-heart’s sake, it’s soon evident that the Head Girl is ministering to one of her young flock.

“I can’t go back, Heda. I can’t. They bullied me there and everyone made fun of my hijab and—”

“Nou fir raun; you have nothing to fear. I promise,” Lexa vows quietly. “This changes nothing with regards to your scholarship. Whatever the name of the school, you will be a Polis girl until you leave school and beyond.”

Clarke backs away and waits out of sight with a lump in her throat until the girl leaves, red-eyed but a hint of a smile on her face from Lexa’s embrace.    

Lexa’s eyes are red, too, when Clarke enters, but they’re not puffy so it’s probably from exhaustion. Clarke has a feeling Lexa has begrudged every blink in the last few hours that’s taken her away from her unresting vigilance.

“What is it, Clarke?” she asks tiredly from her chair, lifting her sagging shoulders immediately and folds her hands in her lap instead of using them holding up her head. Clarke wants nothing more in that moment than to shoulder the weight for her, to cradle that beautiful head and those haunted eyes to give Lexa a break from it all. She’s no doubt had a never-ending stream of traffic through her study doors today and the day isn’t yet over.

It’s so easy to lose herself in the immensity of this situation before them that she’s almost forgotten there’s something bigger, something far more important in the equation.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” is all Clarke can say though, absolutely certain that Lexa would refuse any crumb of comfort at this moment. She’s strung too tightly even to attempt touching her hand. “I know you’re doing what you believe to be best.”

Lexa nods but her eyes slide to the papers in Clarke’s hand and she remains wary.

With good reason.

Clarke swallows and pulls up the other chair and sits in front of her girlfriend. There’s a copy of the Dominicus prospectus on her desk alongside a rough mock-up of another one and what looks like a legal contract and Clarke closes her eyes, not wanting to see evidence of how far along the Headmistress is in her treachery.

“But maybe you’re wrong,” Clarke offers. “We’ve done some research you should know about.”

The Head Girl doesn’t look angry or even surprised; she just looks tired. She nods though and Clarke continues with a deep breath.

“Nia said that we were slipping on the league tables but we’re not—in fact, we’ve been rising over the years. The only place we’ve fallen is in a random foreign ranking table and even there we’re down from 4^th to 5^th place. Dominicus, on the other hand, has been falling. A lot. Furthermore, Ofsted—which I finally figured out is the government’s educational standards office—has consistently awarded us ‘outstanding’ status while Dominicus has dropped to ‘needs improvement’, see?”

Clarke holds out the graphs they’ve created and Lexa takes it, nodding woodenly at the figures.

“There are a few examples of past mergers between schools and in every comparable instance, it’s the weaker school that benefits from being paired with a stronger one. If Polis joins Dominicus, it’s going to be them leeching off our success, at our expense. It’ll be like they’re sucking the marrow out of our bones; it’s not going to help us in the least.”

Clarke keeps going, showing Lexa the evidence that it’s only Dominicus parents who have pushed for co-education, not parents of Polis girls, but she stops after handing her the careful literature review of all the empirical studies Lexa had mentioned at Founder’s Day of girls’ schools thriving, ready for dissemination.

“None of this is news to you, is it?” Clarke realises.

Neither confirming nor denying, Lexa drops her eyes. “We are a school of exceptional individuals. It might be difficult at first but I know Polis girls will survive no matter where they’re placed.”

“They shouldn’t have to just ‘survive’—”

“Victory stands on the back of sacrifice. There are values more important than educational standards.”

“I know. I know, Lexa, even if you won’t tell me what they are. But we can fight this, Lexa,” Clarke tries again. “We shouldn’t have to sacrifice anything at all!  You need to hear how far we’ve gotten today, how many people are in our corner and ready to fight, how many people are working tooth and nail—”

“You toil for nothing,” Lexa says, gently but resolute. “You cannot stop this.”

“No, only you can. Lexa, we can win. You’re not listening to me when I try to tell me how much ammunition we have, how many people want to help fight this,” Clarke bites out, frustrated. It feels like she’s talking to a brick wall. “If enough people are against this, there’s no way they can go through with the merger. Their power isn’t absolute.”

“No more fighting. Please, Clarke. I will stand with Nia tomorrow at the ceremony and voice my endorsement and I need you and the rest of the school to go along with it.”

Blood boiling despite her best efforts, the chains of Clarke’s temper break. “Enough with this god complex you have going on, Lex. You’re not in this alone and you don’t get to make this decision for us!”

Lexa lunges forward and Clarke holds her ground against the warrior of warriors, almost nose-to-nose. “Yes I do,” the Head Girl enunciates, crisp and low. “They’re my girls; they’re all my people and I am responsible for them.”

Clarke can feel each short breath against her cheeks but she doesn’t drop her stare, not until Lexa does and climbs the two steps up to her window with its Juliet balcony. She stands before the landscape, drizzly and grey, and then turns her head so Clarke can only see her in profile.

“I am Heda,” she says, more to herself than to Clarke. “There is no else to fight this battle.”

“What battle? You won’t let us fight—we’ve already lost the battle!”

“Sometimes you must lose the battle to win the war.”

“You and your fucking sound bites,” Clarke mutters, not exactly unkindly but enough that Lexa looks away. “I hate this. Let me in, Lexa—let me help.”

“I can’t, Clarke,” Lexa whispers, and it’s definitely Lexa now because the pain that escapes her eyes is so powerful Clarke feels the hurt deep in her own bones.

How fucking dare anyone put this much of a weight on a seventeen-year-old girl’s shoulders?

Clarke starts pacing.  “I’ll stand with you tomorrow then. We all will. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“No. It’s bad enough that Nia is making me figuratively kneel before her at the ceremony; I won’t suffer anyone else the humiliation.” Lexa pauses and clears her throat. “I couldn’t bear it, Clarke,” she says in a little voice and oh, god, she’s so young. They all are.

“What about Dr. Peters?”

“He’ll be back in January to serve out his final two terms.”

“Well, that’s good anyway.”

“Yes.” Lexa is little more than a shell of herself but she’s a rigid-backed, tough little shell.

Clarke aches and aches and aches.

“Okay. I don’t understand but I trust you. I hate it, but if you say this is the best course of action, I believe you.”

“It is.”

“Okay.”

“Promise me you won’t fight this, Clarke. Promise me you’ll keep the peace.”

Clarke holds out her hand and takes hold of Lexa’s forearm. “I promise your word will be final.”

Suspicion flares up in the Head Girl’s eyes—yet again with good reason—but she lowers her chin in acquiescence and completes the Polis arm clasp. “Thank you.”

--

Clarke marches back to the resistance headquarters.

“Nothing has changed. We fight at dawn.”

“The ceremony is at two o’clock,” Octavia leans in and corrects behind her hand.

“I know, but that’s less… Fine. We fight tomorrow afternoon!”

A round of whoops rises up and it almost drowns the screaming of her heart.

“Right, back to work, everyone. Roma, what did you find out on the legal side? Oh, wait, no—Raven, first I want to hear what the news crew said.”

Lexa’s not going to happy when she finds out about this. But Clarke knows that look of pain in Lexa’s eyes. It’s the same haunted guilt she saw in her own mirror for months, the same guilt she knows will haunt Lexa until the end of her days.

All’s fair in love and war. And Clarke is prepared to go to hell and back—prepared to become death, to destroy whole worlds if need be—to prevent that pain from darkening her girlfriend’s eyes again.

Ever, ever again.

--

The Head Girl sits in her usual spot at High Table when supper rolls around, her back straight and not a single emotion playing across her face. The Headmistress sits on her left, the Headmaster of Dominicus joining them, too, but Heda appears the same as ever, a bulwark against deepening floods if they’d only take up her offer of shelter.

Clarke’s heart pangs because she knows what all this is costing the Head Girl, what this show of allegiance is costing Lexa, but she doesn’t waver in her resolve. If there’s even a chance of saving Polis, a camel fitting through a needle in the world’s biggest haystack’s chance, they’re going to take it.

It’s worth the fight.

The room echoes with the sound of cutlery on porcelain but not much else; anyone watching the scene would wonder what century they’d fallen into, these apparently broken and submissive girls in identical plaid skirts and neatly pulled back hair, wordlessly eating their supper with ducked heads. The Headmistress’s teeth gleam as she scans the school in smug satisfaction, announcing that the decadent chocolate fudge cake they’re given for a rare pudding course has been sent straight from the Dominicus kitchens for their pleasure. 

Lexa looks down at the dessert and her complexion takes on a green tinge for short moment but Titty gestures enthusiastically over at her until she takes a bite, nodding with a tight smile on her lips. Clarke watches as it takes her several swallows and a sip of her water before she manages to get it down her dry throat.

Clarke chokes down the cake—it could be delicious, for all that she tastes only vinegar—and waits until they’re dismissed for the evening before allowing it to come right back up in the school toilets.

Once again, Lexa seems to have disappeared; she’s not in any of her usual spots after supper and since all clubs and sports have been cancelled for the evening, Clarke trudges back to her own House once she sees Lexa’s window is dark. Mrs. O’Brien gives them all hugs when they enter and Clarke gets another as she signs out an hour later.

“It’ll all work out, chuck,” the Housemistress murmurs in her soothing Northern accent. “Have faith.”

“I do. I know,” Clarke whispers back, surprised to find tears springing to her eyes.

“Oh, love,” Mrs. O’Brien laughs, her arms tightening around her. “Tomorrow’s a brand-new day; things will be better in the morning.”

“We’ll make them better,” Clarke mutters and the grandmotherly woman hums in agreement.

“That’s the spirit. Go on, now,” she urges when Clarke finally loosens her grip. “I’ll see ye in the morn.”

“Um. You mean tonight.”

“Sure I do, pet.”

And then Mrs. O’Brien winks and Clarke wonders how the hell she could have ever thought she was being clever, sneaking out of her room and in the back door of Flidais every night.

“Er…”

“Step to it,” the woman insists, shooing her out the door.

Clarke stands in shock for a moment and then shakes her head, a smile curling up the sides of her mouth for the first time in hours. These Housemistresses don’t miss anything.

The stars are occluded by clouds tonight but she stands outside long enough that her eyes adjust and dim light from a few of the brighter ones eventually push through. Inside Flidais, Mrs. Daisy is distracted by a phone call from what sounds like a worried parent but she waves Clarke toward the stairs, rolling her eyes either at the sign-in attempt or the parent on the phone, and Clarke now suspects it’s the former.

Lexa’s room is dark and cold when Clarke makes it to the top of the tower, a church without its god, but she turns on the lights and twists the knob of the radiator before curling up on the bed, duvet wrapped around her shoulders while the room heats up. She pulls out her sketch pad while she waits, drafting out a study of the next portion of her Art coursework in pencil.

It’s been the longest of days and Clarke’s exhausted from all the preparations and phone calls but she doesn’t consider closing her eyes. Not for a moment.

Not even when the clock says nine o’clock.

Not even when it becomes half past nine and just keeps on ticking on.

The curfew bell has already rung out when Clarke finally hears the slow creak of the door handle.

Lexa appears in the entrance, her neck bowed as if under the weight of her braided crown, dark circles under her eyes and skin so pale it’s almost blue. The trudging silhouette of the Head Girl has already stepped into the room before her eyes catch sight of figure on her bed.

She comes to a standstill. “Clarke?” Lexa’s so bone-weary that even the surprise in her voice is dampened; she blinks and it takes a few seconds to complete the motion. But of course Heda rallies, squares her shoulders and straightens her back. Her body hardens and her lips quirk downward. “I cannot argue with you anymore,” she says in a cracked voice, her jaw set and tight.

“I know. I’m not here to argue. I—” But Clarke trails off when her eyes adjust to the light coming in from the hall and she realises that the blueish tinge to Lexa’s skin is also colouring her lips and her jaw is clenched so tightly not because she’s angry but because she’s trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

Clarke launches herself off the bed and storms toward the Head Girl, reaching out to press the back of her knuckles against ice-cold cheeks.

“Lexa,” Clarke cautions lowly. “Tell me you weren’t on your burial mound.”

Lexa lifts her chin in defiance and Clarke begins to feel dangerous with rage.

“Tell me you weren’t hiding out for the past few hours in the middle of a fucking field on a December night.”

