Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The biggest misconception about peacetime is that everything is always easy. Of course, there's some truth to that; it's how these things get started. The end of war means that they don't have to spend every day preparing for battle, strategizing when to move, rationing hours of sleep. It's easier to live day to day without worrying about betrayal and death. Instead, they can focus on living life.

That's where it's hard.

*

(nulla.)

The first thing she does after she puts Madi to sleep, claiming a corner bedroom that brings back memories of the Ark itself, is find Bellamy. She hasn't seen him since they all gathered together to decide on what to do next. There's a lot she wants to say to him, a lot she needs to tell him, starting with an apology that she's owed him for a week now, and it's been long enough that he shouldn't be busy. None of them should be that busy, not for a year or so yet, while they wait for the Earth to become livable again. It does occur to her that this is what she could've had six years ago, if timing had worked in her favor. A life in space, before they descend back to Earth.

It takes a full circle around the ship before she sees him, coming out of the control room, in conversation with Echo. Her heart gives a lonely pang at the sight of them, but she has to ignore it for now. Echo spots her first, stepping forward slightly as if to shield Bellamy from Clarke. At the movement, he looks up and his face changes entirely, shifting from its previous relaxed state to something more guarded, suspicious. It's not like she has any right to be upset about it — she'd done this to him, after all — but she still is.

"Hey," she says hesitantly, managing a small smile that isn't returned.

"Hey," he says back. "Is there a problem?" A full second passes before she realizes he's asking about the ship.

"Oh, um, no," she answers, ignoring the way Echo glares at her. "I was just—wondering if we could talk."

"Go ahead," he says, disinterest evident in not only his voice, but the way his eyes slant away from her.

It takes the wind out of her sails a bit. "But if you're busy, it's—"

"No, it's fine."

"Okay." Clarke pauses, looking at Echo, waiting for her to leave. She doesn't. "Can we talk alone?"

"Like hell I'm letting you near him after what you did," she snarls, and if it was some other time, Clarke would've laughed out loud at that statement, flipped on its head.

"Echo," Bellamy puts his hand on her shoulder, gives her a look. "Go check and see how Raven's doing." A brief wordless argument passes between them, one that Clarke looks away from, focusing on the floor instead. Finally, Echo leaves the two of them, giving her a warning look that would mean anything if it came from anyone but her. "You wanted to talk?"

Startled by his brusqueness, she stumbles over her words. "Yeah, I—you know, I should've, I don't—" A deep breath, then, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you behind like that. I was just so mad and I didn't think about it, I just acted, and I had a lot of reasons to believe I was doing what I needed to do, but the truth is, and I'm sorry about how long it took me to understand it too, I—"

"You could've just trusted me, Clarke," he interrupts, shaking his head. "I would've never hurt her."

"But you did," she says before she can stop herself. This is supposed to be about her apology, not about defending herself. But he did and he'd promised and what if Madi had died— "No, I don't want to rehash this."

"I think we have to."

With the go-ahead, she does. "You promised me you'd protect her, but you gave her the Flame anyways."

"I didn't just give it to her," he interjects. "Gaia and I gave her a choice and she made that choice herself."

"And how did you explain it to her? That it'd stop the war? That it'd save everyone?" She knows from the look in his eyes that she's not far off. She also knows that Madi would've done anything to help out. "She has been running from the Flame for her entire life and I never wanted her to know what it was like to have that in her head."

"It was the only choice," he shoots back, the words bringing to mind a different conversation with those exact words. Now's not the time to go down memory lane. "I'm sorry that had to happen but she was the only one who could've stopped Octavia and she did and now the Flame's out and it's gone, so—"

"So it's fine because she's not dead."

"I didn't say that."

"You practically did."

"If you hate me for what I did, I understand that." His jaw ticks. "I knew that you'd never forgive me for that, but I also knew that if it was what it took to save the people I care about, then I had no other choice."

The people I care about.

She stays quiet for a long time. Then, tiredly, because that's all she can be now, she says, "I don't hate you. I don't have any right to."

He knows what she means by that. "You left me to die in Polis."

"I know."

"That was your only choice too."

"I don’t know." She doesn't know if it was or not. All she remembers is the fury coursing through her veins, the fear that almost paralyzed her when she saw Madi still on that table, the betrayal that rocked her body. "I didn't come back for you and I should've. I don't know how to fix that."

Bellamy's eyes on her set a path that burns. It's almost too much, to look back at him, and see something unfamiliar in them. "If you want forgiveness," he begins, his voice deep, but not comforting. "I don't know how to give that to you," he finishes. "I don't know if I can just get over it."

"You don't have to," she hears herself say, amidst the ringing in her ears. "All I wanted was for you to know that I am… so sorry for everything I did to you. If you can't accept that, that's on me."

"It isn't that I don't accept your apology. I know you mean that."

"I do."

"Everything else… I don't know. I don’t know if we can just act like everything is the same."

Her smile is weak and more of a grimace. "I know. I don’t think we can pretend nothing happened.”

Six years and it came down to this.

"But we've got time now." An undefined number of years of time. What if he never forgave her?

"We do, don't we?"

Bellamy nods, sticking his hands into his pockets. "It's what we've always wanted."

But not like this. "Yeah."

He nods at her again, a smile on his face that doesn't seem to reach his eyes, oblivious to the way her heart breaks and breaks and breaks again. "I'll see you around."

He walks away and Clarke lets out a shaky breath that hurts. "'Course," she says, to no one.

*

(intermissum.)

Time is something she's used to, but time in space is entirely different.

Time in space is people, and tasks, and schedules. It's the incessant worry of who will talk to her, how she can respond, whether or not they mean what they say. It's the persistent knowledge that everyone hates her and it's just a matter of how much they do, the never ending worry about how much better off they all are without her. It's how much she can handle Bellamy's distant eyes, Raven's judging snarl, Monty's disappointed shoulders, Echo's words rattling in her mind. Traitor, traitor, traitor.

She thought it would get better, removed from the pressure cooker of war, from the mountain of mistakes she'd accumulated, but it hadn't. It got worse. Six and a half years ago, Clarke would've given anything to have them back, and especially to have Bellamy back in her life, but now, she flees the room every time she's trapped with them for more than five minutes. There are apologies she has to give, ranging from the most important to the incidental, but each of them terrifies her. Bellamy had said he'd accepted her apology, but his chilly reaction to her, no matter what she's doing, says all she needs to know.

So she runs, or she tries to. There aren't many places she can go, trapped up in space with hundreds of people around every corner, surrounded by the most important few that are reminders of what she did wrong and what she'd given up, and lost, and lost and lost again. And now, without Madi, who thrives in space, finally around all the people she's always wanted to know, it's a regression beyond square one, a removal of all the progress she'd made in being able to survive around people, because she doesn't know how to try with them anymore and she knows they don't want her to.

It isn't so bad. She gets a lot done. She has her mom back and she's stronger every day, even if she spends most of the time worrying about Kane. She still has Madi, who bursts with excitement about the people she gets to meet and talk to, who regales her with stories (a change in role) before they fall asleep.

After six years of it, being alone is almost preferable. She certainly knows how to live in it better than she knows how to live with other people. She's gotten pretty good at figuring out people's schedules and working around them, but she'd be lying if she said it wasn't debilitating, the kind of loneliness that lives with her.

But she'd managed before so she can manage it now.

*

(i.)

Clarke likes the early morning because no one else is awake yet.

It's the one time she fully feels comfortable with herself, free from the people she can't be around and the guilt that resurfaces every time she's with them. It's the only time she escapes the constant reminders of all the ways she fucked up and all the ways she'll never make up for it. It's the only opportunity for her to stop measuring the distance between her and her friends and to stop wondering if they could ever consider themselves her friends again.

It's not hard to wake up early. She doesn't sleep much anyways, plagued by thoughts and dreams and nightmares, followed by years of habit. Madi sleeps better here than she ever did in Eden, which she's glad about, even if she doesn't benefit from the same thing. It's practically a relief when she can get out of bed and tiptoe out of her room at 4 AM, knowing that she won't have to run into anyone on her way to the kitchen or the den or the space they've designated as a common area.

She's settled into a routine by now: wake up, get something to eat, maybe read a book or two, maybe watch a film, maybe run for a bit, grab some provisions for the rest of the day and then head back to her room before the day really starts. In the two months she's done this, no one has ever interrupted her, so of course, when someone does interrupt her that morning, her first reaction is to jump up and drop her book in shock.

Her second reaction is to stare at, and then avert her eyes from, Bellamy, who's shirtless, sleep-mussed, and confused. There's a reason she tries not to look at him too much. There's multiple reasons, actually, but one of them is that she never seems to be able to look away.

"Clarke?" His voice is scratchy with sleep.

"Yeah?" Her voice squeaks.

"What are you doing out here?"

"I—" She points to the book on the floor. "Reading."

"Reading," he repeats, coming closer. It's not her fault she can't stop looking. "At five in the morning?"

Defensively, she asks, "What's wrong with that?"

"Usually people are sleeping at that time."

Usually people can sleep, she retorts in her head. "You're awake."

"I went to the bathroom and then I noticed the light in here."

"Oh." A pause, then, "I'm sorry it bothered you."

"It's fine," he waves off, jerking his thumb behind him. "I'm heading back anyways."

She nods, her mouth dry all of a sudden as she grapples with the need to be alone and the desire to keep talking to him, to keep seeing him. When was the last time they'd actually talked? Was it her apology? She'd seen him a few hours ago, passed by him in the hallway, but he'd been with people, talking to them, laughing with them. It seemed too much to bother him. But it was just the two of them now and if she could just—

He thinks of her silence as a response, smiling briefly at her before he turns around and starts walking. Her voice finally returns, a near panicked, "Bellamy!"

Bellamy stops, turns his head to look at her.

It's unbearable, being there, in the same space as Bellamy and not knowing what to say when she had six years of practicing just what to say to him. But that was the difference between then and now — they were different people, incompatible people, maybe, and it wasn't the same talking to the Bellamy she remembered and talking to a Bellamy that was a near stranger to her.

"I—" I miss you, she almost says, because it's the only thing that she can think about right now. "I—um," (when did this become so hard), "Good night."

"Good night, Clarke," he says back, and she listens to the sound of his steps until they fade into nothing. She lets herself think about the way he looks just once and the way he sounded just once and then forces herself to focus her attention back on her book.

She reads two pages before she gives up.

*

(ii.)

Clarke doesn't get her hopes up. She's smart enough to treat Bellamy appearing the other day as a one-off, a happenstance. After all, for two months, her mornings went unnoticed. So, it doesn't surprise her that he doesn't show up the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that, or the day after that.

(Maybe she had hoped.)

But he does show up on the fifth day, carrying a pillow and blanket and trudging into the den. She doesn't see him until he's already situated on the couch so it doesn't stop her from yelping when she enters the room. At least she's not carrying anything this time.

Bellamy's head shoots up, whirling around for the source of the noise. "Clarke?"

"I didn't mean to intrude," she says quickly, intending to leave but unable to stop herself from asking, "What are you doing here?" Maybe he's about to leave and she can have the room to herself again.

No such luck. "Echo's sick and she can't sleep with me in the room," he answers, embellishing with an eyeroll. It's always jarring to hear her name coming from Bellamy, even though there's no reason why it should be such a shock. She'd made peace with his relationship months ago. She knows they're still happily together, that they share a room, that they head to bed together. What matters to her is that Bellamy is happy, and he is, and yet, it still hurts.

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." Bellamy gives her a strange look and it makes her wish she'd already left. She hates this, not knowing how to read him anymore or how to behave around him or how to look at Bellamy without thinking that he wishes he was anywhere else, like she's just someone who used to know him. Then again, that's what she is. It's just hard to understand sometimes, how he used to be her best friend and how he doesn't talk to her now unless he crashes her mornings, and even then, he probably doesn't want to. "Well, I won't keep you." She starts backing up, out of the room, her words rushing out of her mouth. "Good night."

*

(iii.)

She disrupts her routine for the next three days, fearing that Bellamy will be there when she wakes up. She hates herself for not knowing how to deal with this like a normal person, for avoiding someone she used to think about (and still does) every day of her life. But her hands tremble when she's around him, the guilt bubbling in her chest, the apologies tripping over themselves to be said. I'm sorry for hurting you, I'm sorry we're like this, I'm sorry I don't know how to talk to you.

She's used to Eden, the wide expanse of the land, and the dozens of places she and Madi could run to when it got to be too much. Back on Earth, no matter how awful it had gotten, she always had the safety of space. Up in space, sharing a ship with a couple of hundred people means that there's only so many places she can go.

By the fourth night, she figures he has to be back in his room. Echo had looked fine last night, for the few minutes she had seen her.

Her hopes are dashed when he enters the living room, carrying a mug and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Bellamy stops short, quirking an eyebrow at her. "Let me guess," he says, "you're reading." It's a poor joke, given the fact that she actually has a book in her hand, the book she hadn't finished since that first night, but it kind of makes her smile anyways.

"Almost done with it," she says. "You're up early."

"Echo woke me up for some water," he motions to the mug.

"Right." It'd have to be something like that. "Is she still sick?"

"Just a bit, yeah."

She bites her lip, weighing the pros and cons of what she's about to say. "I can take a look at her, you know, if you want." At the look on his face, she quickly adds, "So you don't have to keep waking up and not getting enough sleep."

"Oh, uh," he shifts uncomfortably on his feet, "I think she, uh, saw Jackson already."

