Chapter Text
The door slid open with a sharp hiss and Clarke stepped inside, the quiet pressing in too tightly around her. The room sat in an uneasy stillness, shadows clinging to the corners and the thick scent of blood grasping the air.
A figure slumped in a chair.
"Murphy?"
His head hung forward, dark hair falling over his sweating forehead, wrists bound tight with rope that dug into reddened skin. Clarke darted across the setting in seconds, boots striking against the rich, wooden flooring as she dropped to her knees reaching for the knots.
A voice emerged, splitting through the shadows like a blade. "Please don't do that."
Clarke froze.
From the dim edge of the room, a figure stepped forward. His right arm tucked close, but the shape which sat beneath his sleeve was distinct. His eyes locked onto Clarke, steady and determined.
"Titus... what is this?"
"I'm sorry it had to come to this Clarke. Truly, I am." Titus claimed.
Murphy stirred at the voice, a low groan breaking from his throat, lifting his head slightly and blinking through the haze.
Titus's arm raised. A gun snapping into view. Before Clarke could form a sentence, a gunshot exploded through the air. She jerked back, the bullet striking the delicately furnished wood of her bed frame which had once felt like home. The crack rang through her skull as she stumbled, breath tearing from her lungs.
The second shot followed. Closer.
Her body dropped low on instinct. Splintered wood scraped against her palms as her hands found the leg of a chair. Her muscles strained as the weight tore free from the floor with a harsh screech, swinging it forward with everything she had until the impact landed solid.
A sharp grunt ripped from Titus as the force drove into him and his foot slipped out from under him. However, he was fast. Ruthless.
The third shot fired, ricocheting off the walls.
Clarke didn't wait. She ran.
The door loomed ahead, safety sat just a few strides away.
It slid open with a rapid swing and the recognisable figure of her lover stood faintly in the frame.
Lexa.
The sound of the shots echoing before her, her eyes found Clarke instantly. Fear flashing, sharp and unguarded for a single moment. "Clarke!"
Clarke didn't slow. She ran straight toward her, toward what she thought was safety. Her breath uneven as the footsteps consumed the narrow space between them.
Lexa's hands came up fast, fingers tightening around Clarke's shaking arms, grounding her. The atmosphere settled. Clarke's pulse thundered in her ears. The fabric of Lexa's sleeve clasped beneath her grip and their breaths collided in the space between them close enough to share.
A boot scraped against the damaged floor, cloth whispering behind the shook blonde.
Lexa's gaze flicked past her shoulder. Her body still. Not frozen, set.
Lexa's grip on Clarke manoeuvred, not holding her back now but anchoring her in place. Keeping her exactly where she was.
Clarke's brow furrowed. "Lexa?"
Her eyes locked onto Clarke with a hint of sorrow. Every edge of her expression softened, something unspoken settling into her eyes. Her thumb grazed once against Clarke's arm, barely, but there. The air tightened as Lexa locked her vision onto the movement behind her. Time fracturing.
The brunette moved almost instantly. Stepping forward and placing herself directly in Clarke's path. Her hands clinging onto Clarke, steadying her. For a heartbeat, nothing else existed. Just the space between them.
Then—
A gunshot split through the ambience, breaking the moment between the two.
The impact drove into Lexa. A sharp, brutal force jolting her body as her breath now sat hard in her chest.
For a fractured second, Clarke swore she felt something else. Warmth, steady and familiar, Lexa's breath against her lips as the room slipped away.
Not splintered wood or gunfire, but candlelight, low and golden, flickering against stone walls.
The tension in the room melted into something quieter. Something softer. The weight of the world pressed somewhere far beyond the walls that held them.
—
Dim light flickered low, gold spilling across bare skin and tangled sheets. The air carried the faint trace of smoke and oil, but beneath it something warmer.
Clarke lay on her side, her fingers tracing the evident ink along Lexa's spine. Lexa didn't pull away. "This is beautiful." Clarke murmured, her voice barely louder than the space between them.
Lexa stilled. Not pulling away, but not leaning in, either. "I got it on my ascension day. A circle for every natblida that died, when the commander chose me."
Clarke's fingers slowed, following the pattern more carefully now. Counting.
"Seven circles," she said softly. "I thought you said there were nine officiates at your conclave."
A pause settled between them.
Lexa's breath shifted. "There were."
Clarke's hand stilled completely against her back.
"What happened to number eight?"
Silence stretched. Not empty but tight.
Lexa's eyes closed, her brow tightening just slightly as something unspoken pressed forward. For a moment, it seemed like she might answer.
Instead, she turned toward Clarke, slow and deliberate.
"Can we talk about something else?"
Clarke studied her, something softer settling into her expression. A small smile touching her lips.
"We don't have to talk at all."
The tension eased. Shifting into something quieter.
Lexa's gaze flicked between Clarke's eyes, searching, like she was committing something to memory. Then she smiled—faint, but real.
Her hand came up, resting lightly at Clarke's side as she leaned in.
The kiss was unhurried and gentle.
—
The soft skin of Lexa's lips was slowly replaced by a dull echo of shaky breath, snapping Clarke out of it and back into splintered wood, gunfire and the weight of her lover collapsing in her arms.
"Lexa!"
The name broke out of her, sharp and uneven as she tightened her grip, dragging Lexa closer before she could slip any further. Her hands pressed hard against the wound trying to stem the heat spilling between her fingers.
"Hey, you're going to be okay. Just stay with me," Clarke's voice wavered despite the force she tried to hold in it. "Stay with me."
Lexa's head dipped forward, her breath shallow against Clarke's shoulder, but her eyes still searching unto they met Clarkes
For a moment, everything else fell away again, not into memory this time but into something narrower. The space between them shrunk to nothing but breath and blood and the fragile thread still holding.
Lexa's lips parted, a faint hitch in her chest as she tried to pull in air. "Clarke..."
"I'm here." Clarke shifted, one hand leaving the wound just long enough to cradle the side of Lexa's face, grounding her, keeping her there. "I'm here."
A flicker of something passed through Lexa's expression. Her fingers twitching weakly against Clarke's arm before tightening.
Clarke swallowed hard, forcing herself to think past the panic clawing up her throat. "Hey heda, don't you dare give up on me," she said which sounded more like a command than reassurance. "Do you hear me? Don't you dare give up."
Behind them, the room still echoed with the aftermath of footsteps and movement but it felt distant, almost irrelevant. All that mattered was the blood still warm beneath her hands.
"Pressure," Clarke muttered to herself, shifting both hands back to the wound and pressing harder despite the way Lexa's body tensed at the contact.
Lexa's gaze didn't leave Clarke, a breath shuddering through her uneasy figure.
Clarke leaned in closer, her forehead practically touching Lexa's.
Lexa's lips moved—no sound at first. Then, faintly-
"Don't be afraid... the next commander will protect you. "
It was barely there, but it was enough.
Clarke exhaled something that almost felt like defeat, her grip tightening as she adjusted her hold, already planning the next move.
"I don't want the next commander," she said with a tone of sharpness yet sorrow. "I want you."
Clarke pulled back just enough to look at her lover properly forcing herself to stay calm.
"We're getting you out of here."