Clarke’s feet move slowly, surely, her ears quick to pick up each little sound that echoes out through the halls of Polis tower. She pauses by the bend though, and she lets her eyes adjust to the dimmed lights, to the torches that still burn, that flicker and send their shadows across the stone that cools her feet.
It only takes her a moment longer before her ears pick up the telltale drip, the telltale sound of her prey and so she lets her breath slow, she lets her mind ease into the motions she knows she must make, must execute to succeed.
And so she slips forward, each shadow swallowing her as she moves from crook to crook through the halls, her furs muffling each step she takes. She feels the excitement too, she feels the thrill, the beating of her heart and she can’t help but to let the smile sneak its way upon her lips as she rounds the last of the bends in the hall.
And she sees it.
She sees the woman walking down the hall, a towel wrapped around slender shoulders and muscled arms, the glint of water beads catching the light enough to send slivers of brightness bouncing across the stone.
Clarke pauses once more though, and she eyes the woman’s step, the way she pauses mid motion, for just long enough that Clarke knows her presence is sensed.
And so she lunges, she dashes from the shadows, but she knows her presence is registered, is recognised, is categorised and reacted to. And so the woman snaps around swiftly, one hand clutching at the towel as her eyes dart from shadow to shadow, and Clarke sees the eyes snap to hers, she sees the frustration, the annoyance, the subtle shock.
But she doesn’t quite care.
And so they crash together, but Clarke feels the woman roll, she feels the woman brace herself, absorb the shock of the impact and fall backwards with ease, with too much ease for how undressed she may be.
Clarke’s hand snatches out for purchase then, if only because she feels the woman slipping away, she feels the woman snaking out of her grasp, out of her reach.
And before she knows it, Clarke finds herself pinned to the ground, a knee pressed to her throat, a hand raised, poised and ready to strike.
“You will have to do better than that if you are to sneak up on me,” the woman says simply, her eyes flashing in the torch light.
“I knew it,” Clarke hisses in turn, and she is sure she sees the woman’s lips turn up at the corners just a little as her hand lowers, as her breathing settles easily, quickly.
“You knew what?” the woman questions, the raising of a chin and the quirking of an eyebrow all that she lets free.
“I knew you were stealing my towels,” Clarke says as she comes to sit up, her hand reaching out to inspect the warmth and the softness of the towel still clinging to the woman’s body.
And so the woman smiles, she leans forward just a little, just enough that her lips brush against the scars that slash down Clarke’s forehead.
“It is not my fault your towels were simply mixed up with the others,” Lexa says.