When Lexa doesn’t reply, the answer clear from the flash in her eyes, Clarke yanks her further inside the room by her shoulder and slams the door shut behind her. She drags her girlfriend over to the other side of the room where the radiator is located, not particularly caring if she’s being a little rough. Not when all she can see is Lexa navigating through empty pastures in the darkness and huddling on the frozen ground with only her cloak for warmth.

“What, did you need to release a rabbit to the Celtic gods or something? I thought you were done playing Boudica. Sit down,” Clarke growls and there’s a brief battle of the wills before Lexa gives in and lowers herself to the warm metal ridges of the radiator.

Lexa stares at the wall, unspeaking, and Clarke doesn’t trust herself to speak as she strips her girlfriend of all her layers—layers on layers on layers—until an entire school uniform lies in a crumpled heap on the floor and Lexa’s down to her vest top and underwear. Clarke pulls off the red lacrosse jumper and tugs it on over its proper owner’s head and then rummages through the wardrobe until she finds a pair of jogging bottoms, slightly warmer than pajama trousers. Swollen red fingers try pushing her away to do it all themselves but Clarke bats them away at every attempt.

“Let me fucking help, Lexa.”

“I’m fine,” she tries rebutting but no sound manages to escape her throat.

“I know.” Clarke sighs and rubs her hands across frozen knuckles. “I know you are, Lex.”

Her girlfriend’s feet are two blocks of ice, as might be expected, but as Clarke goes to pull on socks, she squints down at the mud ringing them. An examination of Lexa’s brown Mary Janes reveals long cracks in both soles, patched over with duct tape, and it’s a good thing that Clarke’s stomach is empty because the sight sends it roiling again.

Clarke closes her eyes for a moment before going over to the sink and procuring a hand towel, waiting until the tap turns warm before wetting it. She kneels in front of Lexa and runs it gently across her feet until they’re clean and then taking a little extra time to massage some blood into the appendages. Lexa tries to squirm away, deeply uncomfortable with the entire act, but Clarke holds on tight.

When there’s colour in the skin again and her feet are dry, Clarke pulls on the ridiculous fluffy pink socks and presses her mouth to each arch before sighing and resting her forehead against Lexa’s knees.

“I’m sorry. You’re so important to me, to the whole world, and the thought of you in danger, or in pain… And it’s not just about the burial mound—I don’t want you to have to live with this guilt over your head, Lex.”

“I’ll survive,” Lexa mutters, head swiveled away and eyes fixed on a spot on the wall.

Clarke immediately opens her mouth to retaliate but closes it again with a shake of her head, not trusting herself to speak right now. She lifts her head and busies herself with loose threads on her skirt instead.

“I know you don’t believe me but this way, the important parts of Polis will survive, too,” Lexa continues after a moment, her eyes still focused elsewhere and her words flat. “It’s the only way. Adapt or die.”

Right. It’s coming out, advisable or not.

“Of course you’ll survive. You’re the strongest person I know. You talk about surviving, Lexa, and you are. And you’ll keep surviving, day after day until one day you don’t and there’s your entire life gone by. If your entire goal in life is to survive, you’re going to lose.”

“You don’t understand, Clarke, if—”

“Maybe I don’t understand, but I do know that surviving isn’t enough. Viruses survive, cockroaches survive.” She takes a deep breath and pleads through her eyes for Lexa to actually listen to her words. “You deserve more than that—we deserve more than that. Polis is worthy of more than just living on; we’re worthy of flourishing, of thriving. Set your sight on higher things, remember?”

“Clarke—”

“Whatever the Headmistress is threatening you with, it doesn’t matter,” Clarke persists. “We have enough power to dethrone her and her cronies for good. They’re lame ducks without the support of the teachers and the parents’ unions and—”

“The risk is too high. I want to fight but I can’t.”

Any word of protest or appeal dies in Clarke’s throat as she watches Lexa slide down the radiator onto the floor, curling into herself and burying her head between her knees. 

“I can’t, Clarke.”

Clarke slides down next to her and gathers up over-burdened limbs until Lexa’s weary head is cradled against her chest. She leans her chin upon tight braids and strokes her fingers up and down the strongest of shoulders and swipes her thumb across cheeks that even now are dry.

The image in Clarke’s head changes and oh how she wishes for the earlier one again, because now all she can see is Lexa climbing her hill tonight, her steps heavy and slow and entirely alone.

Lexa watching her breath disintegrate into the starless sky while she fights to accept whatever burden Nia’s thrust upon her, wrestling with selfish wishes that it wasn’t her heavy load to bear but carrying it willingly to save the spines of others.

Lexa praying to earless gods she’s never believed in and accepting their lack of response with practiced resignation.

Lexa carving the scars of sacrifice across her body in places no one will ever see, stifling her screams in her fist so no one will ever know her suffering. 

“Okay. Okay, Lex. Shh. I know. It’ll be okay.”

After a few moments, the Head Girl’s head finds a resting-place in Clarke’s lap and Clarke moves her hands to her hair, unweaving plaits and humming nonsense words of comfort and trying not to think about how this position reminds her of all those sculptures of the pietà she’d seen in Rome one summer. The girl in her lap is so small, so flesh and bone and jutting ribs, so achingly soft and vulnerable as she marches alone against the legions of her personal hell.

The moon comes out from behind the clouds and shines in through her tower window, but all too soon it’s covered again and Lexa pushes to her feet.

“Lexa…”

“It’s late,” is all she says.

Lexa brushes her teeth without looking at her reflection in the mirror, takes out her contact lenses, ties back her hair, and washes her face. She’s exhausted with grief but she still spends the time to organise her desk, shuffling her papers and stacking her books in a neat pile. She glances at Clarke only once or twice, clearly expecting her to have left by now, and Clarke meets her eye each time, arms crossed and waiting for her to say something. Ask for something. Anything. 

“Goodnight, Clarke,” she eventually intones, more white-flag than warrior as she crawls under her duvet. She faces the wall, her back curved away from Clarke and an arm over her eyes to block out the light of the room.

Clarke sighs and walks to the door, pausing for a moment to cast her eyes over the beautiful girl contorted in a foetal position, muscles taut as they try to conceal her shivers, and then switches off the light.

“Reshop, Heda.”

She waits and waits and waits but there’s only silence.

And then Clarke slips beneath the sheets with her girlfriend and slots herself into each of those beautiful dips and hollows.

For the second time, Lexa is startled at Clarke’s presence, startled to feel her after all her sins and betrayals, and she lets out a wet-sounding noise when skin touches skin.

“Oh, Lexa,” Clarke breathes, heartbroken for the girl barely holding it together in her arms. “I’m never going to be part of whatever ransom you’re paying for whatever Nia’s holding captive. You’re not getting rid of me that easily; I love you, Lex. And that’s unconditional.”

Lexa cries.

Lexa bursts into tears—deep, wracking sobs that don’t pierce the silent night. Lexa weeps and Clarke holds her, bearing her impossibly heavy load so Lexa doesn’t have to, so she’ll have a moment of relief. She guards her with her all, uses her own body as a shield, places her hands over trembling abdominal muscles and holds on so tightly no one would dare hurt this girl. Not tonight, anyway.

“I’m really fucking angry at you,” Clarke informs her, pressing lines of tiny kisses along her shoulder between the words, “but only because you put yourself in danger out there all alone in the cold. Everything else…everything else, I know you’re only doing because you think it’s best. I’m not angry at you about that, baby. No one else is, either. We all know you have our best interests at heart.”

The tears keep coming, a steady stream still without a whimper or a sound.   

“You have an army if you want it.” Clarke brushes away tears and caresses their trails with her thumb. “One word from you tomorrow is all it’ll take—one word and we’ll fight, one word and we’ll stand down.”

Lexa falls asleep with tears still trickling down her cheeks and into the pillow, the only signal of the transition when her breathing begins to even out.   

Clarke doesn’t sleep.

She keeps watch as her girlfriend slumbers, pressing her lips to the back of her neck whenever she stirs, wrapping her legs around kicking legs and rubbing her back when sleeping-Lexa fights the fights she can’t in the daylight.

Lexa slumps down on top of her after the nightmare, hot and sweaty and unwaking, and Clarke combs back her hair and leaves her there, finally letting her eyes drift closed under the comforting weight of limp muscles and sunlight-scented skin.

Clarke doesn’t dream; she only hopes.

Maybe things will be better in the morning.

--

The morning brings cold sheets and grey skies.

All the fairy lights have gone out and the room feels shrouded in darkness even though the sun has risen in the sky. Lexa must have crept out early: her uniform has disappeared from the floor, her cloak missing from the back of the door and her polished Mary Janes gone from the foot of the bed.

All except a shiny silver Head Girl pin, abandoned on the windowsill.

Chapter Text

The sun hangs bound and gagged on the last day of Michaelmas term, dawn slipping into day unknown amongst the gathering gloom of the morning’s low-hanging clouds. As the hours lumber on, the air catches in the lungs and only continues to thicken, only grows heavier and heavier as if swallowing the hundreds of held breaths from within the school.

By noon, the world outside Polis’ red brick buildings has faded away into a bleak blur, entire fields and forests suffocated in a veil of fog.

The official joining of Polis and Dominicus is scheduled for two o’clock, their annual Christmas celebration of life superseded by a macabre pageantry of death, but it’s still a half-hour before that happens, or at least the cloaked American reminds herself while creeping outside.

Clarke watches the Headmistress greet the local news crew at the front gate with a vigilant eye, a total of five crew members with an assortment of handheld and video cameras. After handshakes and parking directions, they’re led through the Quad and to the bottom of the double staircase flanking the chapel doors. Requisite small talk is made, along with general lamentations about the weather, mostly because the fog ruins the possibility of panoramic shots for their news-spread on the event, and it’s the first burst of joy Clarke’s felt all day.

And she’s not quite sure schadenfreude counts as joy. Not really.

At about twenty minutes to the hour, the vaulted main building doors swing open to reveal a huddle of businessmen, one brave scout risking the sleeve of his suit to check for rain before holding the door open for his colleagues. With grimaces, the troupe tiptoe along the covered walkway for the sake of their shoes, a tightly packed unit of nondescript older white men in dark suits—possibly the same dude cloned six times, in all honesty—but there’s no way Clarke could ever miss the gait of her second heart, surrounded in their midst.

The Head Girl is marched out of the cloisters and up the marble stairs to the chapel as if she’s not already going willingly. As the fog coalesces into a light drizzle, Lexa pulls the hood of her cloak over her head and the men look on enviously. Her face is pale and every step she climbs must be agony.

Her feet don’t falter. Not even once.

They reach the top and Lexa straightens her shoulders. She pulls back her hood and fixes her eyes on the courtyard below. Her posture and expression betray no sign these fucking villains have drained her of her fight.

No, Heda stands arraigned between the stone pillars of the chapel as tall and fierce as ever: born for this responsibility, be it victory or defeat. Neither the howl of the wind nor the wild of her curls dare disturb her plaits, tightly wound as they are, but as she draws her arms behind herself and raises her chin, Clarke can’t help but wonder if Lexa’s crown of braids feels more a crown of thorns.

The Headmistress and photographers join them on the terrace, Nia speaking to Lexa through the corners of her puckered mouth while they’re fitted with lapel microphones. The Head Girl nods in response, both sets of eyes straight ahead, but Clarke doesn’t miss the smirk festering around the corners of Nia’s mouth. The group are posed and rearranged for endless rounds of publicity shots by the news crew and Lexa complies without a word, dutifully raising the corner of her lips in the semblance of a smile when prompted.

Clarke imagines the sensation of her knuckles contacting with Nia’s gloating mug.

Partway through the pictures, the Dominicus Headmaster dashes up the other set of steps, panting heavily. A droplet of sweat rolls down his bald scalp as he thrusts a bag of some sort into Lexa’s hands and then grins at the Headmistress, chattering excitedly about something Clarke can’t hear and then frowning in suspicion when he realises they’ve been taking publicity photos without him. It’s evident that Lexa doesn’t share his enthusiasm because the shadows under her eyes deepen, but she bows her head and steps inside the chapel with the parcel.

When she returns, her beautiful scarlet Heda cloak is gone, replaced by a garish red and yellow striped blazer.

Titus claps his hands together and Nia grins like a fucking snake.

Clarke thinks she might throw up.

It’s a Dominicus school blazer.

