I haven't written fanfic in like two years but I just completely fell in love the 100 so hopefully you like it x

The shouting is incessant. One loud unrelenting strain of crass Russian swear words, each one accented with thinly translated verses of 'stupid' 'blonde' and 'girl'. Which she found quite endearing and sweet, the woman being so considerate as to ensure she perfectly understood that she was a useless piece of shit. Something that she has come to learn quite quickly, sat amongst what appears to be the backwash of hells waiting room, staring an overweight old woman in the face. Simply trying to fathom any understanding of how she ended up in a Russian holding cell, with nothing to her name but a creased piece of paper with her mothers phone number and an address for the best weed in all of Romania.

Right about now she's really regretting accidently poking this woman in the eye when they shoved her in here, struggling against their disinterested arms as the women around her laughed at her defiance. This was two fucking days ago. In any other situation she'd have to admire the woman's breath control but she is unable to since this woman really won't shut the fuck up.

She's told her to multiple times, with firm hand gestures and a stern look, but apparently the line of communication doesn't go as far as it would seem, each word she uttered being met with a firm moment of silence followed by a continuation of her never ending monologue. It had gotten to the point where at 3am on her first night in dusty assfuck hell she'd stared hungrily at a rusty nail protruding ever so invitingly out of the wall, knowing that a small snag unnoticed and untreated would cause septicaemia. Then the bitch would shut up.

She stares at it now, mouth watering, eyes dilated-

"Griffin"

The accent throws her off; moments' passing by in delirium while a police officer shouts her name. She eventually looks up, the now serene silence of the cell ringing in her ears. A man stands, young and bored, the clean blue of his uniform clashing with the worn grey walls of the cells. A woman stands beside him; almost a head taller in her heals, clicking away at her phone as he opens the cell.

The woman finally manages to prise her eyes from the phone, gaze landing on Clarke, an amused smirk spreading across her face. She stares back, face grim with two days of no sleep- caught between falling to her knees in gratitude and crying in anguish.

"Out of all the people she could of sent" Unable to contain herself she stands, cursing her mother's name "Why you?" she spits.

"I'm really glad to see you too Clarke" Lexa grins predatorily, thrilled at the reception "Is this where you live now? I love what you've done with the place." She says, words tinged with satisfaction as Clarke walks on unsteady feet towards her "Very you" she polishes off with an emphatic nod.

Clarke grimaces, staring at the woman she's loathed and abhorred since she was six years old, a distant cousins best friends sister that she's been blessed with the company of for the majority of her life, through endless family dinners, box socials and the ever prosperous annual hay hoe-down. After countless dead end conversations and forced interaction Clarke had quickly come to the conclusion that Lexa was the most boring person in the world, and being the open and free spirit she is, she had no qualms against showing it. The last years of their constant coupling were spent with purposeful missteps landing on toes, snide remarks made within earshot and the occasional drink accidentally poured into each other's bag.

On the phone later Clarke will berate her mother about this, once again met by an extended rant about how stupid she was for getting herself into this mess in the first place. She'd agree if she could actually remember what got her into this mess in the first place.

"I don't generally speak Russian" Lexa throws over her shoulder, not looking back at the hobbling mess trying to keep up with her far too cheerful footsteps "But I'm pretty sure I heard the words 'drugs' and 'passport'" she stops in her tracks, business suit crisp and harsh against the soft grey of police station hallway "So would you like to tell me why you were trafficking drugs into Moscow?" she quips, eyes alight with amusement and superiority, watching Clarke sputter in shock "And yes you do smell as bad as you think"

Her three day grimace melts into one of confusion, mouth opening on its own accord "Drug trafficking?"

Lexa sighs, impatiently beginning to walk again "Yes Clarke"

She's constantly three days ahead of her, head clear and body clean to the world around her, no bags under her eyes or dirt in her hair, no dust lining her lungs and certainly no conscious thought of empathy towards someone who's literally been to hell and back. If it weren't for the fact the woman was her saviour she'd tackle her to the ground, wipe the shit-eating grin off her face.

