“She liked pretty words. Novellas of timeless romance and tragic death stuck to her walls to hide the bullet holes. Stories of broken vases and dishonest prophets. Like the Medusa of skirts and well wishes, those who looked into her eyes became footnotes in an already bloodied and beautiful tale.”
The expectant look on Lexa’s face after she says thank you to Clarke for backing her up. She gathers up the courage to say this, she swallows her pride, she wants Clarke to know how grateful she is for her. She believes Clarke did this because she cares for her and her safety. She’s probably expecting her to say “I couldn’t watch you die, Lexa. I care for you. You are my people.” She can barely hold herself together, because this is such an intimate moment between this woman whom she loves. She fucking loves this girl. In a way she has only felt once before. But Clarke turns it around and says she did it for /her/ people. Not as in Lexa is her people, but as in /Clarke’s/ people it was best to save Lexa in any way possible.
And Lexa’s face fucking drops.
Like she can’t even hold Clarke’s gaze anymore she has to look down and she blinks multiple times. She swallows because suddenly her mouth has gone dry and she needs some form of liquid to coat the endless desert that is her mouth. She was not expecting that remark, but of course that’s the remark she gets, because OF COURSE, Lexa, Clarke doesn’t love you like that. That’s simply not possible. Who are you kidding, Lexa? Why would you ever think of such a thing. Clarke sees you as cold and hard and reckless at times, emotionless and a betrayer and she will never trust you again. You had your shot, Lexa. You ruined it. Because that’s the life of Heda. This is what the gods have gifted you. A lonely life.