They’ve stripped Lexa of the last symbol of her position—her late mother’s cloak, no less—and forced her into this polyester monstrosity. All for their fucking circus.

She may only be seventeen years old, but Clarke decides she may never be more furious than she is in this moment.

They're calling back the photographer to take more photos of this nightmare when Clarke can’t stand quiet another millisecond and storms up the staircase. The sallow-faced Advisory Board splutter and try to stop her, stretching out their hands, but they’re all too reticent to actually try apprehending the blonde fury.

“Miss, you can’t be here!”

“Young lady…”

“The ceremony hasn’t started yet, the girls don’t enter until—”

“Let her pass,” a stronger voice commands, powerful and steady even whilst shackled to her personal hell, and the business men gape in confusion, looking between themselves but none daring to contradict the Head Girl.

The Headmistress looks ready to intervene as Clarke pushes through to her girlfriend but then seems to change her mind. She simply makes a magnanimous gesture toward the Head Girl and then steps back, just far enough to give the illusion of privacy.

“Two minutes, Miss Griffin,” Nia says, her face the picture of a victor enjoying the sight of her victims wriggling on the end of a spear. “Then I’ll need you back inside for the ceremonial procession with the rest of your classmates.”

Clarke pays her exactly zero fucks.

“Lexa.” She wraps her hand around Lexa’s upper arm, speaking low; the muscles under her fingers are so taut they’re almost vibrating.

“Do you need something, Clarke?” she asks quietly.

“Just…” Clarke takes a deep breath to steel her aching heart. “Just to remind you that this isn’t the only solution. There are so many people behind you, Lex—we can stop this.” 

Any last remnant of Lexa in those haunted green eyes immediately shutter away and Heda’s eyes flicker away, back to centre again.

Clarke drops her hand and follows her gaze, tracing over the sprawl of red brick and cobblestone in front of them, the four buildings that border the courtyard and the patch of Holy Ground in the middle. Under the hanging cloud of fog, it feels as if nothing else could possibly exist outside these school grounds, as if they’re dwelling on their own earth, under their own skies, everything else a hazy mirage.

And then she looks at the girl at her side and she remembers—she remembers the breathtaking immensity of the universe.

“All it’d take is one word from you, just one,” Clarke pleads, not caring if she’s overheard anymore. “You protected Polis before, when you went against the Headmistress and united the Houses two years ago. You can do it again—we can do it again!”

The Head Girl lifts her chin and pulls her arms behind her back; it’s a gesture of power but all Clarke can think about is how exposed it makes her neck, how exposed her heart and throat are to the swing of her enemy’s blade. “It’s done. I’m sorry, Clarke,” she says softly. “I have to choose peace.”

With a nod she already knew she’d be giving before climbing the steps, Clarke turns to Nia and raises her chin.  “Headmistress. We’ve taken a schoolwide vote regarding the proposal to dissolve Polis and merge with Dominicus and—”

Nia bursts into laughter—or, rather, cackles—and turns to her Advisory Board to share in the hilarity. It takes most of them a moment, but they join in, too, if a bit stilted and confused, about as comfortable as they’d be if Clarke had asked them for their opinion on tampons verses sanitary napkins.

“A ‘proposal’? A schoolgirl ‘vote’?” the Headmistress gasps out, gnarly fingers forming air quotations around the words. “As adorable as that must have been, little Yankee, I’m afraid a boarding school isn’t a democracy. Dominicus and Polis will be joining together next year; it’s not up for discussion.”

“How can you possibly speak for us, we’re the ones—” Clarke starts but gets cut off again, this time by a long, dramatic sigh; Nia shoots an exasperated look over to the wary Board members as if they’re simply dealing with an over-tired toddler.

“Why don’t you step inside and I’ll explain,” Nia says sweetly between her teeth, digging her claws around Clarke and Lexa’s arms and towing them into the chapel.

Once inside, the Headmistress closes the door and then spins around to regard them both, eyes slitting in consideration before placing her hands on her hips.

“Clearly a tactical error was made by not involving your partner-in-crime in our little…agreement,” she concedes to Lexa while not sounding in the least bit conciliatory. Her tone isn’t one of resignation, either—it’s crafty, as if she’s expected this from the beginning.

Clarke’s not exactly sure what hackles are but if she has them, they’re definitely rising right now.  

“I’m impressed you managed to hold your tongue, in fact,” Nia continues, cocking an eye over at Clarke for only a moment before ignoring her again for the stiff-backed Head Girl. “I was certain she’d be your first confidant. Perhaps she’s less important to you than I thought.”

Clarke almost snorts, unsurprised when the Headmistress reverts to this strategy.

So predictable.

If Nia can’t get Clarke to submit by going through Lexa, she obviously has no shame in falling back on her contingency plan to pit the two girls against each other. It’s the same strategy she’s deploying at the whole-school level—counting on the girls to either fall into line under her puppet Head Girl’s command or to fall into fractionated chaos, weakening themselves from the inside out with Lexa as the scapegoat.

Nia’s an idiot.

“Of course I didn’t tell her,” Lexa snaps, tugging at her blazer sleeves in disgust while avoiding Clarke’s eye. “You may have been able to cow me into submission but Clarke never would have stood for it.”

“Is that so?” Nia turns to Clarke with mild interest, now, her expression predatory. “My son sends his regards, by the way, dear. It seems you two really hit it off last week.”

Clarke grins.

“We did indeed, thank you for ensuring we met, Headmistress,” Clarke enthuses without a trace of sarcasm. “I spent some time chatting with Roan yesterday, as chance might have it. Turns out we have a lot in common.”

Her sincerity sets Nia off-rhythm for a second, especially once the woman checks over at Lexa and receives only a bland expression in reaction to Clarke’s words. “Well. I’m glad to hear it,” she finally manages before clearing her throat and regaining her footing. “But let’s not get off-topic—the ceremony is due to begin in a few minutes and I need your assurance, both your assurances, that it will go ahead with no unexpected surprises.”

With a raise of her eyebrows, Clarke moves so she’s side-by-side with Lexa against the wall of the vestibule and crosses her arms. The familiar sensation of thick wool against her hand gives her the strength to meet the Headmistress’ glare of intimidation without flinching away and she knows without looking it’s the Heda cloak, hung on the coat hooks.

“It will, Nia,” Lexa sighs when it’s obvious Clarke doesn’t plan to answer in the affirmative.

Or at all.

Glaring is much more gratifying. 

Reaching into her black gown, the Headmistress pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to Lexa. “Furthermore, you will be reading this speech we’ve prepared word for word during the press announcement portion. No alterations, no translations into that embarrassment of a secret language of yours, not even an extra breath between sentences. Do I make myself clear?”

Shoulders only sagging for the briefest of seconds, Lexa slips the paper into the inside pocket of the blazer without opening it.

“Yes, Nia.”

The Headmistress lets out a long exhale in satisfaction. “Good. And why will be you be making sure everything proceeds without a hitch?” She leans in so she’s looming over them both and Clarke can smell the cloying stench of her perfume, sees every detail of the scar that stretches across her cheeks and the heavy layer of orange makeup caked over it.

Lexa sets her jaw and looks away, declining to answer this time.

Nia rolls her eyes to the ceiling in irritation and turns her attention to Clarke, currently attempting to hold her breath before she chokes on the sickly-sweet irony of the Headmistress’s ‘Angel’ brand perfume.

“Because the Head Girl knows that if she doesn’t cooperate, I will be taking the opportunity provided to me in the transition to revoke her beloved scholarship programme,” Nia answers for Lexa. “Polis is no longer a non-profit organisation as of last week, nor will the new partnership operate under such budget-hemorrhaging terms. We’re a business, not a charity.”

Clarke shatters as she finally understands the axe Nia’s been holding over Lexa’s head, the captive for which Lexa’s paying ransom.

Almost a quarter of students are funded through scholarships and part-bursaries, literally hundreds of girls unable to attend next year without financial support—girls from high-risk and vulnerable backgrounds, girls like Lexa and Octavia without a stable home life to fall back on, and oh fuck, Clarke should have known. How could she not have known?

“Lex…” she breathes.

“The agreement the Headmistress offered me protects all current girls on bursaries and continues the initiative for ten years on the condition that I ensure the deal proceeds peacefully,” Lexa confirms, voice leaden and eyes on her floor. “Otherwise the new Trust would rescind all funding offers for next year onward.”

Clarke can only open her mouth and then close it again, too angry and disgusted for her brain to form words in its white-hot cloud of realisation.

“Even if the merger doesn’t go through, the status of the school has already been changed,” Lexa goes on, correctly reading Clarke’s first objection once her sting of emotions begins to dampen. “She’d cut off their funding either way.”

“I don’t expect a child to understand, but the world isn’t run on inspiring words and happy thoughts,” Nia prattles on, her tone patronising as if she honestly believes they need it explaining. “A strong business model is the only way to make this school great again.”

“Polis is already great,” Clarke hisses. “And it’s only getting better. Money and prestige, they’re not power, we—”

“Clarke,” Lexa interjects quietly. “There’s more. A merger between two schools necessitates staff redundancies. Part of the agreement was the Headmistress also promising to protect each and every member of the Polis staff next year, either with full pensions or equivalent employment at the new facilities.”

Clarke looks at Lexa and tastes the salt of blood on her tongue, the sick of her stomach slowly dawning across her face.

She hadn’t considered the teachers and staff, either.

But Lexa has.

Of course Lexa has.

“This is extortion,” Clarke spits out and wishes she was literally spitting in Nia’s face. “How fucking dare you!”

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, eyes focused on the stonework. “Em pleni.”

Clarke pretends to have forgotten Trigedasleng altogether, far too furious to listen to Lexa’s plea to stop her tirade. “You should be in jail for this, you can’t just—she’s a minor, you fucking bitch!”

Lexa’s eyes widen but the Headmistress is unperturbed. “Language, Miss Griffin,” she drawls, adjusting her academic gown around her shoulders and straightening the fur-lined hood. “Your parents will hear about this insolence—oh dear, no, they won’t, will they? Consider yourself lucky, child.”

The sneer hits like a slap to the face and Clarke’s mouth falls open, stunned into silence.

There’s no delay in the way Lexa lurches forward, though, her body twisting into the personification of rage as she storms up to the vile woman. “Watch yourself, Nia,” she orders, voice low and clipped, and  Clarke’s gratified to watch the Headmistress take a hasty step backward.

The Headmistress recovers quickly, however, and Clarke feels her skin crawl as the woman smirks and then strokes a knuckle against a fuming Lexa’s cheek, acrylic nails just short of scratching perfect skin. “Oh, darling,” she coos. “Do you really think you hold the power anymore? You may have had the Governors twisted around your finger but their influence is over and along with it, yours.”

Revulsion saturates Lexa’s eyes but she holds herself ramrod straight, refusing to flinch away from Nia’s spiteful touch.

“Get your hands off her,” Clarke growls between clenched teeth.

“If you want to keep your freeloading welfare students and over-entitled staff safe, you'll learn your place and obey my orders,” Nia continues with flashing eyes, not even bothering to acknowledge Clarke. “As will your little friend over there, if she knows what’s best for her. Otherwise I’ll have no difficulty finding new budget items that could benefit from reallocations.”

Lexa sets her jaw but after a second or two she breaks their stare-off, dropping her eyes. “I will keep the peace, as agreed,” she mutters to the floor. 

Clarke takes a deep breath as the beady eyes of the Headmistress slide over to her, narrowed in expectation, and then exhales in a long whoosh. “I’ll do as my Head Girl commands,” she mumbles, gaze similarly falling to the ground.

“Now you’re thinking like rational human beings instead of over-emotional teenage girls. Perhaps you’ll succeed in the real world, after all,” Nia says with a nod, calm and collected as if they’ve been discussing last-minute scheduling changes. She cracks her knuckles and smooths down her gown, satisfied, before beckoning them both back outside.

“I get it now,” Clarke tries reassuring Lexa under her breath as they’re shuffled out the door. “I would have made the same choice.”

The green of Lexa’s irises is faded and they’re churning as she holds Clarke’s gaze for a long beat.  Her practiced countenance doesn’t waiver though and she responds using only a downward flicker of her eyes, as if she’s holding the muscles of her neck so tightly she can’t chance releasing them to nod.

Behind them, Nia leans against the wall next to Titus, the Headmaster blustering about something or other while the Headmistress seems content to let him rant himself out, busying herself with notes and locating her reading glasses.