"Reminiscing?"

Clarke grits her teeth, fast walks down the entryway steps with all her strength "Where are we going?" she hurls, cutting off the low laugh aimed at her.

"Here" Lexa stops, opening the door to a jet black car, the stoic and bored expression Clarke knows from her childhood returned to her face "Get in"

As much as she hates it with everything within her, Clarke does as she's told, following Lexa's orders at every interval (silently thankful to not be making decisions anymore), until she's sat still grimy and gross in an airport waiting room, the coffee in her hands slowly building her sanity enough to process conscious thought.

Her first thought however is that Lexa is talking, has been talking for a while, the only thing breaking her fog being a pack of wet wipes thrown at her, a quick "Try your best" accenting the dull thud of the packet against her head.

She glares back, placing the coffee down to open the packet, not once removing her glare from the side of Lexa's uncaring head.

She slowly and easily begins to wipe away the grease and dirt caked upon her skin, each wipe heaven sent as she openly moans into the waiting room, Lexa's look of distaste not bothering the seasoned traveller, eyes rolling back into her head as she feels the cool moist rag swipe across her forehead.

"Please stop it" Lexa almost whines, eyes searching the confused faces of the other occupants of the room. This then causes Clarke's moans to become louder, hands aggressively swiping at her armpits.

"Tell me again why you of all people came to get me" she starts, cocky with her new found cleanliness "Another one of your missions for profound superiority?"

Lexa laughs, low, sarcastic and refusing to answer. In response Clarke moans even louder, causing the majority of the room to get up and leave. Lexa's frustration is marked with a muffled curse word "I was in St. Petersburg on business" she says, voice monotone as always "And I just couldn't wait to talk about the good old days" she grins sarcastically "I believe the last time we saw each other was at senior prom and you remarked on how it must be hard for me to dance with a stick up my ass"

"Oh I remember" Clarke laughs "I was very concerned about your condition" she throws the wipes to the chair next to her, leaning forward "Did you ever manage to get it removed?"

There's a pause, a moment of almost consideration "Yes I did actually" Lexa says, unmoving "Round about the time you dropped out of med school and ruined your life"

They sit in silence for the rest of the evening, the journey to the plain a drunken haze of fatigue.

As soon as she sits down on the plain she falls asleep, mouth gaping as she reclines in the seat, Lexa's stiff body sat in silence a seat next to hers.

Clarke wakes up what feels like ten minutes later, hair plastered to the side of her head and mouth tainted with the remnants of three day old borscht. She looks over at the woman throwing pieces of bread at her head, one simultaneously flying off her forehead, and nearly bursts into tears "Why?" falls petulantly from her lips, weak in the face of the war cry she'd rather utter.

Lexa's seems to hold back a smile, a funny look in her eyes that Clarke has the unbearable urge to smack away "We've landed"

"Landed?" she blurts, body smacking against the seat in front, causing an elderly couple to gasp in horror "How long was I asleep?"

"Two hours" she sighs, undoing her seatbelt.

"What?" she gasps, scandalised by the plane's uncaring for her sudden lack of understanding "Where are we?"

"Berlin"

"Berlin?!"

Due to Clarke's inept inability to use an inside voice, Lexa began to explain with varied contempt that yes they were in Berlin, and no this wasn't a flight back to America, and they wouldn't be on a flight to America until Thursday because despite what Clarke may believe, the world did not revolve around her. Which turned into a ten minute argument in passport control because Lexa knew nothing about her and how dare she insinuate that she wasn't self aware, which was replied with of course Clarke was always self-aware, said in such a way as to insinuate that Clarke had a lot of sexual partners. Never one to shy away from a declaration of prowess Clarke had then shouted "You bet your fucking ass I am" in the middle of baggage claim, causing Lexa to ignore her for the remainder of the evening.