"As long as she saw someone," she says lightly, though she understands his meaning. She probably wouldn't let her near her. It's not much of a loss for Clarke. She doesn't know what possesses her to keep talking, except maybe that same sense of guilt that drives all of her conversations with Bellamy, like she has years to make up for and thousands of mistakes to atone for. "I, um, I'm really glad you're happy with her. That you have her."

His face softens a little, touched, probably because of what he had to go through with his sister's disapproval. She can't bear to tell him that it isn't exactly an approval she's granting. "Thanks, Clarke."

"Yeah, of course," she mumbles. An impulse overtakes her and the words are out before she has time to regret them. "But can I ask you something?"

Bellamy dawdles in the hallway, debating with himself, coming to a decision when he walks into the room, sitting down at the table across from her. His foot accidentally knocks into hers and she nearly jumps in her chair. "Go ahead."

"Um, why—how— how," she settles, biting the inside of her cheek hard, "how did you forgive her?"

"Have you been talking to Octavia?"

She knows she sounds offended when says, "No. I was just curious. Because I know it was a while ago, but she, you know..." Clarke trails off to a stop. What right did she have to cast any judgement on Echo's actions? The deaths at Mt. Weather, the near-death of Octavia, the multiple times she'd tried to kill Clarke, all the times she'd put Bellamy in danger… all of those seemed to fall away when she thought about the things she'd done. She'd done horrible things too, worse, even, because she'd succeeded. There were more deaths on her conscience than Echo had on hers. And she'd hurt Bellamy too, numerous times, so many times, that it was laughable to think she had an upper hand here. She averts her eyes down, focusing on an indentation in the wooden table.

"It'd been three years and I came to terms with what she did. I didn't want to go around holding a grudge forever," he says, sounding like he's gone through this a million times before, "and she's changed a lot since then. She deserves a second chance."

She tried to kill me, she wanted to kill me, she would've killed me.

It rings loud in her mind, a chant that begs to be released. It doesn't really matter, though. Clarke had betrayed her friends and Echo was just trying to avenge that. She'd deserved it.

Her hand clutches the spine of her book too tightly. "That makes sense," she says, lying without much effort behind it. "You must've been a good influence on her." And vice versa.

"I don't know about that," he says wryly.

"I do. And it's a good thing. You obviously really care about each other. I mean, you fought Octavia for her—"

"I would've done that for any of us," Bellamy corrects and it's that innocuous statement, delivered with the ease of someone who doesn't understand the impact of his words, that hits her hard. Once upon a time, she wouldn't have had to guess at whether or not that included her. She would've known that it did. She's not going to delude herself to think it's the same now and it's just another reminder of that wall between them, between Clarke and the others, between Clarke and Bellamy, between Clarke, the girl who stayed behind, and her friends, who went to space. The girl who betrayed her friends and left him to die and the boy who only wanted to save the world.

"Yeah," she says instead, though it sounds too hollow to be sincere. "And she'd do anything for you. I mean, she was really upset about—" a deep breath, "—me leaving you behind. She was—I'm glad you have her." Now you care about Bellamy. Hadn't Echo been right?

"Where's this coming from?"

"I guess I just… remembered I hadn't said it to you yet." If she could make his life easier at all, she wanted to do that. "And I'm still—sorry. About everything I did to you." It's just instinctual excuses that come to mind next, so she swallows them down.

"I've already accepted your apology," Bellamy says gently, but it means as little as it did the first time he'd said so. How could it, when he didn't mean it? How could she tell him that she didn't believe him?

She couldn't. "I know. I just… had to say it again, I guess." Clarke inhales sharply and pushes her chair back, standing up with her book clutched to her chest. "Good night, Bellamy."

Another scrape of her chair against the metal floor and she's out of the room, her heart thumping in her ears to the beat of he's never going to forgive you, as she runs away.

*

(iv.)

"Do you ever sleep?" Bellamy's voice comes in, not particularly loud, but loud enough in the empty kitchen space that it booms. She drops the sponge she's been using to clean up the leftover plates from last night with a gasp. She had been sure that Bellamy wasn't awake yet.

"I fell asleep early last night," she answers evasively, although it's a lie. "Do you sleep? You're always up lately."

"I couldn't sleep," he says, and within a few steps, he's beside her, his hands dipping into the water to help her with the dishes. Clarke freezes, quite noticeably. Bellamy notices, at least. "What's wrong?"

"Um, nothing," she mumbles, staring at a difficult spot on the plate in her hand. "Why couldn't you sleep?"

"It's not very comfortable in the den, is it?"

"I don't think it's meant to be for sleep. Why were you—is she still sick?"

"No, she's fine now." He hands her a rinsed plate. "We had a fight so I was taking some time away."

"I'm sorry," she says automatically. "Do you… I don't know, want to talk about it?" The thought of doing so makes her anxious, but if he wants to, then she can't say no.

"No, it's okay," he dismisses with a wave of his hand, splashing water onto her shirt. "Oh, sorry." She shrugs it off, returning to her dishes, which are, thankfully, disappearing quick. The faster she gets this done, the faster she can leave. Bellamy's voice shakes her out of her thoughts. "How often do you do this?"

Frowning in confusion, she asks, "Wash dishes?"

He huffs out a laugh. "No. Wake up this early. It's not even five yet and I have a feeling you've been up for a while."

She hadn't thought he'd noticed enough to catch on. "Not often," she lies. "I set the alarm for the wrong time, so—"

"I thought you fell asleep early last night," he points out and she almost visibly winces at how stupid she'd just been.

"You don't have to do these, you know," she takes the plate from him, "I can finish these up and you can go back to sleep."

"Clarke," Bellamy cuts in, sternly. "You're not getting enough sleep." He almost sounds like he cares.

"I'm getting plenty of sleep."

"You're up too early—"

"I'm not up this early all the time, it's fine—"

"Are you making this a habit? It isn't healthy, Clarke." Her hands still in the soapy water, held hostage by the burning behind her eyes. How could he not get it? How could he not know?

"I have trouble sleeping," she finally says, quietly, her head pointed towards the water, avoiding his gaze. "I just—I don't sleep well. I know it isn't good for me, I just don't know how to fix it. I don't think it's possible."

"How long has this been going on?"

"A while. Since we got here."

"And you didn't say anything?"

If she thought anyone would listen, she would've. "I figured it'd go away."

"And it hasn't."

"No." She scrubs hard at a spot and gives up. "But it's okay. I like starting my day early."

"This is earlier than early."

"I like that too."

"Clarke," he tries, exasperated. "Be serious."

"I am. I've gotten used to this. I'm productive and I like having this time to myself."

"But you should sleep—"

"I have nightmares, Bellamy," she interrupted, briskly, finally meeting his eyes. It's not so daunting to look at him now, to challenge him at his words. "I can't fall asleep without thinking about all the shit I've done and all the people I've hurt and lost. How am I supposed to sleep through that?"

He closes his mouth shut. Then, "Does waking up early help with that?"

"It's time that I don't have to spend sleeping, so a little, yeah." It's more than that; it's the time she gets to unwind, it's the time she has for herself, but talking about that opens up a new discussion she doesn't have the energy for today, or maybe ever.

They go back to the dishes, but neither of them move to finish them up. The silence stretches before them. Finally, Bellamy says, "I get them too."

She wants to touch him, to comfort him. "I thought it was supposed to get easier."

"It will," he says firmly. "We're starting something new."

Clarke thinks back to the Earth, destroyed but not gone. "Maybe it'll last this time."

"Something's gotta stick eventually, right?"

Her snort is more of a laugh. "This is why no one comes to us for positivity."

"Yeah, they've got Murphy for that."

That elicits a real laugh from her. "I'm sure he'll be happy to know that he's serving a great purpose."

"Just don't tell him and he'll be good."

This was nice, being able to laugh with Bellamy and smile with him, even joke with him a little. She remembers all the times she'd made up conversations in her own head about it, but the real deal is a lot better. "Hey, Bellamy?"

"Bellamy." Clarke turns around, the smile dropping off her face at the sight of Echo, who looks pissed, which is more of a normal sight these days. Every time she sees her, that seems to be her expression. "I thought you were sleeping."

"I was," Bellamy says, back still turned to her, "but I woke up."

"And you didn't want to come back to bed?"

"We're fighting, Echo, so not really."

"So you're just going to stay out here and what, talk to Clarke?"

Echo's voice is getting louder the more Bellamy rebuffs her attempts to talk and it's too much happening at once for Clarke. All she wanted was to wash the dishes. All she wanted was to talk to Bellamy.

"I'm busy," he says calmly. "We left a lot of dishes in the sink and they're not going to wash themselves."

"I'm sure Clarke can handle it."

There's a ringing in her ears. "It's okay, Bellamy," Clarke says, trying to control the panic in her chest. "I can finish this up."

"No, I want to help—"

"Bellamy," she says, just as Echo snaps, "Bellamy."

"There's only a few dishes left. Don't make a big deal out of it," she keeps her voice low, knowing that Echo's behind them glaring at her. A moment later, he sighs and wipes his hands dry, leaving her side to walk towards his girlfriend. Clarke ignores the sting in her chest. She'd encouraged him to, after all. Her back stiff and straight, she returns to the dishes, the water way past cold, listening intently for the sounds of them leaving before she finishes them up.

After, she slumps in the chair and takes several deep breaths.

*

(v.)

Raven limps into the medical center one day and scowls so deeply Clarke thinks it might stay etched onto her face like that. Her dislike of Clarke has been broadcast loud and clear ever since they arrived onto the ship. She can't blame her, but it's the fact that Raven's anger is an extension of Bellamy's that upsets her the most.

"I thought it was Jackson's shift," she says, but despite her clear displeasure at who's the doctor on call is, she pushes herself onto the exam table and swings her bad leg around, stretching it.

"He's looking after Kane right now, so I'm covering for him." Pulling the sleeves of her shirt down, she approaches the table. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I'll just wait for Jackson." Raven crosses her arms at her. "I don't know how I feel about someone who's willing to let everyone else die look at my leg. Who knows what you'd do."

Raven wants a reaction, so Clarke won't give her one. "What's wrong with your leg?"

"You'd try to cut it off, I bet," she sneers at her.

"Is it just an ache or is it a more lasting pain?"

"That's what McCreary threatened to do to Shaw." Her voice gets louder, more belligerent. "And he wouldn't have gotten that chance if you hadn't sold us out to him."

"The sooner you tell me what's actually wrong with your leg, the sooner you'll get out of here," Clarke reminds her, though it falls on deaf ears.

"Maybe you shouldn't have killed him. The two of you actually had a lot in common. If you think about it that way, it makes sense that you'd be on his side."

"Do you really think I'd do that?" Clarke snaps, her patience gone.

Smug about the reaction, Raven shrugs defiantly. "Let's see… You were ready to shoot the second you saw us, so I think it's right up your alley."

"You were kidnapping my daughter—"

"Not to mention the fact that you allied with McCreary over us, which meant you were willing to let us die—"

"He was threatening Madi—"

"And of course, we shouldn't forget about how you abandoned Bellamy and left him to die in a fucked up version of a gladiator fight," she finishes, eyes, dark and cold, fixed on Clarke. She doesn't know what it is that bursts through, whether it's the combination of each successive volley at her or just the very last one, but whatever it is, it hits her hard.

"I'm sorry ! I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry that I could've hurt you and that I got you hurt and that I made the wrong decisions!" The volume of her own, shaky voice takes her aback. "What was I supposed to do? Madi was in danger, you wanted to put her in danger, all of you wanted her to go to war—and she's twelve ! She could've died, what if she'd died and you tell me, what would you have done? What would you have done if you were me?"

The answer is delivered just as loudly as the question, but harsher, more unforgiving in its judgement. "I would've stuck by my friends! I would've trusted that they knew what they were doing and that what they were doing was right—" Raven hops down from the table and swats her hand away when she tries to steady her. " That's what I would've done!"

"You weren't right! Any scenario that has Madi as an acceptable loss would never be right!" Her bottom lip trembles at the thought of it and she has to squeeze her eyes shut to stop herself from going further. "She is all I have."

"You have us! We would've never let anything bad happen to her!"

"No, I don't!" Clarke screams, and it's this that finally brings in a number of people rushing into the room, including Bellamy, Echo (why is she always around), Harper, and three of the Eligius prisoners whose names she doesn't know.

"What the hell is going on?" Bellamy demands, looking from Raven to her, waiting for an answer.

"Nothing," she somehow manages, a feat considering how badly she's shaking with anger, how hard she's digging her nails into her palms.

Raven shoves at her, shoving her aside, causing her to stumble stalking away. "Get me the hell away from her," she spits, and it's a scramble of Harper and Echo hurrying forward to guide her away. With the fight over, the Eligius prisoners leave too, grumbling about the lack of entertainment. Bellamy's the only one left in the room and it makes her all the more cognizant of how she behaved — how she'd let Raven get to her, how she should've just sat there and apologized instead — and before she knows it, she's sucking in a breath and letting out dry, wheezy sobs as everything crashes into dizzying reality. She sinks down onto the floor, hands covering her face, back digging into the side of the table.

"Clarke?"

"I'm fine," comes the automatic answer.

"That didn't sound fine."

"I'm fine."

She hears him take a few steps. "Will you tell me what happened?"

"Why don't you ask Raven about it?"

"Because I'm asking you."

"Raven's mad," she says, after the pressure on her chest subsides into something that doesn't feel like she's going to die any second now. "I don't blame her. But I wish," and maybe it's not fair to tell him this, when he hasn't forgiven her either, when he's obviously still angry with her, "I wish people cared about my reasons too."