Clarke holds her stare on Lexa long after she turns away to look out over Polis, watching her scan over each beam and every carved edifice with eyes long-graven with their shape.

The fog has only deepened while they were inside and a frosty wind moans across the courtyard, blowing Clarke’s hair into her face. Lexa’s braids remain steadfast, only the little curls around her temples showing any effect of the onslaught.

It’s a horrible, heart-wrenching decision Nia’s forced upon Lexa and Clarke truly does understand, now.

She understands and it changes nothing.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter what the Headmistress is holding over Lexa’s head—only that she has the audacity to do so at all.

Glancing back to make sure Nia’s still preoccupied, Clarke steps closer to Lexa, close enough that their arms are flush. “The thing is, Nia trapped you into choosing between two bad options, Lex. Sacrificing the staff and scholarships or protecting them by endorsing this merger…it’s a false dichotomy. They’re not the only choices.”

Lexa swallows but makes no other acknowledgement of Clarke’s words.

“She deliberately pressured you with time-constraints and then distanced you from the rest of the school; you didn’t have the time and freedom to pull together a third option.”

“Clarke…,” Lexa warns.

“You didn’t. But we did.”

Eyes widening, Lexa swivels her neck toward the Headmistress and back again. Clarke reaches over to give Lexa’s hand a quick squeeze and then clears her throat.

“Headmistress,” Clarke delivers, turning and facing the beast. “I’ll ask one more time. We as a school deserve a say in this decision. Respect our rights and we can all go home for the Christmas break without further incident.”

“You girls and your dramatics,” Nia sighs, bored now that she’s given her own monologue. “It’s over. Do yourself a favour and recognise when you’ve lost.”

Shrugging, Clarke raises her hand in the air and gestures toward the sky. “Drama it is, then.” She knew it wouldn't be quite that easy. Still, Nia had to be given the opportunity to do the right thing.

From the bell tower above their heads, the chapel bell rings out.

For a few moments, nothing happens and Nia scoffs. “If you’re finished embarrassing yourself, I’d suggest you queue up with your classmates. It’s two o’clock and we have a ceremony to get on with.”

“With pleasure, Headmistress,” Clarke chirps but she doesn’t move an inch, only shifts her gaze to the empty Quad stretching out before them.

Lexa is none so complacent and a flash of fear crosses her face. “What have you done, Clarke?”

“Not me. We,” Clarke clarifies, loud enough that everyone on the balcony can hear.

Noses wrinkle and eyes narrow in bafflement but Clarke doesn’t feel the need to elaborate. Not when the answer is already solidifying in front of them.

It starts with a single body.

A single body, but it marches forth out of the depths of the mist with a momentum too powerful to be marching alone.

Behind, more hazy shadows begin to take on human form, blurry and distant at first but growing in number, more and more, coming out in the fog like stars in the deepening sky.

Girls stream in from every direction, an entire host of them, shoulder-to-shoulder and cleaving through the empty courtyard.

At the front of it all marches Adenne, lightning in her step and a thunderstorm in her eyes that leaves no doubt why she is Lexa’s chosen successor. Flanking her back is an advance guard of twelve battle-ready Prefects, all processing straight up to the base of their acropolis. In unison, they salute their Head Girl and then split off to reform two staggered front lines that span the width of the Quad, building to building.

The rest of the school tread in at their heels, rectangular battalions organised by year that seamlessly converge with crisp ninety-degree angles into larger groups from opposite sides of the court. The younger Form Prefects mobilise to form the third row, each at the head of their respective infantry of classmates, and they all fall into formation behind their Heda-elect and behind her, the Senior Prefects and then the House Prefects.  

Heda’s warriors stand to attention at her feet, a multitude of them, all with arms clasped behind their backs and clad in identical brown regalia. Every uniform is immaculate, collars buttoned and neckties knotted, the heavy armor of their cloaks barely swaying in the chill of the wind. Their youth pulses through the courtyard, their eager enthusiasm and mess of hormones filling in the gaps between staunch bodies. 

Every single face is trained upward to her Commander, an army of fearless schoolgirls ready to fight and die under the banner of their battle general, their warrior queen.

The Headmistress surveys the scene with mild surprise but without visible concern, content in her power and authority as the girls fill the grounds. It isn't until they finish assembling, bronze cloak fastenings flashing as if pinions hidden in their wings, that Nia gets it.

These soldiers in plaid skirts have absolutely no intention of filing obediently into the chapel. 

Not yet, anyway.

“Good afternoon, girls,” Nia addresses them tersely after flipping the switch on her microphone so her voice can broadcast across the new speakers her Trust has set up for the event.

The Headmistress fails to receive her expected response.

In fact, she receives little response at all, other than several chins lifting higher in the air.

Shooting a tight smile over at the camera crew, one stationed along the cloisters and the other halfway up the steps, Nia weighs up the crowd below. “Thank you for your prompt arrival,” she tries in with syrup in her voice, as if she’s masterminded this exact scene. “As you can see,” she goes on, in the direction of one of the journalists now, “this new charter between schools is something we’re all thrilled to celebrate today.”

Cameras flash and Nia preens for them, no doubt imagining a front-page of herself at the helm of this army of dutiful students.

In her haze of hubris, she completely misses the subtle smirk from the lead cameraman.

“Alright, girls,” the Headmistress attempts again when several long seconds pass and not even a pinky finger twitches down below. “Your little display has been noted. File inside and find your seats. We’re expecting more guests and I’d appreciate you all being seated before they get here.”

Below, hundreds of eyes shift over to their Head Girl.

Titus begins spluttering and the Board members cast furtive glances amongst themselves.

Nia’s cheeks flush with anger and Clarke would be a liar if she didn’t admit to enjoying the sight of the Headmistress clenching her hands into fists at her sides, concealed by the folds of her scholar’s gown. “Inside, now!” she orders, demand sharp but still relatively composed.

The order affects the troops below about as much as a flaming arrow shot into the ocean. They maintain their unshaken array with the kind of solemn ferocity and gravitas only children can wield, awaiting orders from the only captain in their fight.

Heda stands in horror.

“Lexa,” the Headmistress snaps, hand muffling her lapel mic. “What’s this commotion? What did you just get done swearing wouldn’t happen?”

“I had no idea,” Lexa stammers, gaze frozen on the scene below. “I…” She looks genuinely terrified and it hits Clarke like a sucker punch when she’s confronted with the full force of dread swimming in those already breath-taking eyes. “You promised, Clarke.”

The ends will justify the means.

They have to.

“I promised you’d have the final word.” Her clarification is quiet as she reaches between the folds of her cloak in search of Lexa’s hand. Lexa’s fingers are clenched too tightly, though, so Clarke resigns herself to stroking the racing pulse point rather than prying them apart. “And you do.”

“We’re not fighting,” Clarke says, reluctantly dropping Lexa’s wrist and speaking loud enough that Nia and the board members can hear. “We’re awaiting orders. Yesterday’s vote was unanimous—we side with our Commander, whatever her decision in the matter. We elected her to represent us: she speaks for us all.”

“Do you ever stop blathering?” Nia snarls before the Head Girl can react to the proclamation, shoving Clarke away from the centre of the balcony; only Lexa's swift intervention stops her from stumbling.

The Headmistress places both hands on the balcony and learns forward, eyes dark with wrath. “That’s enough, ladies," she threatens from the loudspeakers, sharp and abrasive, her patience so thin by this point it’s basically non-existent. "This is your last warning; go into the chapel or there will be consequences.”

The warriors don’t flinch.

They don’t even bother shifting their gaze away from their Head Girl, following their Commander rather than the grey-haired head of school. Just as it’s always been.

Clarke watches Nia search the crowd for help from the teachers or other school staff but comes up empty-handed.

She’s not going to find any.

It’s only girls out here.

“Have your Head Girl order them inside,” Titus urges from where he’s been more or less forgotten at the Headmistress’ side, disgust curling his lips. “They’ll listen to her.”

“I don’t need a child to enact the obedience and respect I am owed,” Nia snaps and Clarke tries not to smirk as her words echo around the courtyard. “Chapel, now!” she barks. “Or the consequences will be grim!”

Once again, her threat fails to effect a single effect: the protesters persist and the soldiers remain ready for war, one and the same in their fight to defend what is theirs. 

“It’s the other one, the blonde,” one of the business suits calls out when the army stands their ground. “She’s the one in control of them, have her call them off.”

“They’re just girls,” another board member scoffs, “led by a child. It’s not as if they have any power here.”

“They’ll forget about their little riot by tomorrow,” agrees a non-descript white balding businessman, running his fingers across his scalp as if he’s forgotten there’s no hair there.

“Quite right. Shall we proceed without the girls?” Titus suggests and then gestures meaningfully over at the camera crew, capturing the scene with undisguised enthusiasm. “The longer we delay, the more attention we give this little temper tantrum.”

Following his gaze, Nia squares her jaw and catches a cameraman's eye, filming from the side cloisters, and beckons him and his colleagues go ahead and enter the chapel.

Instantly, the girls widen their stance, blocking their path, and the news crew shake their heads at the Headmistress’ request, the corners of their mouths twitching. The lead journalist winks up at Clarke and she shoots a tongue-tipped grin at their friend from Founder’s Day.

A vein begins to visually throb on Nia’s forehead and Clarke wouldn't risk a bet that the white cloud billowing out from the woman's nostrils is simply condensation and not smoke. 

“We’re behind you, one hundred percent,” Clarke reassures Lexa lowly when she notices a distinct lack of outbreath from her girlfriend, in contrast. Lexa hasn't turned her head away from her flock below, not since Adenne first appeared. “We’re doing this because you deserve to make a real choice—not to be extorted into the lesser of two evils. And whatever you decide, whether it’s accepting the new charter or fighting it, every single person here will back you. Because you’re the only one who’s considering our best interests.”

Heda's soldiers maintain their stalwart gaze on their leader, and though her eyelids flutter, Lexa battles every blink, refusing to look away.

Enough time elapses that Clarke's concerned Lexa might call them off before she has access to the full set of data. “But don't give your decision yet—there’s more,” she pleads in a whisper, tugging at Lexa’s sleeve. “Wait, okay? Just trust me.”

Lexa looks so torn that Clarke feels chasms between them even as they stand side-by-side, but before she can respond, a commotion rustles up in the background.

A horn sounds out, followed by the wail of brakes.

“There we are,” Nia trills, relief clear in the way she straightens her posture when red and yellow striped blazers appear in the distance, clustering together at the opposite end of the Quad. “If you’re so determined to make this a war, it appears my back-up has arrived,” she taunts. 

Clarke raises her eyebrows.

“Ignore the girls," the Headmistress calls out over the speakers and waves the Dominicus boys closer, teeth flashing in a terrifying facsimile of a smile. "They’ll soon be dealt with. Come on in."

The girls don’t turn toward the new arrivals; their faces remain on the balcony, much to Nia and the Advisory Board’s clear discomfit. 

There’s a bit of confusion as the boys—about a hundred of them, just a subset of the school—organise themselves and then fall behind their Head Boy. With a glance over his shoulder, Roan leads them down the steps and deeper into the barricade of girls until they can advance no further.

The Headmistress rolls her eyes when they come to a stop. “Go around—push through them if you must,” she orders Dominicus with a long-suffering sigh. “We’re running late and I don’t have time for this childishness.”

Lexa growls at the provocation and begins to protest the idea of anyone touching her girls but Clarke shushes her with a nudge of her shoulders. “We’ve got this.”

Adenne turns to face her army and raises an arm over her head.

Her warriors take a step forward, moving into a denser formation at the bottom of the chapel stairs. 

Once Polis is motionless again, still in their tidy rows, Roan’s contingent marches into the empty land behind the girls.

And then they halt in place.

Dominicus fold their arms in front of their chests, fasten their gaze on Lexa, and wait.

Titty leaps to the railing, making several odd and quite frankly indecipherable gestures before he finds his voice. “You will enter the chapel, now,” he shouts. His words disintegrate into the ether until he remembers he has no microphone and awkwardly crouches down to Nia’s chest to speak into her sound. “Demerits for everyone! Ten, no, twenty. Fifty!”

Their Headmaster looks around for his own teachers and staff but they, too, are nowhere to be found.

It’s only schoolchildren out here.