An evening which included an awkwardly silent dinner, a half an hour car ride and the checking into and walk up to their shared hotel room. It wasn't until Clarke was faced with the numerous shopping bags that littered the hallway of the room that she turned to Lexa and said with an air of contempt "What the fuck?"

"I had them delivered" she says simply, passing Clarke's frozen body to place her bag down "I told them to google gross backpacker clothes so they should be to your liking" she says, back turned to Clarke as she began to punch numbers into the room's phone.

Clarke just stares, caught between wanting to thank her and tell her to fuck off. She settles for hoarding herself in the bathroom until she can emerge with some resemblance of the human being she once was.

She sleeps for thirteen hours, emerging from her coma at one in the afternoon to a streak of sunlight aimed straight at her right eye, which she quickly rivals with an even better aimed middle finger.

The bed next to her lies empty, sheets folded with almost military style precision, causing Clarke to roll her eyes as she vaguely remembers the mention of a big important meeting thrown into their argument the day prior.

She makes coffee and leaves it on the coffee table as she opens the curtains. When she looks back down at the cup, now in the light of day, her eyes flicker to the book placed adjacent to it. Her hand bumps the edge of the cup as her arm darts out to the warn edges of the book, its hot liquid spilling over the sides as it regains purchase on the glass surface.

The book, or the beaten, broken and stained version of a book, houses each drawing, sketch and moment from Clarke's six month trip around the world. A book she had practically treasured with her life, and in turn mourned for in the sweltering Russian cell she thought to be her last adventure in life. Hours spent trying to re-piece together each page of her life as she stared at the ceiling, fighting back tears as she imagined the grubby, uncaring hands that touched its cover, rifled through the pages like it was some eighties romance novel strewn on the shelves of a chain book store.

She stands for a long moment; opening and closing the book, moving her fingers along the paint stained cover, body relaxed and at ease for the first time in days.

It isn't until she looks up, eyes briefly focusing on the made bed next to her screwed up sheets, that her mind switches thought to the woman who had slept in that bed. The woman who had silently left her to sleep in the morning, left her to find the notebook she'd rescued for her, left her alone to reclaim the independence she'd lost over the last few days.

At this vague and very brief positive thought of Lexa, Clarke has to stop, hand to her chest in realisation and think: gross.

Later that night, Clarke finds that completely against her will, the few words she shares with Lexa over dinner are decidedly less biting. The book is not mentioned, however when a glimpse of the cover is viewed from its place in Clarke's jacket, she catches a nod of approval aimed at the table.

After her mother once again screams at her for being so irresponsible over the phone that night while Lexa is in the shower, she moves on to berate her about saying thank you. Although she refuses, she makes a mental note to pat her on the back or something.

The next day, when she is once again left alone in the hotel room, she decides, it being all of a month since she was last in Berlin, to call her friend Bellamy. The drug dealer/English teacher/one time sexual encounter she'd spent two weeks sleeping on the couch of.

They meet up in a small café near the hotel, after she tells the concierge where she's going and nearly falls down the steps due to the contents of an orange splayed on the pavement on the way.

"Back so soon" he greets her, standing from his seat to pull her into a hug "You just couldn't get enough"

She laughs though it isn't particularly funny, happy and relieved to be with someone familiar "Bellamigo" she grins, hugging him tighter.

"We're not in Spain, Clarke" he says, pulling away to look at her.

"Yeah but Bellafreund doesn't sound as good"

He laughs, moving to sit back down "You Americans butcher the German language"

Clarke waits all of five minutes to re-hash the events of the week to him; sparing no detail as to the suffering she has endured, both at the hands of the Russian police force and the woman her mother sent to rescue her from it.

Bellamy is extremely understanding and sympathetic, recollecting his own night spent in a jail cell in France, explaining it to be a right of passage in Europe, a comment which she rolls her eyes at.