"You know how she is."

She doesn't; that's the problem. "Sure."

"Look, I think she just needs some time," and Clarke could almost laugh at that. It was always about time. "She'll get over it."

She peers up at Bellamy, who's offering her a reassuring smile. She wishes it did reassure her, but it's hard when she doubts the veracity of his words. "Like you have?"

"That's different."

"Yeah," she says, dully. "I don't know why I asked. Except you forgave Echo so easily and you won't even think about it for me."

A thick silence fills the air. "That's different," he says again. "And it wasn't easy."

"I'm sure it wasn't." It still didn't erase the fact that he had.

Quietly, Bellamy says, "I thought what I was doing was right."

"I know."

"I wish you'd just talked to me about it."

She looks up again, letting out a disbelieving breath of air. "You didn't talk to me about your plan. In case you forgot, I was chained up. I thought you were going to get me out and you didn't."

"I regret that," he insists. "I knew you wouldn't see why it had to be done, so I made a call—"

"That wasn't yours to make."

"No, it wasn't," he agrees. "But we exhausted every other option."

“Are you even sorry?” She demands, looking up at him, trying to pick out reason in his impassive expression. She's run it over in her head a million times. She knows how few options there were for them. She knows he thought the best choice was the one she could never agree to. “All I hear is that you had nothing else you could do. That no matter what happened, you needed to do this.”

“We had to save everyone.”

But are you sorry? "Bellamy, you don't need to tell me that. In the end, your plan worked and mine didn't. You had your reasons and I had mine. You lied to me and I almost got you killed. I know what I did was worse. But you hurt me too. And you’re not even sorry about it.”

"It's not like we're keeping track—" The scratch of static interrupts him, springing to life from the radio clipped to his belt.

"Bellamy," Echo says, "we need you in Raven's lab."

"I can't right now," he says back, looking at Clarke. The interruption sobers her up fast, makes her get herself together.

"I think whatever you're doing can wait," she retorts. "We need your help with Raven."

Into the radio, he replies, "Really?"

"Yes."

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. "All right, all right, I'm on my way." The radio quiets. To Clarke, he says, "I'll find you later."

Clarke shakes her head, knowing that he won't. "Don't worry about it. Let’s forget this happened, okay?" She walks over to the medicine cabinet and pulls out a bottle of pills, opening them and transferring a few into another bottle. When she's done, she walks over to Bellamy. "Here. For Raven. Painkillers, which should relieve some of the immediate pain, but she needs to stop exerting herself too much. If it's still bothering her, Jackson will be here in about an hour."

He takes the bottle from her and nods in thanks. "I'll let her know."

"Good."

He picks up the radio again to tell them he's on his way. She goes back to the cabinet and fixes up the mess.

*

(vi.)

It's late and Madi's gone.

She's usually back by this time — she knows her curfew and she knows it freaks Clarke out to not know where she is, but even with that knowledge, Madi is nowhere to be found. She's checked everywhere, asked around even, and no one has a clue. It works her into a frenzy that only stops when she turns the corner and sees Madi perched on Bellamy's back in front of their room.

"Oh my god," she breathes out, running towards the two of them. "Where was she? Is she okay? What happened? I was so scared, I didn't know—" Her hands run over Madi's hair, her cheek, rousing her from her sleep.

"Clarke?" she asks, drowsily, blinking slowly at her.

"Hi, sweetheart," she says, "I'm sorry I woke you."

"'S'okay," she mumbles, resting her head back on Bellamy's as she closes her eyes. "I'm going back to sleep."

"Hold on, let's get you into bed," she says hastily, her head turning towards Bellamy when he chuckles low in his throat. It strikes her that this is the closest they've been in a while, maybe since that first time she hugged him after six years, and up close, she can see the freckles she dreamed about, the beard that still looks out of place on him.

"I can take her in," he offers, shifting Madi slightly so that she doesn't fall when he gestures towards the door.

"Oh!" Clarke rushes to open the door. "Sorry about the mess, I haven't had time to clean up yet and it's—" There's clothes tossed haphazardly into the makeshift laundry basket, books sweeping the floor, even the blanket that Madi had thrown aside sprawled across a desk somehow. "Sorry."

"It's okay," he says, making his way over to the shared bed. Crouching down next to it, he carefully deposits Madi onto the bed and smiles at her sleeping form. Clarke's heart aches so suddenly at the sight in front of her, a reality of her wishful dreams. He stands up and turns to her. "She was at Gaia's and fell asleep. I think someone was going to get you, but I passed by on the way back here, so I figured I could just bring her back too."

Clarke walks over to the bed, sitting on the edge so that she can tuck Madi in. She's going to complain tomorrow about sleeping in these clothes, but there's no use in trying to get her to wake up to change now. Pulling the blankets up over her, she smooths down her hair and listens to her breathing before she looks back at Bellamy. He's still standing there, observing her.

"I forgot she was going to Gaia's," she confesses, feeling embarrassed about her overreaction earlier on. "I was scared that something had happened."

"At Gaia's?" Bellamy starts moving, walking around the room like there's anything to really take in. It's just a lived in space, full of things that she and Madi had accumulated over the past few months, but none of them particularly meaningful.

"Anywhere. I'm just always scared that something bad's going to happen to her." She looks over at Madi, peaceful in her sleep, and her heart lurches in concern.

"Nothing's going to happen here."

"We live on a spaceship populated by actual criminals," she says, giving him a pointed look. "I don't think it's necessarily that unlikely."

"We saved their lives," he argues, stopping in front of the desk, "so they know they can't do anything like that."

"You can't possibly believe that. And all it takes is one person," she argues back. "What if she runs into the wrong person and they hurt her?"

"I think it's much more likely that she'll hurt them first," he says with a laugh. She frowns. It's not funny to her. "Clarke, when we first ran into her, she killed the two guys that were there in like three seconds flat. She saved us."

It's not that she's not capable of it. "I don't want her to have to do that," she explains, upset at the thought of it. "She's just a kid. She should be having fun and not worrying about anything.”

“You can’t protect her forever,” he says, a truly ironic statement coming from Bellamy Blake.

“But as long as I can, I will. I know that she can take care of herself, but it isn’t something… she is twelve and no matter how capable she is, she’s still a child. The fact that I asked you to protect her meant that I trust you with her,” a pause, “because I knew, I thought that you would, completely. That if anything happened to me, that she would still have someone."

"Neither of us wanted to lose you," he says, low and pained. "We weren't going to take that chance."

"I would've died," she exclaims, volume rising before she remembers Madi's asleep, and dropping, "before I let her get hurt!"

"That's what we were trying to prevent!"

"That wasn't your choice to make."

He doesn't respond to that. In fact, he just turns around and stands still, before he starts tapping his fingers along the desk, quiet and in thought. His silence unnerves her and she feels awkward all of a sudden, knowing that Bellamy's in her room for the first time, and it's nothing like how she wanted it to happen. Clarke turns back to Madi and focuses on her breathing instead.

When he speaks next, she jerks out of her daze by the shock of his words. "I am sorry," he says, turning back around so that he meets her eyes.

"I'm sorry?"

"No, I am," he says and she's not used to the teasing in his voice, but what she's more confused about is what he's sorry about and why he felt like he had to say it now. "You asked me before if I was sorry about what I did. I am. Because I hurt you and I broke your trust. You're right. I shouldn't have made that choice for you and I should've listened to you."

Oh.

"I thought I didn't understand your reasons. I didn't get you," Bellamy continues. "But I do…" A nostalgic look crosses his face. "I would've done anything to keep Octavia safe. I did do everything to keep her safe. I don't know why it took me so long to make that connection."

"She's all I have, Bellamy."

He passes a hand over his beard. "I should've known." Bellamy closes his eyes and lets out a weary breath. "I'm so sorry for not keeping my promise. I was so busy thinking about how to fix things, how to save everyone that I completely disregarded what you would've wanted. and I’m so, so sorry that I blamed you this whole time without thinking about what I did to you. You shouldn't have forgiven me, I don't even know why you did."

"Because you were thinking about what needed to be done to stop the war," she says, briefly glancing back at Madi. Madi, who had led hundreds of people into war. "I honestly meant it when I said I understand your reasons."

"Even though it directly contradicted your wishes? It put Madi in danger?"

"You've forgiven me for worse things." The bomb on Tondc when Octavia was there, the betrayal in the bunker that locked Octavia out, the leaving him in Polis at the hands of a bloodthirsty dictator. "So much worse."

"That's not how it works," he says. "It's not something to keep track of."

"I don't know about that."

"I do. Is that why you forgave me?"

She takes his words in, her mind rolling in questions, the most prominent of which concerning what it meant for them now. “I forgave you because I wanted to. Do you—forgive me?”

He says the words easily. "I forgive you. I don't know if you ever needed it."

Relief floods her, relaxing her shoulders, easing her mind. She hadn't known how much anxiety she was physically carrying in waiting for those words. "I did. I do." Managing a small, real smile, Clarke takes him in, finally and fully. This Bellamy that has always forgiven her. "Do you think we'll ever break this cycle of doing horrible things and forgiving each other for them?"

He cracks a smile, laughs a little. "I hope we'll at least move past the doing horrible things part."

"Yeah," she breathes, slightly watery from the tears that she's holding at bay, "I hope so too." Their eyes lock on each other for a long few minutes, but it comes with a new ease in it. It's not completely better, but it's a start. It feels like a start.

Bellamy drums his fingers against the desk once more. "It's getting late. I guess I should go."

She doesn't want him to. But it is late and he probably shouldn't be here. "Thanks for bringing Madi to me."

He looks around her, at Madi. "I'm glad you had her. She's a good kid."

"Yeah, she's pretty cool."

With that, he holds a hand up in goodbye, pulling the door open to head out. The tension in the room dissipates.

Clarke finally gets a good night's rest.

*

(vii.)

She really should've known that Bellamy's forgiveness doesn't fix everything.

It doesn't fix Raven's refusal to speak to her, it doesn't fix her uncertainty over her place in their lives, it doesn't fix her unhappiness. It lightens the burden on her shoulders, but everything else remains. Clarke encounters this every time she sees Raven, who seemingly goes out of her way to ignore her while drawing attention to the fact that she's ignoring her. She finds this in the meetings Monty calls, where at worst, her presence is met with hostility and at best, they forget she's there. They come to an agreement and don't consult her. They back each other up and she flounders for footing. Bellamy doesn't help much; he smiles at her in apology and repeats platitudes ("they just need time,") that sound more far-fetched the more time passes.

She doesn't belong with them and Clarke is cruelly reminded of that truth at lunch a few days later.

Formerly the third floor of the spaceship, most of it had been repurposed as the cafeteria to accommodate the number of people now residing on the ship. Clarke usually stays away during the peak busy times, because she had wanted to avoid running into everyone there and because the number of people there tends to alarm her. She's still not great with large groups of people. The same feeling hits her when she enters the cafeteria and it subsides only when she spots Bellamy sitting at a table towards the center of the room.

"Hey," she says nervously when she reaches him, a tray in hand. He looks up at her in surprise and her heart sinks.

"Hey," he says. "Lunch break?"

"I was supposed to eat with Madi, but I think she's still with Gaia." She has half a mind to tell him about how that makes her feel (cast off, unwanted), but she knows it's irrational, and she isn't sure she and Bellamy are at that kind of conversation level yet.

He gestures for her to sit down, so she does.

"She's really liking her lessons, huh?"

"It's honestly a surprise to me too. Madi, um, she used to always be late to her lessons," she remembers, wistful in the delivery. Some days, she misses the times when it had just been her and Madi. They had built a home together. They had survived, lived. They had a lot of nice memories. "I'd give her a thirty minute reminder and she would still turn up late."

"I guess this means she's growing up," Bellamy says.

"Oh, that's a scary thought."

He laughs, a real laugh, one that makes her want to chase that sound and tease it out of him again and again and again. "You have to be prepared. One day, you're going to look at her and realize that she's not the three-year old who just wanted to play hide and seek."

"She never liked that game."

"Octavia did." His eyes move over to the table she's seen his sister occupy before, surrounded by former members of Wonkru who walk around shellshocked most of the time. His attention shifts back. "There weren't many places to hide, of course."

Suppressing the urge to apologize, Clarke says, "If we tried to play hide and seek, I wouldn't be able to find Madi for hours."

"She is deceptively sneaky."

"I'm going to tell her you said that. She'd love it."

"I'm only telling the truth," he says, so happily that it throws her off for a second or two. He's never sounded like that before. Before she can comment on it, Raven comes over, knocking her elbow into Bellamy's arm. She's with Echo, and Murphy isn't too far behind.

"You owe me a shift in the control room tonight," Raven announces, seemingly unaware of Clarke's presence. Then again, with Raven, it's just as likely that she'd seen her and decided she wasn't there. "I picked up your last one and I've got plans with Shaw tonight, so it's all down to you. And before you say anything—Clarke?" Her brows furrow in confusion, then harden in displeasure. "What are you doing here."

"Eating," she says mildly, hoping that this will deter another confrontation.

"Why are you eating here?" Echo interjects, tossing a glare in for extra effect. "Do I need to remind you that none of us are exactly happy with you?"

"I'm not that bothered, actually," Murphy says, and at that moment, Clarke's just happy that someone doesn't hate her that she actually gives him a grateful smile. He takes the seat next to her and shrugs. "It's just lunch."