Rows upon rows of girls in identical plaid skirts, arms behind their backs and earnest faces glistening.

Rows and rows of boys in identical striped blazers, chins set and stances wide.

The Headmistress looks to be on the verge of an aneurysm.

“Roan Gaius, you will lead your school inside immediately! Otherwise you can’t even imagine the consequences you await at home, not to mention those for your conspirators,” she shouts, feedback screeching through her microphone and over the speakers. 

Roan only smirks and ignores his mother, raising his hand in salute—first to Clarke and then to the Head Girl.

It really hadn’t taken much convincing to get him on their side last night.

“Think about your actions,” Nia tries again, her voice melting into a sickly concoction she probably intends to be cajoling. “You know this charter will benefit your boys; order them inside and it’ll be your legacy as Head Boy.”

With a laugh, Roan shakes his head. “Don’t pretend you do anything for us, Mother,” he calls out, his voice effortlessly carrying over the arena. “What have any of you done to inspire our loyalty? We’re little more than assets to parade out in front of the Board’s investors and donors. They run our school like we’re in the military: no rights, no say, no freedom. Perhaps you shouldn’t be so surprised we’re ready to fight.”

On the balcony, a headmaster and six pasty-faced men perform a remarkable impression of gaping fish.

“We stand with Polis and their Commander,” the Head Boy goes on, calm and collected. “Their rights are our rights—a handful of ignorant, blinkered businessmen shouldn’t be able to speak over the stakeholders. We’re the ones all these decisions are affecting; we should be part of the process.”    

His words incite the first real judder of discipline in the troops, a cheer ripping through the girls and back toward their supporting echelons. Just as quickly, they fall back into formation.

It’s never been about the boys themselves; it’s always been about having a voice. The Headmistress is right in one (and only one) regard: the two schools have indeed joined together—Greek and Roman soldiers, united in one unstoppable phalanx against their mutual opposition.

The vein in Nia’s forehead pulses so violently that it looks like she’s acquired another facial scar. She looks back at the suited men around her, the men that dare to draft rules for angels.

The men avoiding eye contact and likely calculating the swiftest escape route.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Nia roars at Lexa when it becomes clear she’s not getting any backing from the Board. Clarke instinctively takes a step closer, pre-empting the furious woman’s path toward her girlfriend. “End this futility, now!”

Swallowing, Lexa looks down over the combatants, already back to their stoic stances, and then over at the Headmistress.

“Or have you decided to sacrifice the staff and scholarships,” Nia continues venomously, “as well as subjecting everyone involved to disciplinary action, all for the sake of this pathetic show? What would Oxford have to think about this, I wonder? If I called to update them on a prospective scholar being fired from her position as Head Girl? I can’t imagine them honouring those disgusting financial aid packages they’ve promised you. You can’t win; this is all going to end in tears.”

The Headmistress has already had the foresight to switch her microphone out of transmission mode, much to Clarke’s chagrin—she’s pretty sure everyone below would be very interested to hear exactly how Nia’s been threatening and extorting their Head Girl. 

(Next coup d'état, Clarke’s definitely having Raven rig up something sneaky with the sound system.)

“Look around you, Heda,” the Headmistress mocks, spitting out the Trigedasleng title like it’s bitter on her tongue. “This is who you have fighting for you? Schoolchildren? As impressive as this little rebellion might seem to your small-pond eyes, it’s the experienced adults that make decisions in the real world. I have been gracious enough to involve you in some aspects of the new charter but let these children continue to play-fight for you and I will revoke our deal.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Lexa forces out, hands fisted at her sides. “I would never ask anyone to risk themselves on my behalf.”

“Yet here they are,” the Headmistress says dryly. “And their sacrifices will be on your head.”

“There will be no sacrifices,” Lexa is quick to insist and then clenches her jaw, turning to Clarke with a desperate apology written across her features. “They don’t know the stakes, Clarke,” she begs. “If scholarship funding is revoked because of this…”

“You know the stakes better than we do; that’s why we’re giving you the final word,” Clarke reminds Lexa as gently as she can manage, unwilling to heap any more guilt onto those weary shoulders. “We trust you’ll only lead us into battles we can win. This is a peaceful show of power, to make sure you know the size of your armies, how many of us are ready to fight under our Heda’s command.”

There’s longing in Lexa’s eyes as she gazes out over the throng of beating hearts, her throat bobbing in place. “I can’t ask this of them; this is my responsibility. No one fights for me,” she whispers.

And it breaks Clarke’s heart because Lexa still can’t see it.

Lexa, who has always stood alone in her battles. Lexa, who never stops working to deserve her keep—to deserve her very existence, who had to earn a scholarship as a little girl so she wouldn’t be kicked out of the only home she’s ever known and who sneaks away to clean toilets so she can afford a toothbrush. Lexa, who's never breathed a word about everything she goes without, for whom pain and fatigue only make her stand up straighter and her ask how else she can help. 

Lexa, who is so good. Lexa, who gives all she has until she’s ragged with exhaustion and yet believes her treasury of offerings mere mites. Lexa, who loves the babies and comforts her little ones and empowers her girls, who elevates the lives of everyone around her. Lexa, who forgives every sin perpetuated against her, who believed in Father Christmas until the age of twelve and still believes in the goodness of humankind. Lexa, who willingly throws herself on the pyre of Nia’s evils, who offers herself up in sacrifice so that the girls on scholarships and the staff don’t blame themselves for Polis’ dissolution.

Lexa, who fights and fights and fights.

Lexa, whose only weakness is that she would never ask to be fought for.

She still can’t see that she’s no burden or obligation but rather the very cornerstone of the foundation they’re all standing upon, that she has legions ready to fight and die for her if she only gives the word. 

She still can’t see the entire universe stretched out beneath her feet, following the pattern of her breath.

Clarke pulls a microphone out of her skirt pocket, courtesy of their communications with the camera crew yesterday, and affixes it to the collar of her cloak before signaling up toward the sky.  

Above them, a deep chime sounds out from the steeple, deep and resonating. It’s powerful enough to carry across the school grounds and beyond, sluicing right through the fog that belies the isolation of their battleground.

The bells are ringing out and Polis is no island.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Lex,” Clarke tells her, finally coming up with the words that pull her half-drafted speech together.

“You’re not in this alone. We all fight for you.”

In from the West, a multitude of teachers and staff march forward into battle.

Dr. Peters leads the brigade, menacing in his unrelenting rhythm and gait. Their heavy footsteps vibrate across the cobblestones before they emerge from the fog, no small showing as they crowd into the Quad and take position along the cloister steps and under the vaulted ceiling. 

Several staff members clamber up onto the wooden benches to make space, Mrs. O’Brien and Ms. Daisy linking arms and glowering at the chapel balcony. The remaining fighters plant their feet and draw their arms behind themselves, chins high and proud—Dominicus and Polis staff as one body, dinner ladies and art teachers and administrative faculty, alike.

At Dr. Peter’s signal, hundreds of staff members raise their hands in salute to the Head Girl.

“We fight for you because you’ve always fought for us,” Clarke tells Lexa into her microphone, no note cards or prompts required for this liturgy; it flows from her lips as easily as those three little words and in some ways, it’s synonymous. “Because you’ve been our champion, time and time again, but we’re your champions, too. Because anyone who moves against one of us, moves against all of us.”

Lexa’s face stiffens but only Clarke knows the way her soft little hand grapples for a hand readily provided, fingers joining together in the hidden sanctuary between two seventeen-year-old girls. Her pulse is racing, dysrhythmic as her brain keeps fighting to regain control over her heart and failing, and Clarke can only rub apologetic circles with her thumb.

This close, Nia’s eyes are dark and furious, even if she’s projecting only amused patience as she casts her eyes over the circling camp. The Board members quickly adopt her stance, eyebrows raised as if they’re merely waiting for this foolishness to wear itself out.

But their fight isn’t over. Not yet.  

The bells ring out.

In from the South, a multitude of Old Girls march forward into battle.

Dotty leads the charge, their eldest member riding in on the chariot of her wheelchair, a spray-painted cardboard spear from Founder’s Day raised over her white-haired head.  The Old Girls' Union follow in the wake of their charioteer, thundercloud expressions and even angrier cloaks sailing in the wind as they fall into rank behind the boys.

Next come the former Board of Governors, fully regaled in academic gowns and various other pomp and circumstance; several appear to be civic or political leaders, judging by their medal- and fur-adorned livery and robes, none more than Helen Lawrence, who’d played a major role in mobilizing these troops and who Clarke will later learn from Lexa happens to hold the title of Lord Mayor of York.

(Later, because right now, Clarke’s girlfriend looks like she’d be unable to form a coherent syllable.)

The final alumni entrants could make up a battalion of their own, a larger contingent of former Polis students than Clarke could have expected in her wildest dreams, especially given the short notice.

Even in their plentitude, the Old Girls descend on the battlefield with precise and coordinated steps, still ingrained years after leaving the school.  It’s all unrehearsed, more or less self-organised, and Clarke wonders if any other school could possibly could pull off such a coup.

And then she looks at the girl at her side and she remembers—she remembers they’re just one group of empowered females, that this inheritance of power isn’t limited to this school or this small island.

Their numbers continue to grow, a never-ending diaspora of natives returning to fight for their homeland. As the Quad begins to overflow in its capacity, the rear contingent retreats undaunted into the main building. They reappear along the balconies and widow’s walk, even commandeering the roof, a line of pilgrims standing guard along the parapet.

Nia and her ill-fitting business suits are still shocked into docility, tight smiles all around. They’re basically strangled and bound now that they’re on show in front of people they deem more important than a bunch of schoolchildren, many of whom are probably amongst their investors and donors, and Clarke loves it.

Suddenly, Lexa sucks in a wobbly breath. “Is that...Anya?” she asks in a voice so small Clarke can hardly hear.

Following her gaze, Clarke grins once she locates her girlfriend’s childhood protector and mentor.  Anya and her fierce stare are positioned front and centre of the rooftop resistance, scarlet cloak flying behind her like a standard.

“She happened to be in the country for graduate school interviews,” Clarke whispers, pressing a subtle kiss into Lexa’s shoulder under the guise of adjusting her power pack. “Although I suspect she would have flown all the way from Australia once she heard about our plans.”

Lexa presses her lips together and her gaze moves on but the slight tremble doesn’t escape Clarke’s attention; she squeezes her Samson’s clammy little hand and gives her a moment to compose herself.

It takes some time, but the Old Girls eventually settle into the grand formation, alumni stretched back as far as the eye can see.

At Dotty’s signal, hundreds and hundreds of Old Girls raise their hands in salute to the Head Girl.

“We fight for you because it means fighting for ourselves,” Clarke tells Lexa after switching her microphone to broadcast again. “Because you are Polis, because you represent the spirit of all who have fought in the past and all who will carry on our fight in the future.” 

Lexa opens her mouth to respond but promptly closes it again when Clarke shakes her head. A smirk plays around her lips, one that almost transfers between the two girls, pulling at the corners of Lexa’s lips before dying down.

Because their fight still isn’t over.

The bells ring out.

In from the East, a multitude of family members march forward into battle.

The Parents’ Union heralds in this final group. They don’t form their own section of the battlefield, weaving through the ranks of warriors to stand behind their own daughters instead. 

For some reason, Angie Rudding stomps in with the families instead of the Old Girls contingent, but when she beams up at Lexa with the proudest of expressions burning across her face—her mother’s Second and chosen successor in more ways than one—Clarke understands.  

Lexa may not have any blood relatives in the supporters below but that doesn’t mean she’s not surrounded by family.

Because families are made up of more than just mothers and fathers.

Because they’re all each other’s family, because they’re all part of the great machine that is Polis and because they’re all in it together, right here and right now.

Because the family members joining the fray below are more than just parents. They’re housemistresses and choir directors, too; surrogate mothers and stand-in grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and siblings, friends and —

Clarke’s mouth goes dry.

Marcus Kane strides in with an ear-to-ear grin, looking around himself at the scene with enthusiasm and not a little bit of awe.

It hadn’t occurred to Clarke to invite him—she has no clue how he even found out about it—but here he is nevertheless, metaphorically guarding her back as he squeezes in behind one of the international girls whose biological family members were unable to attend at such short notice. It stirs some forgotten part she didn’t know had any viable nerve endings, a part Clarke thought amputated months ago—a part that might be capable of re-growing itself into something new, after all.