"So what happens now?" He asks through a mouthful of sandwich.

"Back home I guess" she sighs, picking at the label of her beer "My mother's got me chaperoned all the way back to Ohio. It had to end somewhere I guess"

Bellamy smiles sympathetically, mouth opening to say something but her attention is side tracked, eyes trained on the street outside, where a woman who looks an awful lot like Lexa stands. It's 'an awful lot' like her because the woman outside seems to parallel every idea of the woman Clarke holds. She stands on the sidewalk, looking down the street, blazer thrown over her shoulder, shirt un-tucked from her skirt, the usual high heels replaced by worn and tattered sneakers. A beer is held loosely in her hand and after she takes a sip, her eyes land on Clarke's through the window, the same hand coming up to give a sarcastic wave.

Clarke's eyes follow her in shock as she makes her way into the café, slow and a little drunk. Bellamy continues to talk, unknowing of Clarke's inner turmoil.

Lexa calls over for three more beers, the command like order accented with a kind please and thank you as she approaches the table.

Bellamy seems to become even happier at her arrival, smiling ear to ear at the side of Clarke's head. In her shock Clarke fails to introduce the two, choosing rather to stare at Lexa as if she were a stranger, causing Lexa to stand for a long moment before giving Clarke a poignant look and thrusting her hand forward "Lexa" she states, a slight slur to her words.

"Bellamy" he grins, shaking her hand "I'm Clarke's Berlin friend"

"Nice to meet you" she says, practically falling down in the seat next to Clarke "I'd say I'm Clarke's friend but she'd probably describe me as some asshole she grew up with"

They both laugh at this, and even though Clarke is still staring in confusion she knows she hates it.

The waitress brings over the beer and Lexa takes a moment to smile politely before opening her bottle.

"Bellamy teaches English" Clarke blurts out, trying to fill the silence as she watches Lexa take a sip.

"Well sometimes I teach English" he says with a laugh, beginning to open his own beer to try and catch up "It's not my primary source of income"

Lexa does that little nod of approval again, perfectly content as she starts to pick at the uneaten food on Clarke's plate "I dated a translator once" she says, before adding a small chuckle "Well I say dated…"

"So what do you do?" He asks, sharing an amused look with Clarke, who stares back blankly.

She smiles, seemingly amused "I consult large corporations on how to be more economically efficient"

It's at this reveal that Clarke realises that in all the time they had spent together she'd not once asked what Lexa does for a living, had never bothered to ask "For how long?"

"Three years" she shrugs "It's pretty sweet actually, I show up, do some numbers, have a meeting with some old white guy then get on another plane. Other than practically living in airports it's perfect"

Clarke looks down briefly at the hand picking at her food "So you travel a lot?"

"Duh" Lexa emits loudly, causing Clarke to move back in shock "This is my fifth time in Berlin this year"

"I thought you looked familiar!" Bellamy seems to bellow across the room "We've met before" he practically accuses, finger pointed "You were with Anya that night we went to see the Mountain Men! You slept on my floor!"

He's practically screaming as Clarke looks on in shock horror, Lexa having found resolution, mind blown.

Clarke's evening then becomes hours of listening to the two recollect memories of that night, which turn to memories of Anya and then finally, when Clarke (now extremely drunk) intercepts with her own story, how Bellamy and Clarke then met. The beer is replaced with one, and then two, bottles of wine, as Bellamy and Lexa laugh hysterically at Clarke's retelling of how on her first night in Berlin she had managed to have sex with Bellamy's best friend, fall over on the way out and crack her ass on the pavement, to then be hoisted up by a group of expats coming home from a party, one of which was Bellamy Blake.

In all the time Clarke had known Lexa she'd never been so at ease around the woman, despite the copious amount of alcohol streaming through her veins she's never been more clear minded about her, and the fact that she may now, in some really weird, distorted and disgusting way, she'd call her a friend.