"Stop it," Bellamy says, decisively concurring with Murphy. This seems to settle the matter, even if Raven and Echo don't look any happier about it. Clarke unclenches her fist and breathes out. "And yeah, don't worry, I'll take your shift."

"Thought you would," Raven says triumphantly, waiting until Echo takes her seat and then taking the seat next to her. Warily, she casts a look at Clarke, but must decide on ignoring her, because she doesn't look at her the rest of the time. It hurts, but at least they're not arguing again.

Once they're all at the table, a flurry of conversations starts up. Clarke tries to keep up with them but they jump from topic to topic as they catch each other up on their day so far. If it's not about Raven's battle with the ship's temperature control unit, then it's Echo's argument with the woman who's in charge of the guards. Sometimes, she forgets that they spent six years together, trapped in a space with nowhere to run, so they can talk like this, so they know each other so well that they can predict each other’s responses, but there's no forgetting that now. She's not even sure they remember she's there.

Finally, the multiple topics cease when Raven gets all of their attentions. "Okay, we need to be serious now," she starts, very gravely. Clarke's immediately worried. Nothing good comes from that tone. "It's Bellamy's birthday in a few months and we need to figure out what we're going to do, so that we can avoid what happened last year."

Murphy groans. "The way we avoid what happened last year is if we stop bringing it up every few months."

"Isn't it the other way around?" Bellamy asks.

"It's definitely the other way around," Echo agrees. "But let's avoid what happened the year before that too. If you haven't forgotten, I'm still scarred by it."

"You're always scarred," Raven says, eyes rolling. "That was a mistake and I already said I was sorry."

They keep at it, bickering over what happened last year and what happened the year before and let's not forget, the year before that as well, actually maybe your birthday's cursed, Bellamy, yeah, I've been saying that for years which is why I don't want to celebrate it again.

Clarke hears all of it and sits paralyzed by it. She doesn't know what happened the year before, or the one before that, or the one before that — she didn't even know that it was Bellamy's birthday soon. Frantically, she searches her memory, tries to remember if she ever knew that about him and comes up short. It's not just the way they talk to each other, or the way they behave around each other, protective and knowing, it's this— the stuff they all know about each other, the tiny things, the big things, the everything in between, all resulting from six years in space together. All this time, she's thought of Bellamy as her best friend and all this time, she's never known anything about him that everyone else does. His birthday, his middle name, his favorite color. All the simplest things to know about someone. It's not enough that she has his forgiveness, not if all the outstanding issues stay the same.

Their friendship had been forged by war, and of course there was no denying they had been friends. At one point, they were the only ones who understood each other. She could look at him and immediately know what he was thinking, how he was feeling. She trusted him more than anyone, she loved him more than anyone. But it's clear that she's been stupid enough, in denial enough, to think that those few months they had together meant something six and a half years ago, that they mattered more, that they mattered at all, compared to six fucking years.

She hears herself speak, a whisper that grows louder as she repeats herself. "I'm sorry. I think, I think I need to go find Madi." Clarke picks up her tray and pushes her chair back, only barely registering the way it scrapes against the floor.

They stop talking, turning their heads towards her, but she doesn't heed their looks. Bellamy says her name.

"Sorry," she says again, her grip on the tray so tight that her knuckles are white. "I'll see you around."

*

(viii.)

"Clarke."

On her worst days, when nothing could get her out of bed, not even Madi, when she was so deep in the depths of despair that she couldn’t see, she had clung to the hope (because it was never a certainty, she never knew, she only hoped) that Bellamy and the others would come back to her. Sometimes, it wouldn't be enough, but she could still think about it, imagine the looks on their faces when they saw her again, envision the way Bellamy would hold her when he finally came face to face with her. It never made things better, but it helped the day pass.

"Clarke, can you slow down?"

She wishes she could live in that fantasy again, to undo the past few months, and do it right this time, so that she wouldn't be here, lonelier than ever, surrounded by people who were so different from what she remembered.

"Clarke!"

She stops in the middle of the corridor. Bellamy's been calling her name for the past five minutes, following her from the cafeteria, and his presence is the final thing that pierces the balloon of pressure weighing her down. This Bellamy is a stranger to her, a man she thought she loved, but doesn't know, a man who has lived an entire life without thinking of her. It'd never occurred to her that this would be how it turned out.

"Tell me something," she cries, whirling around to face him. His face contorts in worry when he sees her, so she must look even worse than she feels. "How much better would your life have been if I had just died?"

"What the hell?"

"Just be honest, Bellamy. If I had died all those years ago, wouldn't it be better? Wouldn't you be better off?"

"Clarke." Sharper this time.

"I can't stop thinking about that," she continues, unbothered by his rebuke.

"Well, you should stop," he says, roughly. "We wouldn't be better off if you were dead."

"Wouldn't you though?" She laughs with no joy in it. "From the sound it, you had a great life on the Ring. You were happy finally. You didn't have to worry about anything. You had a family."

"Stop it," Bellamy commands, voice tight. "I thought you were dead for six years. It didn't make my life better."

But she keeps going, too upset to stop, the words just rolling out one after the other. "And ever since you came back, it's just, it's just been awful for you. I put you guys in danger so many times. I almost killed you. I made a mess out of everything—"

"Clarke." He's much closer now, grabbing a hold of her hands, and it makes her cry out in guilt, the sound of which startles him enough that he drops them. "How could you say that?"

She doesn't even hear him. "And there's this wall between us, because, because you have your family, you have your friends, and I'm not a part of that, I don't have that history with you—" She hiccups and chokes on the sobs that rise up in her throat.

"Clarke, please, you have to breathe—" Panic underlines his words. "You are a part of it, you are—"

"Are we even friends anymore? I mean, can you honestly say we are? Before we were trapped up here, before you had literally nowhere to run from me, you never talked to me, you refused to trust me—" her breath catches, "you wouldn't even look at me—" She can feel the desperate climb of tension in her chest, clawing its way out.

"I'm sorry," he says, over and over, until it blurs together, or maybe that's her vision, obscured by the steady stream of tears that escalate and roll down her face.

She doesn't notice him pulling her into him, wrapping his arms around her, until she's crying into his shoulder, her words slightly muffled by it. "I don't know anything about you! Back there, they, they talked about your birthday—they've had six years of birthdays with you! I didn't even know when it was! I don't know your favorite color! I don't know your favorite book, I don't know what you went through on the Ring, I don't know anything! I called you every day for six years," she cries, "and I know nothing about you!"

"What?" He pulls back, searching her face. "What do you mean?"

"I thought that—" Clarke wipes furiously at her face, though it does nothing to stop the tears that keep falling. Her nose is runny and her eyes hurt and she's left a wet patch on his shirt and it, inexplicably, makes her feel worse about everything. "I thought I just needed you to forgive me, that if I got that, everything would fall into place, but it's not enough—"

"Clarke," Bellamy says, pleads, really. "I didn't mean to. I really didn't, I didn't even know I was—let me get you back to your room, okay?"

"No," she says, pushing out of his hold and reaching the wall behind her, closing her eyes and holding her breath. "Thank you, but no."

"You can't stay here like this. Lunch is almost over."

"No," she repeats. Her arms go around herself, clutching at her biceps.

"Please, Clarke—"

"Just," she sighs, "I want to be alone right now."

"I'm going to get Madi," he pushes and her eyes widen.

"No!" Wiping at her face again, sniffling, she continues, "I don't want her to see me like this."

"You shouldn't be alone right now and if you don't want to see me, fine, but someone should be with you," he insists, stepping closer, halting when she puts her hand up.

"Madi doesn't need to know about this."

"What about your mom?"

She snorts. "Yeah, even if she cared, she's got enough on her plate."

"What about—"

Clarke cuts him off. "Stop. This isn't your problem. I shouldn't have done that, I don't know what happened." A blatant lie, if there ever was any. "It's not even your fault—I mean," she shakes her head, more at how foolish she had just been, "compared to how long and how well you know everyone else… you barely knew me. It's stupid of me to think that nothing would change after six years."

"It's not stupid," he says, his forehead creasing. "And you are a part of us, Clarke, why wouldn't you be?"

"I don't want to do this again." She pushes off the wall and ducks out of his way, not quick enough to miss the hurt that's written on his face. "Please don't tell anyone about this. Especially Madi."

He catches her by the elbow, keeping her in place before she can walk off. "We should talk about this."

"No, we shouldn't," she replies, yanking her elbow out of his grasp, trying to look past his eyes, which could convince anyone to his side. Maybe that's what makes her give in, just slightly, and place her hand over his. He immediately clasps them together and looks hopefully at her. "Tell me you won't tell anyone."

"I…" his hand tightens on hers, "I won't."

"Thank you," she says, before she pulls her hand away and leaves.

Chapter Text

(ix.)

Bellamy's waiting for her outside the med center when she gets in for her shift the next day. He jumps to his feet and follows her inside, doesn't even wait for her to say anything before he launches into it.

"Can we talk?"

Barely to her office, she says, "I'm busy."

"It'll just take ten minutes," he tries.

"I've got patients today. Someone broke her ankle and she's arriving soon. I'd like you to leave before that."

"I will, as soon as we talk."

"I already told you," she says, indulging in a side glance at him, "we don't have to talk about it. I'd prefer if it we didn't, actually."

"I'm not fine with that."

"Good thing it's not up to you."

"If you could—"

"Bellamy," she says sharply, slamming her palms against her desk. "I don't want to do this right now." In a lower voice, she continues, "I'm already embarrassed enough."

"Why are you embarrassed?"

"Because what I did was embarrassing. I don't even know what I was saying and I just yelled at you and—" There's a knock on the door and she straightens up. "That's Anna. Please leave."

He looks torn between stubbornly staying and acquiescing to the request, but then Anna knocks again and his shoulders slump in defeat, making his decision for him. "When are you done tonight?"

"I don't know. Late."

"I'll wait for you."

"Please don't." Another knock. "And please leave. Come in!"

Anna limps in, supported by a friend, and Clarke directs them towards the exam table. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Bellamy leave, and then, only then, does she get to work.

*

(x.)

"I waited for you last night," is the first thing he says to her, once she drops Madi off at Gaia's. It's like he's popped up out of nowhere, so her shock at seeing him is genuine. The past week and a half, she'd tried everything to shake him off her tail: traded shifts, taken alternate routes, avoiding places she knew he would be, avoiding places he thought she'd be. He'd been incredibly persistent; at one point, there had been a queue of patients passing along a message asking her to meet him in the library to talk. She had sent them back to their rooms without an answer. If he'd been half this persistent before, she thinks meanly, then maybe this wouldn't have been necessary.

"Okay," she says, looking him over. He's agitated with every step they take.

"We've got to talk about this."

"No, we don't."

"Yes, we do. It's been weeks, Clarke."

"Which should've made it clear that I don't want to talk about it. Can't you just… I don't know, forget it? Can't we just pretend it never happened?"

"I can't do that," he says, insists, really. "How do you really expect me to just forget about the fact that I've made you feel like you don't belong with us? That we're not friends, that you think I'd rather you to be dead than here with us?"

"That's not my problem to deal with. That's yours. " Her voice trembles, just slightly. "Please. Please. I'm begging you to forget that."

"I can't do that," he repeats, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Why not?" she demands, drawing the attention of a few passersby.

"Because none of is true! None of it is true and I don't want you to think it is!"

"But it is, Bellamy," she says roughly. "Just because you can't see that doesn't mean it's not true. It doesn't even matter anyways! You have a family, Bellamy, and you deserve that! I shouldn't have said anything about it and made you think you were wrong for it! So you should just forget about it!"

"You're part of my family!"

"You've made it very clear that I'm not!" The memories come back quickly. "I've forgiven you for what happened during the war, but that was when I first knew that I wasn't part of it. And then we got up here and—and it was the same thing, except I got to think about it more. I'm in the meetings, but I don't count. I'm always a step or three or ten behind. I'm constantly playing catch up to you guys." She laughs a little, almost a hysterical sound. "I don't even think we know how to talk to each other anymore."

His brow furrows in anguish, in search of a solution. "Then we fix it, right? That's what we do—what we've always done. We always somehow get back on the same page."

"I don't think so," she says. "I think… I think this is just how it is now. That's why I don't blame you. I blame myself, for thinking that things couldn't change that much. I blame myself for throwing it back at you, like you should have to deal with that. This isn't who we are anymore. Too much has happened to change that."

"So what," he throws his hands up in frustration, "you're not even willing to try?"

"No," she confirms. "I've realized when I should give up. I mean, c'mon. Let's not fool ourselves into thinking that anyone else but you will even talk to me."

"They just—"

"Need time, I know. But we both know it's not going to happen."

"Clarke."

"Bellamy," she sighs, "this is hard enough as it is. Can you just… leave me alone for a bit? Please?"

"You want me to do that?"

"Yeah."

He takes a long time to answer. In fact, he doesn't say anything. Then, after what feels like forever, he steps aside, just slightly, so that she can walk away. She does, and she doesn't look back.

*

(xi.)

Clarke can't sleep so she's running. There's too much on her mind — Kane's taken a turn for the worse and they don't know if he'll make it, which means her mom's more stressed than before; there've been at least three disagreements the past week that have required an intervention; there was a brief scare with the fuel tanks; she hasn't seen Bellamy since she told him to leave her alone — and it's the last of which that's driven her to keep going faster, pushing through the pain in her legs and the burning in her chest and the sweat on her brow.