Marcus finally spots his goddaughter, waving happily up at her, and Clarke forgets herself and the gravity of the current situation and waves back at her unanticipated defender, the biggest of grins stretching across her lips.

Her reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by her other winged protector and Lexa attempts to follow Clarke’s gaze without success.

“It’s my guardi—my godfather, Marcus—look, there,” Clarke stutters, pointing, and she knows the moment he’s been spotted because Marcus raises his hand in salute to the Head Girl, his eyes so warm and kind that Lexa’s lips accidently slip into the only real smile they’ve formed all day.

She’s quick to tamper it down—Lexa’s a master of controlling her emotions, after all—but it lingers on in the shaky squeeze of fingers and Clarke decides sainthood wouldn’t be enough for both of their parents’ Seconds.

“I know it’s a lot, baby. We’re done now,” Clarke assures her, quiet and sincere.

And she’s absolutely sincere, their show of strength fully executed as the final family members take their place and raise their hands in salute to the Head Girl.

Except that it’s Clarke’s turn to be wrong.

Gloriously wrong.

The bells ring out and the reinforcements continue to flood in, soul by soul and silently.

In from the South, the military marches forward into battle.

Actual military soldiers—a band of ten or twenty Royal Air Force cadets, unarmed but trooping in full uniform. Or at least they would be trooping in, if there were a hairsbreadth of unoccupied ground left on Polis soil. The soldiers salute the Head Girl and then scale the low stone walls around one side of the school, distancing themselves enough to span its length as if safeguarding a citadel, the upper halves of their bodies barely visible in the mist. 

Clarke searches out Octavia in the front line below and shoots her a confused expression when she recognises Bellamy at the head of the cadets; her friend only glances over and then shrugs mischievously at the sight of her brother, mirth dancing in her eyes.

The Headmistress’s face is pinched in her efforts not to snap but even now she refuses to let any sign of weakness show. Out of her line of sight, a member of the Advisory Board begins edging down the steps, his eyes darting around and his back to the chapel wall.

And still, their fight isn’t over.  

A small delegation of women and a few men march in next, heads held high in pride as they pack into the sparse space left, forced halfway into the shrubbery without a grimace. They’re followed by several more unexpected contingents, some marching alone and others in small groups, and though Clarke doesn’t know who they represent, it’s clear that, on any other day, Lexa could call every single person out by name.

She can only assume they’re delegates from organisations who have benefitted from Polis in some way, most likely from their Head Girl’s many outreaches and charity drives.

Every single one raises their hand in salute to the Head Girl.

“That’s the local Women’s Shelter. And there’s the Green—We…a lot of our fundraising efforts go—” Lexa can’t finish her sentences as her supporters flood the property and Clarke gives up hiding how much she loves this goddess, wrapping an arm around her tiny waist as they watch the evidence of Lexa’s effects on the world, inside and outside Polis, and oh god, how can such multitudes possibly be contained inside such delicate flesh?

The final surprise appearance is the head of Polis’ nursery and prep schools, flinging open the main doors of their building and leading out the little ones.

An entire legion of little ones, marching forward into battle. 

Orderly decorum is shot to pieces as every soldier cranes their necks to witness these final—and most adorable—supporting reserves fall into formation inside their fenced-in play enclosure bordering the Quad. 

The pre-prep toddlers are the first to trample out, each gripping a rope their teacher leads and oh god, they’re so tiny, these babies all bundled up in their identical hooded toggle coats, felted caps strapped under their chins. Clarke feels her throat thicken as they stomp out two-by-two, ferocious frowns and streaks of blue fingerpaint across their faces and from the look of things, Lexa’s not faring much better.

The main body of the lower school follow in pairs. The older girls hold the hands of their younger classmates, guiding them into neat rows before forming their own lines, the senior ten-year-olds keeping a practiced watch over the younger children in front.

Mrs. Cody flashes Clarke and Lexa a triumphant smile from the front lines of her school, and when Nia levels a death glare in her direction, the Head sticks out her tongue and makes a face, eyes sparkling. Several children around her catch the interaction and join in with their own tongues and it’s the best—it’s actually the best. Even Lexa lets out a laugh, albeit a slightly wet and strangled one.  

It takes a fair amount of reminding from their teachers once they’re settled behind the fence, especially once they spot their beloved Heda up on the balcony, but on the whole, the steadfast little warriors mirror the stillness and silence of their older counterparts.

At Mrs. Cody’s signal, hundreds of little children raise their hands in salute to the Head Girl.

(Okay, so maybe they’re not quite as in unison as their older counterparts. It only makes it cuter.)

Clarke clears her throat twice before she’s able to continue with her speech, checking and double-checking with Adenne that they really have reached their full showing, now.

“Wisdom, Compassion, and Strength—that’s our motto and it’s the reason we’re able to rise up and come together today,” Clarke calls out to the crowd. “The first Head Girl penned them and every Head Girl since has passed on the spirit of those virtues.”

She swivels to address the two Heads and the Advisory Board, of whom only three remain; they only now notice their colleagues have skittered away. Two suits look enviously at the stairs after them, the other one apparently paralysed with fear as Clarke locks gaze with him.

 “I’m sorry none of you were able to make Founders Day last weekend,” she tells them. “If you had, you would have heard our current Head Girl gave an inspiring speech with a message in it that I'm not sure you understand.”

Clarke’s voice blooms out of her throat like a song and in some ways it feels like one, her words reverberating off bricks and echoing across upturned faces.

“One of you said earlier that we’re just a group of girls, and you’re absolutely right. And that’s what makes us so powerful.”

“We’re girls who know that strength is more than domination and intimidation. Girls who know to use their connections and bring people together against a common foe instead of inciting divisiveness, to build instead of destroy—look what ‘just a group of girls’ organised in less than twenty-four hours. Imagine what else we could do; imagine our potential.”

The men shift uneasily and Clarke carries on with a smirk, shifting her gaze to the Warrior of Warriors as she repeats her decree from that day. 

“Because girls are smart. Because girls are cooperatively-minded. And above else, because girls are strong.”

Lexa’s muscles are almost shaking under the strain of holding herself in one piece, and Clarke is so, so devastatingly in love with this monolith of a girl, this rock that continues to stand firm even as the winds of erosion blast from every angle.   

“Boudica’s uprising failed for a reason,” Clarke tells her softly, words only for Lexa’s ears, now. “You’re right, they’d become reckless and arrogant by their final battle—cruel, even—and thinking they could defeat a trained Roman army from the bottom of a hill was a fatal mistake.”

“Here’s the thing, though. A leader is only as good as their troops, and while many of Boudica’s early victories came from her success at bringing the clans together, her army was still a hodge-podge of clans accustomed only to fighting as individuals. They weren’t used to manoeuvering as a single, cohesive unit.”

Reaching into her pocket one final time, Clarke pulls out the Head Girl badge, rescued from its premature surrender on the windowsill this morning.  

“They weren’t. But we are.”

Lexa fixes her eyes on Clarke’s, lips ever so slightly parted, as the symbolic cog is affixed back onto its master clockmaker.

“Polis is no hastily-formed band of ransacking Celts and our opposition is definitely no trained Roman legion,” Clarke goes on, meaningfully eying the pathetic showing left of the Advisory Board and then at the Dominicus Headmaster, wringing his hands and chanting under his breath. “We’re more of a machine than our enemies could ever hope to be, especially under your command. When we work together, there’s nothing we can’t do.”

Lexa runs her thumb and forefinger over the little gear-shaped medallion but she doesn’t say anything. Inside her eyes, though, gears spin and spin and spin.

“Oh, wait—I need to fix one more thing,” Clarke decides, holding up a finger. Before the Headmistress figures out what she’s doing in time to stop her, she pushes open the chapel door and retrieves the Heda cloak, draping it over Lexa’s shoulders and then fastening the brooch across her throat. And, okay, maybe it’s ridiculous, but this cloak is so much more than Lexa’s royal mantle and superhero cape.

Plus, it completely covers that disgusting striped blazer.

Now everything is as it should be.

“Right. Okay. So here it is. The most important reason we fight for you,” Clarke tries to joke as she tucks a stray curl behind Lexa's ear; Lexa lets out a disbelieving, watery exhale. Her hand slides through two layers of thick wool and has no trouble finding its mate.

Switching her microphone so it’ll broadcast to everyone, Clarke looks out across at Lexa’s dominion and then at their queen.

“Above all else, we fight for you because oso gonplei ogeda—we fight together.”

And what a together it is, this military display, this protest, this rally that covers every possible standing surface, stretching from one end of the school to the other and spilling out into the side gardens and games pitches. They’re on the roof, out the windows, along the stone walls, no patch of unguarded territory in sight, not even an empty space other than the Holy Ground, this panoply of heavenly creatures appearing to have no beginning and no end as their edges blur into the fog.

It really does seem that all of existence has answered this call to arms. And in some ways, it has. Their entire existence, anyway.           

These girls, these women, these allies who take care of their own long after they’ve left this hallowed ground, be it injustice or boarding house nightmares. These activists who are no mere spectators, these pacifists who are nowhere near passive, these women who are no less warriors, constellations whose light keeps on shining long after they’re gone—gathering forth from all four corners of the globe, standing together as a single fighting force for their Head Girl, and, by extension, for themselves.

“The Headmistress and her Advisory Board don’t get to make this decision for us,” Clarke calls out to the crowd. “We believe that the majority, the people, should make the decisions—not a handful of men in suits listening to a tyrant and looking only to secure their own financial gains."

What feel like sharp talons dig into Clarke’s shoulder, trying to snatch away the microphone, but they’re gone before she registers Lexa shielding her from Nia’s reach. She waits for the camera crew to ignore the Headmistress’s gesticulations to cut off the sound system before continuing, timbre calm and steady.

“Yesterday, the Head Girl reminded me that Polis isn’t a building, and she’s right. We’re Polis, our whole far greater than the sum of everyone standing here today, and we’ll thrive in whatever soil we’re planted. Just as the mighty Polis warriors did during the World War II evacuations and just as we’ll do again if we join with Dominicus. Together, we can achieve anything; together, we’re indomitable.”

Clarke squeezes Lexa’s hand. “You’re our voice, Heda. We place our faith in you. If you believe it to be the best path, say the word and this afternoon’s press announcement will have a larger and more supportive crowd than they could ever have dreamed.”

Lexa inhales a long breath and holds it; no dissenting noises arise from the bright raiment below.

“But at our Commander’s word, we can overturn the merger,” Clarke carries on, stroking her thumb against Lexa’s palm the whole time. “They can’t sustain their control over the din and roar of thousands, not with every single person here opposed. Either way, it'll be our decision. Not something done to us.”

“I am their commander,” Nia bellows, the bonds of her British comportment and stiff upper-lip finally snapping. “I am this Head of this school and I make the decisions—”

“We are the heads,” the Headmaster of Dominicus interrupts in clarification.

Nia knocks him aside in exasperation. “Shut up, Titty,” she hisses under her breath.

“We’re not interested in your decisions,” Clarke drawls, deigning Nia a glance only long enough that she knows she’s being addressed before returning to the army below.

“This is our narrative. You may be Headmistress but we run this school!” 

War cries sound out.

“You can’t stop this,” Nia yells, almost white with rage as the demonstrators raise their fists en masse and trill their approval and then just as quickly return to what must be an infuriating silence to the Headmistress. “Call this off now! You can’t possibly understand the politics or the financial aspects of this deal, the intricacies of running a school…You have no idea what you’re going up against.”

“Maybe not,” Clarke’s happy to admit, also over the speakers. “But we know what we’re fighting for.”

A low murmuring goes up and then Octavia steps forward, her movement standing out in sharp contrast to the stillness of the rest of her compatriots. 

“Ai laik Octavia,” she cries out, fearless. “En ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in!”

There’s only the briefest of pauses before the general of the land army below understands the Prefect’s intent and seamlessly takes up the torch.

“Ai laik Adenne en ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in!”

This isn’t part of the plan, either; Clarke’s lips may well crack open in grin.

“What are they yelling?” one of the two remaining Board members ask of Nia but the Headmistress can’t answer.

Five years in office and Nia still hasn’t bothered to learn the meaning of the invocation they say every day.

“Ai laik Chiyako en ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in!”

