Good. ( the chilly buzz of disbelief, then the cold hum of reawakened grief clarke had experienced in the last twenty minutes has begun to give way to the delightful, warm and tingly sensation in her chest. it's happiness washing over relief, folding back in on itself to bring her as close to giddy as she could get while a tears still wet her eyelashes. her thumbs brush soft lines along the cut of lexa's cheekbones almost unconsciously, each stroke affirmation that the other woman was real, solid, and here. not going anywhere — ) Me neither.
( there's weight in those two words: regrets for staying in polis for as long as she had, to the point titus had resorted to desperate measures to be rid of her, and resentment for ever having to leave. remorse for the world being the way it was (had been?), and their circumstances preventing them from ever getting to know each other without the shadow of command and responsibility hanging above their heads. once upon a time, they'd spoken of a life where they owed nothing more to their people. and now, clarke can't help selfishly thinking this pseudo-afterlife might be it.
clarke leans back a little, just enough to get a good look at lexa's face without going crosseyed from proximity. she is as beautiful in their alien disguise as she'd been in armor; as formidable with wet, earnest eyes and a small smile as with black war paint, wielding a sword. there's a rush of sentiments that can't make it past her teeth; clarke nips at her lower lip, undecided if she should try to voice any of the swirling thoughts in her head, momentarily forgetting they were wont to bleed over anyway — black blood seeping through cloth and staining her fingers, that bulldogged determination to fix this, the crushing realization she couldn't; murphy's hands on her shoulders trying to guide her away and that anger at the very implication. wanting to die. may we meet again.
and now they had. words would never be enough to describe simultaneously what it had felt like losing her, and what it felt like now being given a second chance. so clarke just leans in, squeezes her eyes tight, and bumps their noses together gently.
they've only ever kissed in times of high emotion, and yet this time feels like so, so much more. clarke's mouth is dry, her lips quivering. it's the kiss of the tentatively desperate, of those teetering on the edge of a cliff and too scared to see how far they would end up falling; of someone who expects the worse when she opens her eyes, and thus cannot lose herself completely in the pleasant spark of heat that swells in her chest like a balloon. it's a mirror to that last kiss they'd shared, where she'd felt lexa's death rattle against her mouth.
but this is a hello kiss, and when clarke allows her mouth to part, darts her tongue out to drag across lexa's lower lip, there's no suppressing the shiver that rockets up her spine. )
no subject
( there's weight in those two words: regrets for staying in polis for as long as she had, to the point titus had resorted to desperate measures to be rid of her, and resentment for ever having to leave. remorse for the world being the way it was (had been?), and their circumstances preventing them from ever getting to know each other without the shadow of command and responsibility hanging above their heads. once upon a time, they'd spoken of a life where they owed nothing more to their people. and now, clarke can't help selfishly thinking this pseudo-afterlife might be it.
clarke leans back a little, just enough to get a good look at lexa's face without going crosseyed from proximity. she is as beautiful in their alien disguise as she'd been in armor; as formidable with wet, earnest eyes and a small smile as with black war paint, wielding a sword. there's a rush of sentiments that can't make it past her teeth; clarke nips at her lower lip, undecided if she should try to voice any of the swirling thoughts in her head, momentarily forgetting they were wont to bleed over anyway — black blood seeping through cloth and staining her fingers, that bulldogged determination to fix this, the crushing realization she couldn't; murphy's hands on her shoulders trying to guide her away and that anger at the very implication. wanting to die. may we meet again.
and now they had. words would never be enough to describe simultaneously what it had felt like losing her, and what it felt like now being given a second chance. so clarke just leans in, squeezes her eyes tight, and bumps their noses together gently.
they've only ever kissed in times of high emotion, and yet this time feels like so, so much more. clarke's mouth is dry, her lips quivering. it's the kiss of the tentatively desperate, of those teetering on the edge of a cliff and too scared to see how far they would end up falling; of someone who expects the worse when she opens her eyes, and thus cannot lose herself completely in the pleasant spark of heat that swells in her chest like a balloon. it's a mirror to that last kiss they'd shared, where she'd felt lexa's death rattle against her mouth.
but this is a hello kiss, and when clarke allows her mouth to part, darts her tongue out to drag across lexa's lower lip, there's no suppressing the shiver that rockets up her spine. )