For ten minutes, she doesn't think about the look on his face when she ran from their conversation. For ten minutes, she forgets about the way he'd held her as she sobbed. For ten minutes, she turns off the part of her brain that insists on replaying every time he looked at her, or touched her, or talked to her. She just runs, lapping around the gym that's blissfully empty, and tells herself that she can only stop when she can't run anymore.

In actuality, she stops when the door slides open and Bellamy walks in, his eyebrows raised in surprise. She almost stumbles over her feet when she sees him.

"Sorry," he says, when she runs past him, keeping her eyes forward. He doesn't say anything else. Clarke keeps running because otherwise, the alternative is to stop and ask him what he's doing.

He's still there when she finishes, unable to stand the burning in her thighs, not having moved since he first came in. He stays there while her heart rate climbs down, while she packs up her things, and while she gets up to leave, his eyes following her every movement. She'd shout at him if she hadn't suddenly lost her ability to speak.

He rasps out her name. "Clarke."

She stops, and when she turns around, she finally notices his appearance. To put it bluntly, Bellamy looks terrible: hair a mess, beard unkempt, bags under his eyes. He looks so tired she's surprised he's even standing up. "Are you okay?" she asks, on instinct.

Bellamy shakes his head, cutting her off before she can follow up on it. "I'm sorry."

Her back stiffens. "Can we not do this again?"

"I'm so sorry," he says again. "I never thought that what I was doing was hurting you. And that's on me."

It just might be worse, she thinks, that he never put any thought into it. If it had been deliberate, she could ask why, but it had been a natural thing. "That's worse," she says, softly, more to herself.

"I don't have an excuse, I don't have a reason, and you have no obligation to accept this apology or even to believe me," he stumbles over the last few words, choked on emotion. What is she supposed to say to that?

"I already told you. I understand." The bag gets shouldered a little higher before she starts moving again.

Once again, his voice stops her. "I know you don't want to see me." She wishes that were true. "But I need to ask you something. About something you said."

With her back to him, she pauses before she gives into her curiosity. "What is it?"

He's a little louder, stronger, when he asks, "Did you… did you really call me? Every day?"

Clarke had forgotten she told him that, a passing mention of a six-year-long tradition. "Yeah." She turns around, careful to keep her face blank as she tells him, "Two thousand, one hundred, and ninety nine days. I would've kept doing it, but you know, then, Eligius came down and I had to stop." Put it like that, she must sound so pathetic. Wasn't that the definition of insanity? Doing something over and over and expecting something to change? She thinks back to those calls, when all she had to worry about was whether she could finish one before Madi woke up.

"How—" There's a frantic quality to his gaze, like he needs to know. "How did you call me?"

"I had a radio," she says, finding it hard to look away. "I thought it would work… obviously it didn't."

"And you still kept trying?"

"I still kept trying."

He closes his eyes, almost as if that answer pains him. He sounds pained when he asks, "Why?"

Evasively: "I don't remember."

"Try." He runs his hand through his hair several times, messing it up even more. It's just sticking up now, in all sorts of directions. It mirrors the energy he's throwing off, a mix of frenetic curiosity and an almost-demanding force. "Please. Clarke, please, tell me why you would do that."

"I don't know!" The fire behind her words dies immediately and soon enough, she just feels exhausted, weighed down by all of the things she’s felt and wanted to say for a long time. And if he wants to know... "Fine. At first… I just wanted to talk to someone. It was—miserable, the first months I was alone. You don't understand what it's like, to have no one around, to be so lonely you can't stand it anymore, to know that you're the very last person on this planet and you don't know if you can keep going on.” He hunches over slightly. “The first few days, everything hurt. I thought I was dying, sometimes I even thought I was dead. I just wanted to hear someone else's voice to know I wasn't so alone, that I wasn't losing my mind. It always ended up just being you I talked to." Bellamy hasn't blinked since she started. "And then, it became something I got attached to doing. I liked doing it. Even after I figured it wasn't reaching you."

"We didn't get any messages," he says, shame and regret lining his words. "I wish we had, I wish I'd been able to talk to you—"

"I wish you had too," she says, eyes flickering away. Then, when it's quiet, with only the hum of the gym around them, she adds, "Later, it was like I was talking to you. I had conversations with you, in my head, of course, but they felt so real sometimes. Like I could hear your voice. Like you were… like you were there with me."

"Clarke." She's never heard him sound so broken. "What did you say? What did you talk about?"

"Everything. What I was doing, what Madi was doing, what I thought you might be doing, what the Earth was doing… anything I could think of, I would talk about. The berries I found, the stories I told Madi, how much I missed you, I don't know—" How much I wanted to see you, how much I wished you were here, how much I loved and loved and loved you. She gets a little choked up remembering.

"You could've told me," he whispers, though it sounds louder than anything in the empty gym. "You should've told me."

She drops her bag and laughs once. "When? When we were trying to get the bunker open? When we were trying to deal with your sister being some kind of raging dictator? When you were busy with Echo? Right before I left you behind? When we were trying to get everyone onto the ship?" She laughs again, a bitter, sharp sound. "That would've gone over well. Or maybe you mean when you were busy avoiding me for the first few months up here? It doesn't even matter… why would I have told you?"

"Because," he grasps for the answer, "it was six years. You did it for six years. If I'd known about it—"

"You would've what? Felt guilty and indebted to me?" His face falls at the same time his shoulders slump. He's been holding himself so taut that it's causing her own muscles to tighten up. "I don't want that. Even though I'm telling you about this now, I don't want you to feel bad about it. I know you couldn't hear me. I wished you had, but you couldn't do anything about it. So why does it matter? Why obsess over it?"

"It changes things," Bellamy says.

"What does it change?" Her smile comes through as a grimace. "Did you really think I never thought about you? That I didn't miss you all the time?"

"Yes! Because I thought you were dead! I thought you were dead for six years so I never thought that you'd be on Earth, missing me! Every single day I had to believe that you were gone forever, and you weren't, you were here!" Bellamy's frustration seeps through every word, every tiny movement of his body as he speaks, and when he finishes, it erupts into a single action: his fist slamming into the wall next to him, the metal reverberating while he hisses in pain.

Clarke can't help but move towards him, guiding him down onto the bench and grabbing his hand. He winces but lets her check it over. Thankfully, he hadn't used his knuckles, which would've been more cause for alarm. But still, "You're going to be bruised for a bit."

"It's fine," he mumbles, flexing his fingers gingerly. Clarke drops her hold on him and nearly apologizes, would've if Bellamy hadn't said something first. "Clarke. Leaving you behind was… the worst thing I've ever had to do." His voice breaks towards the end. "I think I was so mad at you for leaving me in Polis because… I couldn't stop thinking about how I actually left you. I closed that door on you and I just left you on a burning Earth. To die."

"I'm glad you did," she says, fiercely. "It meant you lived so I'm glad you did."

"You shouldn't be." He chokes out a sob and has to lean over, bracing his hands against his knees. "You were all alone."

"I wasn't alone," she reminds him, not unkindly.

He looks over at her, tears bright in his eyes. "And did you ever talk to Madi about how you were feeling? About yourself?"

"I—" She averts her eyes and falls silent.

Straightening back up, Bellamy continues, voice thick with emotion. "I'm not going to sit here and pretend that we had a worse life on the Ring than you did. We didn't. And that was because of you. You saved our lives, made it possible for us to have these lives, and we—I repaid it by—" he swallows hard, "making you think you don't matter. That you don't belong with us."

So this is what it's about. Withdrawing into herself, Clarke looks furiously at her hands, noting the way they shake."If you're doing this because you feel guilty, don't. I don't need your pity. I don't need you to pretend you care because I got upset."

"I'm not pretending."

Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. Maybe she'll never know, never believe it for herself. "I don't believe that."

"I wouldn't lie to you."

The Bellamy she remembers wouldn't have. She traces an indiscernible pattern onto her leg, using it to gather her thoughts. Everything is so confusing and they keep going in circles.

"I don't know you anymore. Maybe I never knew you," she says mournfully. Out of every change that she'd confronted over the years, this one hurt the most. "It's like… there are two Bellamys. The one I remember from six years ago and who you are now. And I know that they're the same person, but you've changed so much and I can’t figure out who you are anymore."

"I didn't realize that was how you felt." He struggles through the sentence, each word weighed down by a certain gravity that overtakes him.

"Well, I wasn't in the habit of telling anyone."

"But if I'd paid attention to you, if I'd seen what—" He clenches his other fist.

"I don't think entertaining hypotheticals is going to help," she says softly. She'd done enough of that to last a lifetime.

He slouches back against the wall, saying nothing for a few minutes. Then, in a helpless breath, "Clarke, I don't want this to be us." He turns to her, reaches out his hand and then pulls it back on second thought. She's not sure if she's disappointed or not about it. "I don't want to lose you again, I can't lose you again."

"You'd be fine."

"No, I wouldn't."

"You were fine," she reminds him, unable to hide the hurt in it.

"Because I had to be. Because I couldn't let your sacrifice be in vain."

"And after you found out I was alive? I missed you so much and it was like—I mean did you ever even—"

"Did I ever what?"

"Did you ever…" she pauses, unsure, "ever hope that I was alive?"

"Of course I did." She meets his eyes, and for the first time, she can read them as clearly as she could six years ago. "Clarke, if I had known that you were alive, I would've crashed the ship to get back to you."

It's the exhaustion, the result of physical exertion and emotional release. It's the rollercoaster of emotions she's endured, the anger fading into sadness fading into hopelessness. It's the doubt warring with the belief, the part of her that wants to think he means it battling with the rest of her that just won't.

Or maybe it's the image, the endless what-if that threatened to turn into an obsession before she had forced herself stop thinking about it, of Bellamy coming back to her, the way she remembered him, unattached, unchanging, unstoppable.

Whatever it is, it makes her burst into tears, crying into her hands, keening into thin air before Bellamy pulls her into him, and she lets him, clutching at his shirt, breathing him in, fitting against him like she always had.

Eventually, after what feels like hours later, after every tear dries up, she pulls herself together. Tucking some stray hairs behind her ear (and trying not to think about how much of a mess her hair had to be right now), she scans Bellamy's face, though she doesn't know what she's looking for. It's still an unfamiliar face. Slowly, giving him enough time to object, she brings her hand up to his cheek, cupping it briefly. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you look terrible."

His laugh is the brightest thing she's heard in weeks. "I know. I haven't been able to sleep."

"Because of this?"

"Because I couldn't stop thinking about how I'd treated you."

With a watery smile, she says, with her hand dropping back to her lap, "I didn't want that for you."

"I needed it. I needed to understand everything."

"It makes me feel awful."

"You have nothing to feel awful about."

She nods, for lack of a better response. Her hands twist the material of her leggings nervously. "So what now?"

"Maybe… maybe we could start over." She peeks over at him, taking in his teary gaze, and his hopeful smile.

Her head tentatively rests on his shoulder. For now, it's enough.

*

(xii.)

Bellamy insists on walking her back and Clarke decides that, for once, she won't question his motives behind it. Over the course of an hour, she'd already gone through an extremely emotionally taxing conversation and the last thing she wants to do is analyze his actions even more. In fact, the only thing on her mind right now is when she'll be able to curl up in bed and not get up for a while.

Besides, they were starting over. It's the least she could do.

Starting over, however, apparently means silence as they walk side by side down the corridor.

"So—"

"So—"

They stop. Bellamy laughs, a little nervously, if she can read it right. "Go ahead," he says.

Clarke flushes slightly and gives him a weak smile. "Um, I was just going to ask how you knew I'd be at the gym."

"It was actually a coincidence. I, uh, well, I couldn't sleep so I thought I'd head over and maybe see if I could clear my head a bit. I didn't know you'd be there." He gives her an apologetic half-grin that sends a slight flutter through her. "I really would've stayed out of your way, I just—I needed you to know I was sorry. It was mostly selfish."

"You didn't even get to run."

"I'm not that mad about it, actually."

"Are you sure? You can always go back and do a few laps."

"You can't get rid of me that easily," he says, and her face falls in anxiety.

"That was a joke," she clarifies, uneasily. "I didn't mean—"

"No, me too," he hurries to say before he laughs and she joins in. Hers feels more forced than it should be, but at least it's a mistake on both their parts. "We'll get better at this."

"You think so?"

"Of course I do." Bellamy sounds so confident that it makes her believe it, just a little. She hopes they do. They're nearly to their rooms. "Hey, uh, do you want to get breakfast or something? It's nearly time anyways."

Her heart stops. "With… everyone or...?"

He gives her a strange look she can't parse right now, but quickly reassures her, "Just me. If you'd like."

"I was really looking forward to sleeping for a bit," she admits, watching his face fall, "but—later, maybe? If you had some time… lunch would be nice. If you'd like."

His bright smile is a huge relief. "Yeah, I would like that. Cafeteria?" The thought of all those people and of being interrupted again makes her grimace. He notices because he changes his suggestion. "The kitchen?"

"Yeah," she says, barely masking her sigh. "Around noon?"

Bellamy nods, looking much better than he had an hour ago, even if everything else about his physical appearance remains the same. "Sounds good." They stop in front of her door. "Good night, Clarke."

"Good night," she says back, and it isn't until Clarke's finally half-asleep, lulled by the sound of Madi's peaceful breathing, that she feels different, like something's finally changed. She holds on tight to that feeling, chases it as she succumbs to her dreams.

*

(xiii.)

The bridge is her favorite spot on the Eligius ship. It boasts the quiet she craves and gives her the best view of the Earth, a dying shell of its former self. Clarke likes to stand in front of the window and stare at it, running over every hypothetical. If she hadn't allied with McCreary, if she'd killed him when she had the chance, if she'd struck a deal earlier, if she'd, if she'd, if she'd—it always comes down to a common denominator.