“Ai laik Sophie en ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in!”

“Ai laik Zoe en ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in!”

The words crescendo, every warrior calling out their oath all at once, old girls and young girls, British and international, teachers and housemistresses, mothers and lawyers, parents and guardians, brothers and sisters, friends and colleagues.

Their whole world, in every corner, crying out that they’ll fight for what they believe in. Today and every day.    

And it’s in the way the words settle into a chant, in the way the melodies and harmonies of voices modulate one another and coalesce into a single battle hymn, resounding out across pillared court and temple, and right up into the skies above. 

In the way the Headmistress isn’t the only force of entropy and chaos trying to pull them apart but this unbroken fellowship of uniformed girls and their supporting troops, hearts beating together in symphony, pounding out in military cadence for their chief rhythm-giver — this is the drive toward synchrony, this is the anthem that drowns all other but its own.  

“Count your army, Lexa,” Clarke has to yell as the shouts continue. “They’re here for you; you’re what we believe in.”

And what could be worthier of their fight, banners flying and trumpets sounding?

There’s a heaven of their own making here beneath their feet but they’re more than capable of rebuilding it, rebuilding it even out of fire and brimstone if their Commander leads them there. No power of hell, no scheme of man can stop these acolytes, these patriots who fight for neither land nor building but for the nexus of what makes them strong, compassionate, and wise, for the spirit that Heda carries onward from girl to girl, age to endless age.

For Lexa, who may as well be a statue, her only movement the trail of her eyes across the thousands adoring at her feet.

“This is pointless—your Head Girl has already made her decision! She supports the new charter!” Nia screeches into the microphone but there’s no stopping their momentum, now; the shouting continues, blazing and indomitable.

The Headmistress tries stepping in front of Lexa, blocking her from the glowing hearts below, but no darkness has never succeeded in hiding this girl’s light.

Easily stepping out of Nia’s shadow, she looks out over the droves with an inscrutable expression.

Heda raises her hand and the whole universe falls silent.

Warriors occupy every visible surface, legions of peaceful revolutionaries along every rampart of their defended fortress. Their deportment is unwavering, shoulders up and chins high, but the air around them crackles and sizzles with empowerment. A tempest is on of breaking and Lexa’s the eye of their hurricane.

She grins.

Heda grins, deep and wide and powerful, a grin so formidable that it scares the fog into swift retreat.

“Ai laik Heda en ai na gon raun gon chit ai wich in,” she calls out her own oath, eyes blazing.

A thrill travels through the masses but the battle hasn’t been won quite yet. Not while Nia still stands.

And stand she does, the Headmistress digging in her heels and refusing to raise the white flag even as her doom is surely carved in stone. She stands alone, entirely abandoned by her Advisory Board and even Titus, and Clarke has to give the woman credit. Despite all her oppressions and transgressions, there’s no denying that Nia’s as strong as any fighter here today and she’s certainly not backing down from what she believes in.  

“You may have scared the Board away but I’m not going anywhere,” the Headmistress taunts. “What are you going to do, physically remove me from the premises? Grow up and know when you’ve lost.”

For the first time since coming up with this plan, Clarke feels the icy possibility of defeat creep in under her clothing, the possibility that the Headmistress could take away everything and leave Polis a broken and bloody carcass.

And then she looks at the girl at her side, the girl she adores, strength drumming in every heartbeat, the girl who doesn’t tremble at this devil’s wrath.

Clarke looks at Lexa and remembers they cannot fail.

The two powerful female forces face off, backs straight and eyes flashing.

Nia, a woman who upholds cunning and craft as wisdom, who holds only herself upon the alter, and who views strength as nothing more than wealth and prestige. A woman who tears asunder instead of pulling together, a leader who should be proud instead of aggravated at the way her students have marshalled their forces today.

And Lexa—Lexa, who is everything she’s not.

Lexa, who has always been Nia’s nemesis, the beginning of her end. Lexa, who is endlessly wise; Lexa, who loves beyond measure; Lexa, whose strength comes through her honest wisdom and selfless compassion.

(Nia really should have attended Founder’s Day.)

Fully anointed in her power and divine right to reign, Heda steps toward Headmistress and, yep, this is what she was born for, from victory to victory to victory again.

The Headmistress flinches but she doesn’t back down.

Beneath them, the foundation seems to quiver; the entire universe holds its breath.

Lexa removes her microphone and then tilts her head to the side, drawing the Headmistress’ eyes to her own. Her lips curl into a smirk.

“I suspect you didn’t bother reading the newspaper contract you signed this morning,” she comments, her words light—blithe, almost—as if she’s simply making small talk with the Headmistress. “The contract that gives them ownership over all media they capture.”

Nia attempts a casual shrug. It’s anything but casual—more like confused. Clarke can’t really blame her; she has no idea where Lexa’s going with this, but just like the Headmistress, she’s pretty sure it’s going to be apocalyptic.

“Of course I know that,” Nia hisses.

“I’m pleased to hear it. In that case, you must also be aware that these aren’t just microphones,” Lexa continues, tapping the power pack on her hip and then indicating toward the Headmistress’ microphone set-up. The smile has yet to fade from her lips and Nia squirms.

“They’re voice recorders."

Nia blanches. 

Lexa takes a step forward and Nia takes her first step backward. “Every extortion, every blackmail, every threat you’ve made in the last half hour—all safely stored on this little device.”

Another step forward; another step back.

“And lest you think such a recording wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, I can assure you that the legal contract we both signed will render it permissible evidence.”

“Twenty years,” Nia tempts but she’s writhing in her death throes and they all know it. “I’ll support the scholarships for twenty years.” When she receives only an arched eyebrow, her hands begin to shake and desperation broadcasts from her entire body. “Indefinitely, then. Think of the brand-new facilities, the extra funding for activities, the kind of connections they’ll make…”

Lexa’s pulse is beating a slow and steady tattoo when she slips it out of Clarke’s hand, backing the wild-eyed Nia up against the chapel door and interposing herself between the devil and all she holds holy. Sword of justice steady in her hand, she allows several long moments of silence to dangle, to twist and crackle in the December air before delivering her vanquishing stroke.

“Get out. Now,” Heda growls in Nia’s ear.

The deposed-Headmistress doesn’t argue, doesn’t even look back over her shoulder as she flees inside the building.

The chapel may well swallow her darkness whole— no one sees Nia ever again.

Ever, ever again.

It’s only Lexa and Clarke left standing on the balcony when Heda turns to her ransomed flock, innumerable and shining across the kingdom of their heaven with self-generating light.

“We fight for what we believe in,” the Head Girl booms out. “Oso na gon raun gon chit oso in. Together, we are strong!”

There isn’t a millisecond of hesitation.

“Ogeda, oso ste yuj!” rings back the mighty chorus, echoing across the earth and skies, and for the first time, Clarke watches Lexa affirm the amended response alongside her peers.

Hands slip down to hands, fingers joining together before Lexa lifts them above their heads so that every row, every contingent, and every battalion of warriors can see.

"Oso throu daun ogeda en oso kik thru ogeda,” Clarke calls out her once-foreign words from the Remembrance service and they’re translated back twice as loud by her reigning Warrior Queen

“We fight together and we survive together!”

Years later, Clarke will continue to insist that Lexa leapt to the top of the railing in a single bound (even if her wife will continue to refute it with a fond roll of her eyes), wind whipping and frosted breath pluming around her as she punches her fist into the air.

She’s Boudica and she’s Flidais and every other goddess, too, deadly warrior and queen and soft, sunshine-scented girl.

“Kom war!” Heda shouts from on high and that’s it.

That’s the hosanna that blends thousands of exultations into melodious chord, the voice that rises in descant to bind joyful strains into triumph song, the single word—okay, two words — they’ve been waiting for: the war cry that wins the restless battle.  

The sun breaks free of its bonds, spilling over pleasant pasture and rolling hills.

The clouds unfold across the lofty skies and the chapel bell sounds out.

It sounds out for them all.

They storm the grounds, war cry transfigured into deafening war whoops, clapping and hooting and forceful embraces between neighbours. They trample over the Holy Ground, up the chapel steps and into the glorious day, this bloodless revolution where the only shots that ring out are from eager photographers, the only screams the ones shouted for their Heda and for themselves. 

Clarke coaxes Lexa down from the precarious ledge where she stands in victory, breathless and flushed pink with adrenaline. Her eyes are aflame with unfettered sunbeams as she jumps down, her expression resplendent and incandescent and every other pretty word Clarke will spend years collecting without ever finding one worthy enough, a lifetime trying to paint without ever coming close.

Foreheads drop to foreheads and Lexa trails the most gentle fingers in the whole universe down her cheek. “Clarke.”

Around them, there’s acclamation and wild abandon, the rumble of celebrants racing up both sides of the steps, but Clarke hears only the sound of Lexa’s heart, beating in her own chest.

“May I…?” Lexa asks in the softest whisper, in a space all of their own.

“I’m going to insist on it,” Clarke can only croak out.

Below, the cheering and ruckus of the shining throng swells even louder when, up on the balcony, their backbone and lynchpin, their dayspring and their Commander pulls her girlfriend into an exultant kiss.

“Thank you,” Lexa murmurs, no two words ever more saturated with gravitas. Their foreheads are still connected and their lips are so close together that they brush together with every syllable. “Thank you for reminding me of our strength. Thank you for fighting for me.”

“Thank you for being my fight.” Clarke takes a solemn nip of that beautiful lower lip and laughs at the sensation of Lexa’s smile inside her teeth.

“I think you’ll find that it’s you who is my fight,” Lexa contends once she has the capacity, raising her hand in salute before taking a long, contented inhalation from the sanctuary of Clarke’s neck.

“Ai haiplana.”

They stand entangled for a silent eternity, queens and commanders, each of them, heedless of the crowd forming around them. Lexa threads her fingers through blonde strands, tugging out the neat hair bauble and making her own tangles, and Clarke breathes in the never-setting sunshine radiating out from her skin.

“Ai Boudica.”

--

Their little bubble doesn’t hold long; it can’t.

They’re rapidly inundated by Prefects, Old Girls, reporters, parents and girls, racing up the steps and though she’s surprise to learn that they’re there for her too, Clarke sneaks away after a squeeze of Lexa’s hand. A veritable mob closes in around the Head Girl, clamoring for attention, but she holds up a single finger and finds Clarke’s gaze, silently checking that she’s alright. Clarke tries waving off the unnecessary concern but it’s only once Lexa finds what she’s looking for in her eyes that her girlfriend shifts her attention back to her adoring horde.

Pulling up her hood, Clarke prepares to wade through the sea of victors but it turns out to be unnecessary: her Godfather is already waiting for her, right at the bottom of the stone steps. His eyes are so kind, his expression so proud that she takes one look at him and bursts into tears.

Before she knows it, Clarke’s riding out her adrenaline crash in the warmth of Marcus’ arms, in the embrace of this man she hardly knows but who’s known her all her life, this man who travelled across the country to have her back in battle.

“Your parents would be so proud of you,” he tells her, his beard soft against her temple. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks for coming,” Clarke eventually manages around a sniff, pulling back and wiping her face with her elbow.

Marcus completes the task with a clean tissue from his pocket and smiles fondly down at her as she clenches her jaw to keep herself from crying again. “Of course. I’ve been giving you your space, but I want you to know that I’ll always be here for you. I can’t wait to get to know you properly.”

“I’d like that, too,” she admits, brushing away a fresh tear.

Their attention is captured by graceful footsteps coming down the stairs and Marcus’ smile immediately deepens. “I look forward to getting to know you, too, Lexa. I’m thrilled you’re joining us for the holidays.”

Lexa shakes his proffered hand but her eyes are on Clarke, no doubt spying the tracks of her tears. Clarke grins and takes her hand, squeezing it in reassurance.

“Thank you for the invitation, Professor Kane. I look forward to making your acquaintance, as well—Clarke mentioned a book you’re writing, it sounds fascinating.”

“Interesting you should say that; today’s events have actually inspired me to take it in another direction. I’d love your input, if you’re willing. Clarke tells me you’re well-versed in the history of female education. Polis might make an ideal case study.”

Lexa’s eyes light up. “I’d be honoured; I’ll bring along the research I’ve been curating about the school’s early years.”

“Brilliant!”

“Oh god, this is all we’re going to be talking about all Christmas break, isn’t it?” Clarke pretends to complain but her lips won’t stop their dorky smiling.

