heda | clexa

fifteen

The day is warm and sunny, but in front of the food stand, the air is thick with smoke. Clarke’s elbows are leaned on the counter as she watches the guy behind the counter grill tender meat. Lexa stands besides her, hands clasped behind her back, shoulders squared as always, eyes down. 

“Can I have a beer, too?” Clarke asks and Lexa’s eyes snap up.

“Please,” she hisses, looking around uncomfortably. 

“What?”

“Use ‘please’- wait, no, you aren’t allowed alcohol.”

Clarke raises her brow, head turned to Lexa as she’s still leaned forward, tattooed forearms exposed as her shirt is rolled up to her elbows.

God, she has strong arms.

“No alcohol?”

“No!”

“Well… whatcha gonna do about it?”

“Clarke-”

The guy behind the counter shakes his head. “Women like you shouldn’t drink beer.”

“Listen, I’m paying you, so you better hand me what I ask for.”

“I’m paying,” Lexa mutters unhappily. 

“Beer is for men. Your body isn’t even equipped to handle that.”

Clarke’s jaw drops and she scoffs an unbelieving laugh. “Beer is for men? Who the fuck makes it, then? And my body isn’t equipped to handle it? If you don’t give me my fucking beer right now, I’m about to show you what my body is equipped for.”

The man shakes his head again and slides a mug of beer across the counter, a sneering grin on his face. “If you insist, little girl.”

Clarke pushes herself off the counter, body tense with anger, but before she can charge at the vendor, Lexa’s hand digs into her shoulder and holds her back. “Clarke. Don’t.”

Clarke pushes Lexa away, blue eyes burning slits. “I’m not going to be treated like that,” she hisses. “So stay away from me.”

“That’s not how it works here.”

“Then that’s how I’m going to make it work.”

The man laughs. “See? You’re so emotional that you’re going straight to drama over a fuckin’ beer.”

Clarke turns away from Lexa and faces him, stomach boiling. Her fingers curl around her dagger. The fear that flashes across the man’s face when she draws it is deliciously satisfying. 

He reaches for the sword at the wall, but as he moves, Clarke throws the knife. This one isn't a killshot, however. As he curls on the floor, his crotch bleeds dark red and he bites his lip bloody to silence a scream. Clarke grins, elegantly jumps over the counter to retrieve the knife, stabbing him between the legs once more and grabbing a properly-sized jug of beer on her way back. 

But the scene in front of the food stand has changed; a group of prisoners has crowded in on the tent. Lexa still stands at her previous spot, now surrounded, body frozen, eyes on Clarke’s. Lexa’s expressions are unchanged, but her eyes are- what? Fearful, hateful, angry, pleading? Clarke can’t tell. She has no time to think about it.

“Well, hello, what can I do for you?” Clarke asks as she jumps back on the other side of the counter, leaning against it nonchalantly, taking a sip of her beer. 

But the men don’t seem to be particularly interested in talking. "Fucking bitch, you'll pay for this," one mutters and moves to punch her, but it’s untrained, unskilled, uncoordinated. Clarke twists his arm with ease and brings him to his knees with no more than a single kick.