"What are you looking at?" Bellamy asks, his voice jarring her from her thoughts. She hadn't even noticed his arrival.

She scoots over to accommodate him and leans against the ledge, eyes still focused on the planet below them. Sometimes, if she stares long enough, she swears she can see some color again. It doesn't occur to her that she hasn't answered his question until he says her name. "Do you think that when," she starts, clearing her throat to regain her voice, "if we go back down… we'll do better this time? That we'll—that I'll become the kind of person that actually deserves the Earth?"

"I think you already are," he says and she can't help the snort that escapes her. Bellamy pauses before continuing, waiting for a response that doesn't come. "It doesn't help to think like that."

"I don't know how to stop it," she confesses, resting her forehead against the window, letting the cold glass mark her skin.

Bellamy turns around, sitting on the ledge, his arms crossed over his chest. "I get that. On the Ring, I spent a lot of time staring at the Earth. Just like this. Wondering if we would do better next time, if I could undo all the ways I failed you and Octavia…"

"You didn't fail us, Bellamy," she says automatically, even turning to look at him, meeting his gaze. "You didn't."

"My point is," he says instead, ignoring her protests, "you already are that kind of person and when we get back down there, we'll start brand new. It'll be different this time. Thinking about something like that only makes things worse."

"What if I don't believe it?"

"Then I'm going to try my best to help you see it," he says simply, so matter-of-factly that she gets thrown by it. There's a lump in her throat that threatens to be more and she has to turn back to the window and count to ten to regain control.

"Tell me about the Ring," she says to the window, although it's meant for Bellamy.

Skepticism colors his voice. "Really?" Clarke nods. "What do you want to know?"

"What it was like to be up there, what you did, how you survived living with Murphy." She cracks a smile at the last bit and he laughs. It still sounds as nice as it always does.

"It was like being on the Ark, but smaller and with just seven people around, and it took some time before we got used to it again. There wasn't a lot to do… there weren't many things still left from the station and at least for that first year, we kind of just… were on our own. And then we realized we were spending four more years together, so we might as well make the best of it."

It stings, but she had expected it to.

"We all just settled into our own things, I guess. Monty and Harper had the farm. Raven had the ship. Emori learned a bit of everything. Murphy exiled himself, so that's how we survived him."

"What about you?"

"What?"

"What did you do?"

Bellamy sighs and turns to look out the window, mirroring her stance. He doesn't say anything for a few minutes, and then, "I guess I led. I don't know if you could call it that, though. We weren't fighting a war or negotiating with Grounders, were we?"

"Those aren't the only times they need you," Clarke points out. "They've always needed you. You kept them alive, just like you always do."

He shakes his head. "Someone had to." And before she can jump in, he goes on. "We made a schedule of the things we had to do around the Ring, we played games, we tried so many variations of Monty's algae that I lost count," he laughs at the memory, "we switched off on Murphy watch duties." He delves into more detail about the Ring, brings out a few stories that he clearly holds close to his heart, and it's so easy to imagine herself there, to insert herself into these stories, to think that if she had been there with them, this is what she could've had.

"That sounds… really nice," she comments, because it does. The melancholy that laces her words is too hard to hide. "That's what I wanted for you guys."

Remorseful, perhaps overly so, Bellamy says, "I wasn't trying to brag or anything."

"I know. I wanted you to tell me what it was like." She smiles at him, only half-forced, "It sounds a lot like what I imagined it'd be."

"You imagined it?"

"Of course. There wasn't much to do and I had to believe you guys were alive and that just led me to think, you know, like, that if you were, what would you be doing? It was pretty boring, I guess." But it'd been a fun exercise, to tell Madi about them and to craft situations in her head about how they were faring in space. Maybe Bellamy was trying to break up a fight, maybe Raven was doing something so spectacular she couldn't stop raving about her genius, maybe Monty was building them a new moonshine still, somehow — she wasn't going to explain the science behind that.

"That doesn't sound boring."

"You don't have to say that."

"I mean it."

She laughs a little, fogging up the glass. "Did you ever… get sick of each other? I think I would've. Spending all that time with so few people."

Bellamy rubs at his neck, in thought. "We fought, of course. Murphy got on everyone's nerves. Obviously, he and Emori kind of imploded towards the end. Echo didn't get along with any of us for the longest time—" (but now you get along better with her than anyone else ), "—Raven and I argued a lot about what to do…" he chuckles at that, "but usually, we all got along pretty well. We kinda had to. There were seven of us and we didn't know how long we'd be stuck there."

"Madi and I…”

“Go ahead.”

“We used to fight a lot," she says, "because it was just the two of us. And she just didn't trust me for a while. Did I ever tell you about how I got caught in one of her traps when we first met?" It makes her laugh every time she thinks about it.

"No," he says softly, eyes cloudy when she catches his gaze, "I never thought to ask."

The laughter dies in her throat. "Right. Sorry."

"How did you get caught?"

Slowly, unsure: "I was sitting in Eden one day, I don't remember what I was doing, probably talking on the radio or something—"

"To me," Bellamy says, more of a question than a statement. She nods because it's true. Whatever she had been saying, it would be to Bellamy. Lightly pleased, he asks, interested, "And then what?"

"I heard a noise and I saw this blurry thing out of the corner of my eye and I was hoping it was a person, no matter how implausible that was, so when she ran, I ran after her. God, she was this tiny thing and her hair was a mess and she just kept running until this clearing. I thought I could talk to her, get her to see that she could trust me and that's when I walked right into her trap." Clarke shakes her leg a little, indicating where it'd gotten her. His eyes drift down and then back up to her. "She thought I was the Flamekeeper, that I was trying to take her away, so she wanted to—"

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she says in reassurance, quickly continuing with her story before he feels more guilt for something she'd already forgiven him for. "Anyways, it took a couple of tries before she finally stopped running away, and then, we got to know each other. We were the only people left on the planet. It made more sense to stick together. Plus, she couldn't survive on her own. But it was a long process of figuring out how to live together. She'd been on her own for so long and she was so stubborn all the time and I didn't know what to do with her. I don't think that's changed much."

"She takes after you, you know," he assesses, leaning his hip against the ledge. "I see a lot of you in her."

Madi is the best thing in her life. Clarke doesn't deserve that kind of praise. "I just wanted her to be good."

"And she is."

It's silly of her to react to that; it's ridiculous that she feels tears prick at her eyes, but no matter how much she knows it is, she can't stop it. She never knew she wanted to hear that until now. Taking a moment to turn away and blink away the burgeoning tears, Clarke misses Bellamy's next question.

"Sorry, what?"

He looks sheepishly, nervously at her. "Will you—will you tell me about before? Before you found Madi, before you had anyone around."

"I," she looks down at her feet, wary of the request and uncertain of how much she wants to say. Sometimes, just thinking about those months brings back a visceral pain and loneliness she can't shake for a few hours. "It isn't very exciting."

"That's not really my concern," he says, mildly.

"What is?"

Scratching at his beard, he opens and closes his mouth a few times before he figures out what to say. "You survived a radiation filled planet all by yourself. How did you do it?"

"Well, the nightblood helped," she tries to joke, though it comes out weakly. "Look… if I tell you, I don't want you to feel bad about it. I don't want you to obsess over it." Knowing Bellamy — even through these changes — he would.

"It's that bad?" He asks, horrified. She almost laughs at his surprise. Had he really expected otherwise?

"It's not that good."

Bellamy runs a hand over his face and lets out a long sigh. "Okay. If you want to tell me, I want to know."

The Earth sits just beyond her vision, a perfect backdrop to a story about a life she lived years ago. It takes her maybe ten minutes to think of what to say and then she does. She tells Bellamy about how the radiation had burned her through the suit, how it took two months before the burns fully healed. She tells him about waking up in Becca's lab thinking that she was already dead, the relief of not and then the disappointment following it. She recounts how she constantly hoped that they had made it to space, that they were alive. She talks about how she couldn't move for a week and thought maybe she was just slowly dying. How she nearly gave up, in the desert, before she found sign of life.

She has to pause several times and she can't look at him for longer than a few minutes, but he doesn't say anything, just listens. His face twists into a pained expression, his knuckles go white, his jaw reflects the tension in his body. She doesn't cry, but it's a similar feeling, though, strangely, more uplifting. It's almost a catharsis of sorts, to finally be able to talk about this, to say it out loud, and it even hurts less to think about it now that she's put it out there.

She doesn't delve into complete detail about how she almost, could've, would’ve killed herself; she withholds just how lonely it had been, how much she had spiraled into despair; she is conscious of not telling him too much about her feelings for him, how much she'd missed him and thought of him and needed him with her. Maybe one day she'll tell him about all of it, but it won't be today.

She finishes with a slightly hoarse voice and a tingling in her fingertips and waits for him to say something. When he doesn't, ten minutes later, she starts to frown. He doesn't have to say anything, but it'd be nice, to know that he'd heard her. Hunched over by the window, Bellamy stays silent, with only the flexing of his fingers as proof that he's even there with her.

"Bellamy?"

He straightens up at the sound of his name, turning around so that she can see, even with the fair distance between them, the redness in his eyes and the teartracks left on his cheeks. "Clarke?"

"Yeah?"

"You don't have to say yes," he starts, taking a moment to collect himself, "but I'd like to hug you. Can I do that?" It's not what she expected to hear, but she finds herself nodding before her brain catches up with the question. Bellamy wastes no time, striding over to gather her in his arms, embracing her with such force that he actually lifts her up off her feet and she lets out a surprised sound that gets muffled in his shoulder. He buries his face in her hair and neck; she can feel him sob against her skin and it makes her wind her arms around him, holding him close. It's been forever since they were this close, since they hugged, and the first time they'd hugged after six years wasn't like this, with this unique kind of desperation he's exuding and the peace she feels when he burrows closer. She'd felt lost, adrift, centered only when he held her, but he'd felt distant. It's nothing like that now. His touch still startles her a little, setting her nerves on fire, but she slowly falls into it like she used to. For a brief moment, she thinks, oh no, because now she'll want this forever.

Clarke closes her eyes and breathes him in anyways.

His deep voice rumbles in her ear. "You're okay," he's saying, "you're okay. You have Madi, you have me, you have all of us," and even though it's not true, she doesn't argue with him, just sways with him, listening to his heartbeat, or maybe it's hers, feeling his back underneath her hands, matching her breathing to his.

"I wish I could've been here. I wish I could've made you feel like you could talk to me about this," he says a little later, still holding her to him.

She buries her nose into his shoulder before she raises her head again. "I wouldn't have told you anyways."

A hitch in his breathing. "Why not?"

"It's hard, talking about it. I didn't even like to think about it." She feels him draw something on her back and tries not to shiver. "I can talk about Madi because I have good memories with Madi. It's not like that with these memories."

He holds her tighter. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"I told you not to feel bad about it."

"Yeah, but that's like telling Indra to take us seriously. It's unlikely to happen."

"Good point. But I don't blame you. At all."  Bellamy only hums, squeezing her again. She gives into it, allows herself just to exist in his arms for as long as she can.

It goes by too quickly. "Sorry to interrupt." Echo's voice drips with ice, sounding not at all apologetic about it. They pull apart and it takes a moment to readjust her vision to the bright light that's not emanating from the hallway and the girl that's standing by the door, arms crossed, looking visibly angry. "I didn't know you were this busy."

"Echo," Bellamy says, wearily, removing his hand from Clarke's bicep. She takes a step back to separate them further. It's still not much. "What's up?"

Her eyes narrow. "I was trying to find you."

"I was here."

"I can see." Her eyes flicker over to Clarke. "With Clarke."

"Yes, with Clarke," he confirms. "We were talking."

"Looked like it."

A heavy sigh from Bellamy tells her that it's time to leave. She's already getting antsy standing in front of Echo's glare. "I'm going to find Madi," Clarke says, pulling her hair back into a low ponytail and giving him a quick smile.

"You don't have to go," he says, and he's right, because she was here first, but that's a fight she's not willing to step into right now. She doesn't have to find Madi, but if it gives her a good excuse, then she'll pretend to.

"It was nice to talk to you," she says instead, almost reaching out to touch him and rethinking it at the last second. Without waiting for a response, she walks away, past Echo, who knocks into her shoulder deliberately as she does so. Clarke doesn't react to that, but it's hard not to.

She does find Madi on her way back to the room, a chance encounter, and she's happy to see her, but she only half-listens to her talk about something she learned today because all she can think about right now is the way Bellamy had listened to her and apologized to her and held her. She lets out a shudder and Madi mistakes that for something bad.

"Are you okay?" she asks, tugging at her hand.

Clarke smiles down at her and clasps their hands together. "I am."

*

(xiv.)

It's a bit of a risk to commandeer the bathroom for however long they need it, but Madi's needed a haircut and Clarke finally has time to spare, so she doesn't really care about whoever has a problem with it. Luckily, everyone else on this floor seems busy with their own things, so it becomes a non-issue. Now if only Madi was feeling cooperative today.

"If you don't stop complaining, we'll be here all day," Clarke says, tapping Madi's head so that she's facing forward again. She keeps turning around and trying to distract her.

"My hair's not even as long as that one time," she whines, the pout evident even though she can't see it right now. "How come that was okay and this isn't?"

As she's explained it five times before: "If you hadn't complained about how much hair you have, I wouldn't be here doing this. Now turn back around and let me finish up."