“Speaking of which, would you ladies be free to leave tonight?” Marcus asks, glancing around them. “I know we’d planned on you taking the train tomorrow but since I’m here…”

“We can do that,” Clarke confirms after a swift glance over at Lexa. Quite a queue has begun to form behind them, but Lexa acknowledges them with a gentle nod and returns her attention on Clarke and her guardian. “Hey, how did you even know to come up today?”

“Ah—do you remember my research assistant, Maya? She got word through her Old Girls network and we decided to drive up together. She’s around here somewhere—ah, right, over there.”

Marcus waves at a pretty brunette woman across the Quad and Clarke snickers to herself as Lexa pales, and then blushes, and then blushes on top of that blush.

“In any case, we’ll all have plenty of time to chat on the ride home. For now, I’m eager to continue an earlier conversation with Professor Yu before she leaves, if you don’t mind excusing me.”

Marcus rubs Clarke’s arm once more before fighting his away against the crowd, and she plants a quick peck on Lexa’s lips before leaving her to her fans and wandering off to find her friends.

Octavia is nowhere to be seen but Raven’s easy enough to spot, standing on the steps of the cloisters and gaping at something in the distance.

“Raven! That was—” Clarke squeals once she’s made it through all the congratulations and hugs enroute.

“Clarke. Clarke.”

“What? Raven, we did it, you were awesome up in the bell tower! I can’t believe we—”

Raven only tugs at her sleeve. “Clarke.” She still hasn’t torn her eyes away from whatever she’s staring at and while Clarke tries to follow her stare, all she sees are hundreds upon hundreds of ecstatic girls and some boys milling around awkwardly.

Ah, there’s Octavia.

And yep, she’s definitely snogging the life out of Lincoln. The poor dude looks shocked, his hands splayed in the air and his shoulders lifted high in surprise.

Nearby, an older brother glowers.

But Raven’s not looking at either of the Blakes.

“The big bang, Clarke!”

“Um. Pardon?”

“I feel it. Fuck, I feel it now. Look at her boobs, Clarke! Her boobs!”

“What? Whose boobs?” Clarke narrows her eyes when she sees Lexa vaguely in Raven’s line of sight. “Oh my god, please don’t tell me your sexual awakening involves my girlfriend’s breasts.”

Raven crinkles her nose and waves away the notion with a sweep of her hand. “Not those ones. The ones on the fit-as-fuck goddess she’s hugging.”

Clarke squints. “Is that…Anya?” Lexa’s eyes are wide in the embrace and Clarke suspects it’s not a normal occurrence between the two girls.

“Anya Wasti,” Raven repeats and yeah, her voice could actually be described as dreamy at this point. “I want to fuck her against that wall—that one, right there—and then…like…gently kiss her neck for a week.”

“Wow. Okay.” Clarke tries to edge away and leave her lovestruck—lust-struck?—friend alone with her thoughts but Raven clamps a hand around her arm.

“I really want to bury my head between her tits.”

“I…”

“Lick her tummy button.”

“Gross, Raven.”

“You know, sometimes stars explode and their remnants form new ones. Bigger ones. Smoking-hot ones.”

Clarke blinks. “How about I introduce myself to Anya and you come with?”

Raven giggles—giggles—and then blushes. Blushes. “What? No! I…but she’s so…and her thighs, Clarke, they could probably snap me in half like a twig and oh god, I’d be okay with that. And her cheek bones. I could get off against those cheekbones alone.”

“Come on. But you seriously can’t say any of that to her.”

(Raven doesn’t manage to form a single intelligible noise in their conversation.)

(It’s probably for the best)

--

Dr. Peters appears on the balcony in the midst of their revelry and makes his choir cut-off gesture; it takes the revelers a little while to notice, but eventually the chattering tapers off and everyone squints up through the sunlight.

“Well, are we holding our carol service or not?” he asks the crowd.

Approving applause rings out below and he claps his hands together twice, all business though his beard proves useless at concealing a grin. “Choir—inside the chapel now, please. Chop, chop. Girls and everyone else, we start at 3pm. As always.” 

It ends up being the most disjointed, disordered Christmas service Polis has probably ever held.

There’s no printed programme booklet or real rehearsal, the chapel packed to the rafters and doors flung open for the overflow in the Quad. Katherine sings her solo from the altar instead of the balcony because of space contraints, Dr. Peters calls out the carol hymn numbers from the organ room, quite likely choosing them as he goes, and the nine lessons are delivered by members of the choir from their seats.

The Head Girl covers the traditional role of the headmistress, many of the anthems are sung acapella, and holy communion gets skipped altogether.

It ends up, without a doubt, being the most beautiful, magical Christmas service Polis has ever held.  

They chant their venerations with fire in their lungs, sing their ancient songs of praise as a single body, drum out their celebration of life eternal as one heart—one in fighting and one in rejoicing.

The sun’s beginning to set by the time the candles are passed around, laying siege to the encroaching darkness. It takes only one candle to illuminate a thousand; one Head Girl’s flame, passed on and on, down the rows, up the stairs to the gallery and out the doors until their whole world is aglow.

(Electric flames have nothing on how Lexa’s face reflects real candlelight)

“As it was in the beginning!” Heda calls out, no need to look down at her prayer book.

“Is now and every shall be! World without end!”

The Three Kings may have crossed deserts for the light of their star but Clarke doesn’t think anything could possibly instill more wonder and awe, more belief in magic and goodness of humanity, than the immeasurable heavens shining in Lexa’s eyes across the choir stalls.  

“Amen!”

Their candles remain lit as the organ chords of the School Blessing start up, the hymn Polis has sung at the end of every term for more than a century and will continue on singing for centuries more. There isn’t a dry eye in the house as one half of the chapel sings out the first line and the other half echoes the next, calling and responding until they come together on the refrain.

God be with you till we meet again,
Keep love’s banner floating o’er you,
Smite death’s threat’ning wave before you,
God be with you till we meet again.

Till we meet, till we meet, 
till we meet at Jesus' feet; 
till we meet, till we meet, 
God be with you till we meet again. 

“Till we meet again!” the Head Girl proclaims in closing, and they rise to their feet like a well-oiled machine. The choir file out and converge in front of the altar, heralded down the aisle by the sound of the processional organ, deep and potent and resonating.

Outside, the golden evening brightens in, the chapel bells ring out, and the inheritors march on; on with their day and on with their fight, their Commander leading the way.

--

It makes the news, this victory march, this demonstration of female strength, these girls lifting each other up until they can all touch the starry firmament. It makes the local papers, it makes the national news, it makes the international press.

The Romans don’t conquer. Not this time.

This Boudica, these warriors win their war.

(It still doesn’t mean their fight is over.)  

(Their fight goes on and on and on.)

The first time Lucy sees them together, they’re sitting on thrones, presiding over their realm with piercing stares and plaited crowns in their hair. Their subjects are spread at their feet, a vast multitude of them, wide-eyed and obedient. There’s something sacred about the pair of them, from the crimson cloaks draped over their shoulders to the way they move as a single unit, as if something higher has endowed them with their perfect posture and right to rule, as if a single glance could strike her dead.

Or at least it feels that way.

All the other girls know what they’re doing and it’s only fair—they hadn’t shown up a term and three days late, they’re accustomed to these rituals, to this posh boarding school with its fancy uniforms and tennis courts.

Lucy hasn’t ever worn anything other than stretched out polo-necks and cheap black trousers in her various overcrowded state schools, much less picked up a tennis racket. And here she is, plaid skirt and properly fitting tights, leather Mary Janes and starched shirt with a funny round collar. It’s surreal. There’s even a massive wool cloak in her wardrobe—she has her own wardrobe—although she hasn’t figured out what it’s for. She’s only seen the two girls up on stage wear them and besides, those are a different colour than hers.  

She supposes she could ask her new roommate—the smiley girl had certainly bent over backward to welcome her to the school last night—but that’s not how Lucy operates.

Lucy does things on her own

She’s nothing if not self-reliant.

It’s not like she’s ever had a choice; it’s not like manky inner-city council estates and negligent mothers reward neediness, it’s not like years in the foster care system have proven that she can trust anyone but herself. Lucy’s no stranger to moving around homes and schools, to the inevitable bullying and judgments, and though this Polis scholarship gives her the chance to stay in one place until she ages out of the system, she knows it’s an impossible dream.

Something always goes wrong, something entirely outside of her control.

Still.

Still, she’s young and still that tiny spark of hope refuses to die, no matter how many times it’s stamped out.

(Maybe this time will be different.)

(Maybe if she keeps to herself, maybe if she doesn’t get on anyone’s nerves, maybe if she makes herself invisible, maybe she’ll be lucky…)

(Maybe, this time…)

The teachers file in and stand in front of their chairs once the girls are all seated on the floor of the oddly-beautiful gym. The Headmaster is already at his podium to the right of the two girls on stage, his black academic gown and serious expression a sharp contrast to the man who’d buried her in a bear hug—after asking her permission, no less—when her case worker had dropped her off at Cordelia House last night.

The dark-haired deity stands, quickly followed by the rest of the school and the blonde goddess at her side.

“Good morning, girls.”

“Good morning, Heda.”

Everyone sits and Lucy watches the two distant goddesses run the assembly, seamlessly going back and forth in their post-Christmas announcements. Dr. Peters delivers his own messages, too, but he’s part of the whole rather than presiding over the proceedings.

Once they finish with their agenda, Heda—this school’s name for the Head Girl, apparently—invites the staff and students to pose questions or add their own announcements, as if they’re all parts of the whole, like this is a school run for the girls, by the girls.

Some emotion blossoms across Lucy’s chest, a feeling she’ll one day name as empowerment but associates only with danger right now. She doesn’t know how to cope with being part of a whole—she’s never been part of a whole, just wholly apart and alone. It’s the only way she survives.

“Let us pray,” Dr. Peters says and the girls bow their heads. Lucy doesn’t close her eyes during the Lord’s Prayer, though; she can’t.

Up on stage, the blonde catches her hypervigilant gaze and Lucy freezes, caught. She only shoots Lucy a fond smile though, as if there’s some secret between them, and Lucy manages to shut her eyes before the Head Girl notices, finally remembering the flaxen-haired girl’s title from the Introduction to Trigedasleng leaflet on her pillow last night.

Wanheda.

Deputy Head Girl.

Commander-in-death.

Of course. These are the girls everyone’s whispering about like they’re holy beings walking amongst mere mortals but Lucy sees that she hasn’t gotten that quite right, now.

She’s been at Polis School for Girls less than 24 hours but it’s hard to miss the level of excitement and comradery that permeates the red brick building and all its inhabitants. It’s more than friends simply returning after the holidays, the level of devotion to their Head Girl and the first Deputy Head Girl in the school’s history more than perfunctory.

It’s more like every single girl in this school is a mythic warrior in her own right, like they’ve come together to fight a war and won, these two battle queens at the helm. More than schoolmates, more than conquerors, part of something more—something much bigger than themselves,

What strikes Lucy the most, though, as she peeks her eyes open again, is how soft the two co-leaders are. How vulnerable and human, amongst their power. Wanheda reaches over and brushes her fingers against Heda’s hand and there’s such a gentle smile on the brunette’s lips as she draws nearer until they’re shoulder-to-shoulder.

They’re the fiercest of warriors and they’re the softest of girls and something shifts in Lucy’s armored little heart. Something that tells her that maybe she could wield this same power, that vulnerability doesn’t always mean being weak. That she can be part of this whole that is Polis and maybe even sit where those two sit one day.

(Maybe Lucy has the power to make this time different. Maybe hiding away isn’t the answer; maybe there’s another way)

Heda and Wanheda stand and the girls are swift to mirror the action.

“Oso na gon raun gon chit oso in!” Heda calls out, the words resounding through the wooden beams in the ceiling and through the parquet floor. Her hand is clasped together with Wanheda, above their heads.

“We fight for what we believe in!” Wanheda translates just as loudly.

Their fingers don’t separate, even when they’re back at their sides again.

“Ogeda, oso ste yuj!” the girls shout back, firepower in their invocation, each of them armed and ready to fight their well-fought day.

Lucy right alongside them, even if it’ll take some time before she can call it out for herself.

(Alone, she’s weak, but maybe together…)

“Together, we are strong!”