Fixing Clexa's story to give them an ending they deserved (an *ending, not the journey they deserved). They are clearly endgame but it turned into a bit more of an adult-themed journey to get there so just a warning it takes a slightly dark turn ar...
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The chill in Lexa's bones grips her like the grim reaper himself is wrapping his icy fingers around her limbs.
She rocks slightly under her furs still in the fetal position, her legs rubbing together for friction to generate warmth. She doesn't know how long it's been – she can't tell if the sun is up yet and there's only the slightest noises of the first bodies starting to move around camp. Despite the dry clothes, her hair is still damp, and the pillow soaked from its wetness keeps a constant chill over her skin.
The night hours have tortured her to no end, with Bellamy's words now mixing with Luna's. She's been replaying every moment she can remember between her and Clarke before the mountain, trying to dissuade her spiraling thoughts but there's just enough to confirm them as there is to counter.
Clarke begging for Lexa to spare Finn's life, pleading that he only did it for her, because of her. Knowing now that knife had been there in her hand, initially meant for herself. Lexa remembers Clarke's expression as she walked away from a slumped lifeless Finn, the unmistakable pain of heartbreak on her face.
Clarke was so worried about Bellamy inside Mt. Weather disabling the acid fog – "I couldn't have kept us alive all this time without him, we need him." Or was it just Clarke who had needed him? Clarke had been so scared of losing him too. Lexa had sensed it even then. 'You care about him,' She had said to Clarke in her tent. She felt it in her gut. It was there. It must have been there. She just wouldn't let herself see it.
Her paranoia has twisted her rationality to the point where she curses herself for letting Clarke in enough to affect her like this at all.
She hates how much she needs Clarke right now, how much she cares what Clarke would do if she was here, how much she regrets making Clarke stay behind.
She hates how nothing seems right without Clarke there.
She hates how utterly pathetic this all makes her feel.
This is exactly why I'm meant to be alone. A Commander can't rely on someone else like this.
She can't bring herself to turn and look, let alone yell at whoever just walked into her tent. She waits for them to announce themselves, but they don't. Instead the person hovers at the foot of her bed for a few minutes, watching the commander balled up in bed shivering.
"What...d-do...you w-want." She manages to get out slowly, not bothering to lift her head. Her muscles feel as sore as they would during wartime, begging for relief when she'd collapse at the end of a long day wielding her swords, cutting through flesh and bone. At least the physical pain is familiar, preferred even, instead of the hurricane raging inside of her that she's entirely unequipped to face. The cream and brown furs are tucked tight under her chin with her hand, trying to seal herself into her nest of bedding.