"Clarke, that's not fair!"

"What's Clarke doing that's not fair?" Bellamy says unexpectedly, poking his head into the open doorway, nearly causing her to drop the scissors. He's been doing that a lot lately — showing up out of nowhere, making himself present in ways she hadn't expected. She usually doesn't question it.

"Bellamy!" Madi shouts, twisting in the chair until she's facing him. Clarke sighs loudly in response. This had been a bad idea.

"Hey Madi." He comes to stand by the sink, gesturing towards their makeshift hair salon. "What's so unfair about this?"

"Because I don't want a haircut!"

"That's not what you said yesterday," Clarke reminds her, hands on her hips. "Or the day before. Or the week before. Remember, you wanted me to cut it that night but I had to cover for Jackson?"

"Well, I changed my mind," she says sullenly, in the exact tone that Clarke knows she's used before on her own mother. Sometimes, she really is so much like her.

"Can I at least give you a trim?" Madi thinks about it. Over her head, she catches Bellamy's eye and rolls her eyes. He grins.

"Okay," Madi finally deliberates, "but just a little."

"As little as possible," she says, sectioning off her hair. "But when you want another haircut, just know that I'll have to say I told you so."

"I won't need another one."

"I think you'll look nice with a haircut, Madi," Bellamy says. She's not looking at him, but if she were, she'd take a second to appreciate how well his black shirt fits him.

Madi doesn't take to the compliment. "Then maybe you should get a haircut."

He runs a hand through his hair and peers in the mirror, examining himself. "I didn't think I needed one yet."

"Your hair's really long," she proclaims, with all the attitude of a surly teen packed into a few words. "I don't like it."

"Madi," Clarke warns, before shooting him an apologetic glance. He doesn't take offense to it, laughing as he cocks his head at Madi.

"How short should I cut it?"

She shifts again in the chair, so Clarke has to stop again. At this rate, they'll be here all night. "The way Clarke had it in her drawings."

"Madi," she says, tapping her head again, ignoring the heat that's rushing to her cheeks. "Look forward."

"You had drawings of me?" Bellamy asks, and of course, she can't not look at him. He looks surprised, eyes a little wide, eyebrows a little raised.

"I thought it might help make the stories make more sense," she tells him briskly, using the opportunity to cut the bottom inch off Madi's hair as a reason not to make eye contact with him. "I drew a lot of people."

"And my hair was short?"

Madi nods, much to Clarke's dismay. "Your hair was a lot shorter than this and you didn't have the beard."

His hand jumps to the beard in question. "That was a new development."

"Don't listen to her. She should be facing forward." Sheepishly, she follows the directive and allows Clarke to get to work. Bellamy stays there while she does, making conversation with Madi until she declares that it's done. Antsy to leave, Madi barely looks at her reflection before she zips out, a loud, "Thanks, Clarke!" behind her.

Clarke sighs. Next time, she's just going to let her grow her hair out. "Sorry about that," she says, crouching down to begin cleaning up. "Her manners are usually better."

"It's fine," he smiles, joining her on the floor. "Do you want some help?"

"Well," she hesitates. "If you're not busy or anything."

"I'm really not."

They clear the floor quickly, working between the two of them, and when he hands her the scissors from the chair, she smiles gratefully at him, no doubt behind it. "You know, I—I drew you as I remembered you. I couldn't have accounted for the beard."

"It just kind of happened," Bellamy explains, grabbing the chair and lifting it towards the door. "I'm gonna take this out, okay?" She nods, makes to follow him. "And I felt like I needed a change so I kept it." He looks back at her. "Madi hates it?"

Shaking her head quickly, Clarke says, "She's just really attached to the stories. I mean, I'm still, still getting used to seeing you like this too."

The chair gets easily returned to the kitchen. "You changed too, you know." He gestures to her hair. It's longer now, almost to her shoulders, but she knows what he means. "It was shorter than before."

"It was easier that way. Less in my face." And after losing her last hair tie, it became a necessity. Without a clear link, she suddenly remembers the thought lodged in the back of her mind, the one that'd reminded her that she had something she wanted to say to him when she first saw him. "Hey. Was, um, was Echo mad? She seemed upset yesterday."

The answer comes out through a grimace he fails to hide. "Don't worry about it."

"I can talk to her, if that helps. I mean," she frowns, her fingers twisting in the hem of her shirt instinctually, nervously. "I don't want anyone to be mad at you because you're talking to me."

"Clarke, seriously, don't worry about it. You're fine," he says gently, sincerely, she thinks. It doesn't undo the knot of anxiety in her stomach.

"It's just, I know she has a good reason to hate me—"

"No, she doesn't have a good reason," he says firmly. "And no one's mad because we're talking."

The anxiety loosens, but her hand remains. "If you say so."

"I do." Bellamy looks around, searching for the clock displayed above the oven. "Are you busy?"

"I was going to check on Diyoza."

"Can I come with you?"

She bites back a smile. "Yeah. That'd be nice."

*

(xv.)

It's her idea to play chess, but his idea to turn it into a game of twenty questions. He says it's not a distraction, but it is; she'd been winning before he asked the first question and the more she got into the game, the more she forgot she was supposed to be playing chess.

"You're cheating," she accuses, watching him smugly take her pawn from the board.

"You didn't answer my question," he just says, staring back at her with a serene smile that doesn't suit him when she knows he's cheating.

She spends a full minute figuring out her next move before she answers. "Wells taught me. His dad taught him. And he was always trying to teach me because he didn't have anyone else to play with and eventually I got to be really good at it." She moves in position to take his bishop. "What about you?"

"Self-taught," he says, because of course he was. "Octavia never liked it, but our mom and I would play sometimes."

"Did she complain about you taking too long to make a move?" She grouses, looking pointedly at him while he ponders the board.

"Who do you think inspired me?"

It triggers her curiosity. Hoping she's not overstepping any boundaries, Clarke asks, while looking at her pieces, "What was she like?" His mother was a subject she knew very little about. On the ground — the first time — he'd barely ever mentioned her, apart from the once, and she'd always wondered. The little information she had she'd pieced together from conversations with him and Octavia, but it still wasn't much.

"She was," he pauses, giving Clarke the chance to look up at him, observe him as he remembers, "she tried really hard. All the time. She was funny, really funny, and quiet. She always had the answers, I thought. And she made sure that Octavia was safe and happy, as much as she could."

"What about you?"

He looks confused by the question. "What do you mean?"

"Just… did she make sure you were safe and happy too?"

"Yeah, of course," he says immediately. "I wasn't the problem child."

She gives him a weaker smile than she would've liked. "I'm sure you were a golden child."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Of course. Until I got put in the Skybox."

"What was that like?" He tilts his head at her, taking her in. She tries not to blush under his stare. "I don't think I ever asked anyone about it."

Truthfully, "I don't remember much about it. I was alone, I remember that. I counted down the days." Clarke frowns. "I guess it was just preparing me for the next few years."

They fall quiet after that, a depressing realization that splashes cold water on them. She shouldn't have said that. She wishes she didn’t always make things sad like this. Bellamy finally moves his knight and takes one of her pawns. She's fine with that, because it puts it in prime position for her bishop to take. He's doing this on purpose, but she's not a player who turns that down.

Her bishop takes his knight. His question comes right after. "What's your favorite memory of Eden?"

That stumps her. There's a lot of things she'd loved about Eden, a lot of memories that stood out to her, but… "I have two. There was a day when, it was early on and Madi and I hadn't really gotten along. Language barriers, attitude barriers, just a lot of little things, but we went to the lake and it was a really nice day. I'm talking bright sun, not too hot, nice breeze, it was just perfect. We fished and laid out and I drew and Madi napped—it was just a great day. It was, I think, the first time I actually that I might be okay being here, without you. And it was the first time Madi and I really connected."

"Did you have a lot of those days?"

"Every once in a while. But I like that one the most."

"When we get back down, you should show us the lake."

She smiles and nods. "Deal."

Bellamy makes a move on the board and knocks his knuckles against the table. He does that, sometimes, she's noticed, when he's rethinking a move. "What's the second one?" He asks.

She rolls a piece between her thumb and index finger and then knocks down his rook when she takes it. "When you came back."

His hand knocks over the line of pieces he'd collected from her and he has to bend down to retrieve them. "Sorry," he says, once he's righted them. "I should've gotten there sooner." A dark look settles across his face.

"I taught Madi to never speed," she says solemnly and it's just the thing to make him smile. The look goes away. "And I'd never begrudge you your dramatic entrances."

"My what?"

"Are you going to sit here and tell me you don't do that?"

"I—" Bellamy closes his mouth and turns his attention towards the board instead. "Next question."

She laughs, but complies. "Okay, um, favorite color."

Immediately, he has an answer, looking up at her. "Blue. Like a light… a light blue. You?"

"Green. I remember stepping off the dropship and seeing trees for the first time and they were beautiful. So that green."

"We should've had more time to just enjoy that."

"Yeah," she agrees, though unwilling to get mired down in the nostalgia, "but we will soon enough. What'll be the first thing you do on the ground?"

"Look at the trees." He laughs at her glare, using the time to move his knight. A quick glance back at the board tells her that she's not in any danger yet. "Take a walk, I think."

"Boring."

"Oh yeah? What are you going to do?"

"Go for a run." Her words are punctuated by the advance of her rook.

"Funny," he says, dry amusement in it. "What's your worst irrational fear?"

"Centipedes," she answers easily, shuddering.

"You've seen some?"

"Unfortunately. They've got way more legs too." Her face contorts into disgust at the memory. "Yours?"

"I'm not a fan of heights."

"Space?"

"That's different. I got used to it." He moves his queen to the left and continues, "If you could turn back time, would you?"

"Probably."

"Yeah, me too." Bellamy has the far away look in his eye that she's since learned is related to his sister. She knows better than to bring her up right now, though. He pulls himself out of it, flashing her a smile that's trying too hard. Her heart skips anyways. "If you could have anything you wanted, what would it be?"

You, she thinks, and for a second, she imagines a world where she could say it without consequence. It disappears quickly. Instead, what comes out is, though no less truthful, not exactly a strict reading of the question. "A day where I don't have to do or think about anything."

"I'm stealing that," he says. "Now who's the one taking a long time?"

"I'm just taking a page out of your book," she says mockingly, but she finally makes the move she'd already planned out two minutes ago. "Do you think you'll talk to Octavia again?"

"Probably," he says plainly, hand hovering over his king. "Do you think Madi will ever want to be Commander again?"

"I hope not." She watches him move his king, cornering her knight. There isn't anything she can do to save it. "But she says she won't think about it until she's 18. So I won't either. If someone asked you to say a nice thing about Murphy, what would it be?"

"He's resourceful. What's your favorite thing about Madi?"

"She never gives up. Do you prefer breakfast, lunch, or dinner?"

"Breakfast. How long did it take to get that red in your hair?"

"A few hours. Do you think we would've met on the Ark?"

"No," he laughs. "You were in Alpha station, I was in Factory."

"So?"

"So we wouldn't have crossed paths. Have you thought about it?"

"No," she lies, fighting a blush. "Talking about chess earlier made me wonder though."

"I don't think we would've gotten along if we met on the Ark."

"We didn't get along when we met on the dropship," she points out. "You hated me."

"Like you didn't hate me?"

"I didn't. You were just infuriating."

"I could say the exact same thing about you."

"What about now?"

He waits a few minutes, deliberate and unnecessary. "You still are, but I don't mind it as much now."

"What a compliment."

"I thought you'd say that."

*

(xvi.)

Sometimes, she'll catch Bellamy looking at her.

There's no pattern to it, really. Sometimes, she'll look up, and she's been reading, and he's already gazing at her. Other times, she'll get distracted, look over, and find him averting his eyes a split second too late for her to have missed it. And while there's no pattern, he still does it enough that she notices. She's not even sure he's trying to hide it from her.

If he was, he wouldn't be so obvious about it.

"Why do you do that?" She finally asks, when his head has darted down to his book. Seated on nearly opposite ends of the room, she doesn't know if he hears her. If he does, Bellamy certainly takes his time answering, flipping a page in the book she knows he's not reading before he looks back up at her.

"What are you talking about?"

"You keep," Clarke pauses, her fingers playing with the small hole in her pants, "looking at me."

He ducks his head and laughs a little uneasily. "You've noticed."

"A bit."

"I'm sorry, I just." Bellamy closes his book and sets it aside. " I'm.... I still can't believe that you're here." He shakes his head. "That you're alive. I used to imagine it sometimes. Up on the ring, that when we came back down, you'd suddenly appear. That you weren't really dead. I guess I'm just, you know, reminding myself that you aren’t dead."

"Oh," she breathes out, involuntarily clutching her own book closer to her chest. "You don't have to apologize for that."

"I didn't mean for it to be weird, though," he says.

"You didn't. You did make me paranoid about having something on my face, though." She pats her face for effect.

Smiling, he says, "Well, I apologize for that, then."

Sensing that there's very little point in arguing with him, she nods, almost content to let the subject drop if not for something she needs to say. "I feel that way too."  Bellamy looks curious. "Like I'm in a dream and I'll wake up and you're really not here." Like all the other times she'd dreamt this. "Or that it's some kind of hallucination. Like it's not real sometimes."

His face softens. "But it is," he reminds her.

"Yeah," she smiles. "It is."

*

(xvii.)

Laundry is the single-most boring chore they have on the ship. It's also Clarke's favorite. Usually, she's alone in the room — not, in this case, by choice, but by the way the schedules work out — but today, Bellamy strolls in with a pile of blankets in his arms.

"I didn't know other people did laundry at this time of night," he says, stopping short once he sees her.

"I'm so busy, I don't have any other time to do it," she says, scooting over so he can get to the washer. Pulling out the last of Madi's clothes from the dryer, she moves them to the side table so she can begin folding. With her back to him, she hears, rather than sees, him loading the machine with the blankets, turning the dials to the right measures. As the washing machine roars to life, she almost doesn't hear him speak.

"Octavia found me yesterday." She turns around. His hands are braced against the washer, his fingers drumming against the metal, either in anxiety or annoyance.

Carefully, she sets Madi's towel aside. "What did she want?"

"To talk."

"About what?"

"I don't know." He turns around briefly, shrugging in a helpless, more resigned manner. "I said I didn’t have time to talk."

"If you don't want to talk to her—"

"Doesn't that make me a bad person?" He interrupts, the lines around his mouth thinning into disapproval. "That I don't even want to talk to my sister?"

"No," she shakes her head emphatically, "it doesn't. If you never talked to her again, it still wouldn't."

"Yeah," he says, trailing off like he has more to say, though he remains remarkably tight-lipped while he stares at the numbers on the machine. Then, when she's back to folding, he starts again. "I told her I wished she was dead. Back during the war." His mouth curls. "Sometimes I still wish that. Doesn't that make me a bad person?"

Clarke's heart lurches in sympathy, her fingers clutching the shirt in her hands a little tighter. But there is no wavering when she says, "No. It doesn't make you a bad person." I don't think anything you could do would make you a bad person.

His voice has a hint of hysteria in it. "She's my sister."

"And you're her brother," she says firmly, setting aside the shirt, smoothing out the creases she'd just left in it. "That didn't stop her from hurting you. You are not a bad person for not letting her hurt you anymore."

"You make it sound so—" he lets out a frustrated sigh.

"Right?"

"Yeah," he snorts, "like it was the right thing to do."

"It is the right thing to do." But his shoulders don't relax. Worried now that he's internalizing his own doubts, she starts forward. "Bellamy."

"How many times," he says, voice cracking a little, "do you think I'll have to say that to believe it?"

"How about you try it and get back to me once you find out?" He laughs then, a loud sound that she's so happy to hear. It relaxes him, makes the tension dissipate from his entire body. When he leans back against the washing machine, he has an easier smile on his face.

"That's not a solution," he says, crossing his arms.

"I don't have one for you," she shrugs. "All I know is that you aren't in the wrong here. And whatever you decide to do, I hope it's because you want to do it. Not because of any other reason."

Bellamy's quiet again, solemn, thoughtful. He goes through dozens of thoughts, the action, if not the content, written across his face. Then, quiet, grateful, he says, "Thank you, Clarke."

"For what?" She asks.

"For letting me talk about this," he replies.

"I'm your friend," she reminds him, as if his words don't weigh heavy on her, "it wasn't a matter of letting you. You can always talk about it with me."

He nods, the movement meant more for himself. "You're the only one." She tilts her head. "That I can talk to about this." What about— she thinks, forcing herself not to succumb to the pettiness of celebration. "No one understands like you do. You've always understood."

The force of his words hit her hard. It nearly makes her stumble back; her hand actually reaches out to hold onto the edge of the table. Clarke remembers, a whisper in her memory: You always did what you had to do to protect your sister. That's who you are.

"I have?"

"Yeah," he says, "you have."

Every word she has ever known seems to disappear at that moment, flying out of grasp. Even if they didn't, she's not sure she'd know what to say. What is there to say to something like that? What can she say to express how much she doesn't deserve that? To ask for a reconsideration? Bellamy steps in and saves her from the dilemma.

"Can I help you with your laundry?" He gestures to her side, and she remembers, oh, right. Laundry. Silently, she nods her assent. He steps into her side quickly, standing over the table to appraise the clothes she'd abandoned. "Seriously, who does laundry this late at night?"

This is an easier topic. Her brain starts working again. "Like you have any room to talk."

*

(xviii.)

Clarke wakes up with a start and a crick starting to form in her neck.

"Shit, did I wake you?"

Blearily, she blinks the sleep out of her eyes, only vaguely aware of where she is and whose voice that is. Another few blinks and she remembers she's in the med center and that's Bellamy, standing by the door, holding a tray. He must've alerted her when he opened the door. It isn't the first time she's fallen asleep at her desk and it probably won't be the last, but it's the first time someone's found her like this, checked up on her.

"No, I wasn't sleeping," she mumbles, rubbing at her neck. "Am I late? I don't know what time it is." They'd had plans to meet for dinner, like they'd done for the past few days, and it was something she looked forward to every day. She must've slept through it.

"It looks a lot like you were sleeping," he says, grin apparent despite the dim lighting. She reaches for the switch and floods the room with light.

"I was resting my eyes." She eyes the tray he's set down. "Is that food?"

"Since you missed dinner."

"Oh. Thank you." She pulls the tray towards her. It's just a sandwich and some of the day's soup, but it's an unexpectedly nice gesture. The soup is still warm too. "You didn't have to do that."

(Sometimes, she wonders how much of it, of what he does for her, of the times he seemingly goes out of his way for her, is because he feels the need to make it up to her. How much of him stopping by when she’s working to talk to her, how much of him sitting down to have lunch with her when she knows he could be with the others, how much of him sitting with her and Madi while they don’t do much of anything. It's usually just in her worst moments of doubt, though. This time, she accepts it and refuses to overanalyze it.)

He hands her a spoon. "And let you starve?"

"I would've gotten something eventually."

"Well, now you don't have to." Rather than argue with him, Clarke takes a bite out of the sandwich, relishing in its taste. Somehow, the food in space is actually good. "Was it busy today?"

"Not really. I was just tired," she answers, looking around at the empty room. "I don't know what happened. I was looking over some files earlier and now it's…"

"Just after nine."

"I slept for three hours?" She groans and puts her sandwich down.

"Thought you weren't sleeping," he teases, though his tone turns serious right after. "Are you still having trouble sleeping at night?"

"No, I've been doing a little better," she answers truthfully. "It's just, you know how I told you about my mom—"

"Yeah. Did something happen?"

"She's fine now, but it took a while to, um, stabilize her," and it'd tired her out enough that she'd fallen asleep and missed dinner. Bellamy gently nudges the tray towards her.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She likes that he asks, even though he probably knows by now that she usually doesn't.

"No, it's just more of the same," she dismisses, picking the sandwich back up to deter any further questions. "Tell me about your day."

There's not much to tell. Bellamy's schedule is more regular than hers and he tends to do the same things every day: attend a lot of meetings, talk to a lot of people, resolve problems before they become threats. Nevertheless, she likes hearing him talk about it. It's becoming a budding daily routine. She's always liked hearing him talk about things, but now it makes her feel more connected to everyone, more aware of what's going on in the ship. Sometimes, he'll ask for her advice on how to handle a problem and it'll transport her back to a familiar time.

It's what he's doing now, as he gripes about an Eligius prisoner, a man named Luka who's been posturing the past week about taking over the ship.

"What does Diyoza think?" she asks, timing the end of her sandwich with the end of his story.

"Diyoza thinks he's not serious," he says, "but he's got followers and I don't think we should take that lightly."

"Enough that he thinks he'll stand a chance if it comes to blows?"

"I'm hoping it doesn't come to that."

"But you're worried about it?"

"I've got to be."

"That's smart."

He laughs, tiredly, and drums his fingers on the desk. "So what do you think?"

She thinks about it for a moment. "Well, do you trust that Diyoza's telling the truth? Do you trust that she's not on his side?"

"I want to."

"I think—I think you can trust her. Or, at least, if anything, you can be certain that she doesn't really want something like that to happen right now." He seems to ponder that. "Maybe when we're back on the ground, that'll be a different story."

"When we're on the ground, as long as she's not trying to kill us or start another war, she can do whatever the hell she wants," he says, pushing some hair out of his eyes. It really is too long now. "Maybe I can talk to Luka and see if we can come to some agreement. Find out what he really wants, if it's not to take over the ship."

She smiles softly. "That's a good idea."

"I've been known to have some of those."

"Really?" Her smile grows more mischievous. "What about the time you and Monty decided that the best—"

"There's a reason I never told anyone else that," he scowls, though there's no heat behind it.

"Looks like you chose the wrong person to admit it to."

"I should've known you would bring it up sometime. You looked too gleeful when I told you."

"I looked appropriately gleeful, thank you."

He shorts. "I never claimed all my ideas were good."

"They're good when it counts, how about that?"

"I'll take it."

"I mean it, though, they're—" A yawn interrupts her, followed by Bellamy's laugh.

"Okay, that's a sign," he says, getting to his feet, grabbing the tray. "Time to go." He extends his hand for her to take and she only waits a split second before she does. She's very aware that she doesn't need to to stand up. She does anyways.

"I guess I should go find Madi," she says, filled with a vague feeling of disappointment that she's not going to entertain right now. "Thanks, um, thanks for stopping by. With food too."

"Of course." He takes a look at her, a hesitancy clear in his expression, and rubs the back of his neck. "If you ever, uh, want to, I can save you a spot at lunch."

"Oh, I don't…"

"Just think about it."

Clarke grimaces at the thought, the memories of last time coming back instantly. "I don't think so."

As if he's reading her mind, he says, "It won't be like last time."

"Really?" There's a lot of skepticism for one word. "Because they're still not talking to me and I still don't feel comfortable around them."

"They just—"

"You know," she interrupts, crossing her arms, "you keep saying that and it doesn't get any truer."

"Monty and Harper are talking to you! Murphy's Murphy but he doesn't hate you and Emori doesn't either."

"And Raven?" There's a reason he deliberately stopped where he did.

"You know how stubborn she is," he counters.

"Yeah, I do. And none of that really changes the fact," she stresses, "that I don't feel comfortable around them."

"Why not?" He asks, sounding genuinely confused. "They're your friends!"

"No, they're your friends," she corrects, watching his frown deepen. "And maybe that'll change one day, but right now, I don't know how to be around them."

"Give them a chance, then."

"It's not as easy as you think it is," she says sharply, the tonal shift causing him to rear back a little. "Things aren’t that easy for me. I can't just tell myself to do that and then be able to do that. Even with you," his brow furrows in a panicked confusion, "I wouldn't trade it, but it's still really hard sometimes. To open up? To share my thoughts and feelings? To just be able to talk like there isn't this gap between us?"

One step forward, two steps back. A laundry conversation countered by an inability to discuss the shattered state of her friends. It never ends.

"I thought we were getting better," he says, upset.

"We are. But it's still hard. Don't you find it hard sometimes?" Their silences remain, their awkwardness too. It doesn't just go away immediately.

"Sometimes, a little, but," Bellamy says. "the rest of the time, it's the easiest thing in the world to talk to you."

Her heart beats a little faster. He really shouldn't be allowed to say things like that. "You’re different. You've had practice."

"Talking to you? When?"

"No, I mean," she pushes some hair out of her face, "it's like this. You had six other people to talk to for six years. I had Madi, and I love her, and I'd do anything for her, but I had to take care of her—"

With comprehension in his voice, he finishes her sentence for her, "And you couldn't talk to her like you wanted to."

"Yeah," she confirms. "So it's hard for me, but I'm trying."

"I never thought of it like that," he admits, his mouth set in a line that highlights his frustration with himself. "I just thought that because we'd been talking and it'd been so nice—" He looks up at her to confirm or deny this, so she nods in agreement, "—so I thought maybe if we all had the same kind of time together, then it'd be the same."

"I know you did. But I don’t work like that. And right now, I can’t do that."

"I understand now. I'm sorry. I—" He looks at her like he's looking for an answer, "Can I do anything to help?"

That was… so like Bellamy. "It's not your responsibility to fix everything," she says, gently. It won't stop him, but he should know that.

"I'm not trying to," he mumbles. She hides her smile in her shoulder quickly. "It's just that… it doesn't feel right without you."

As nice as that sentiment sounds, she finds it hard to believe. "Did it not feel right a few months ago?"

"It didn't," he says and she snorts out a disbelieving laugh. "I know you won't believe me, but it didn't. There was always something missing."

"Bellamy, you—"

"On the Ring, you were like a ghost who haunted us. You were everywhere, in every decision we made, in every step we took, in where we sat at the table, even. I know it may not look like it, but it's true."

"I believe you," she says, mostly because she wants to. She wants it to be true. Maybe it is. "Trust me, I really wish I was ready. Just give me time, okay?"

The corner of his mouth lifts up in a reluctant smile. "Now I get why you hate that I keep saying that."

"You just sound like a broken record, that's all." But she nudges his elbow playfully so that he knows she's joking.

"Harsh, but fair." He starts to move, but then stops a moment later. "Are we—we still good for dinner tomorrow, right?"

Clarke blinks. It hadn't even occurred to her that they wouldn't be. "Of course we are."

"Good. Just checking." He gestures for her to go ahead, so she does, leading the way until they've stopped by the cafeteria where he drops the tray off. She has to head in the opposite direction now, to go get Madi. "So, uh, see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," she says, smiling at him. He returns it, squeezing her arm before he walks away. She makes a very quick decision, right as he's about to turn the corner at the end of the corridor. "Hey."

Bellamy turns around. "Yeah?"

"Maybe we could… maybe eat in the cafeteria tomorrow?"

The distance isn't too much that she can't see his eyebrows raise in surprise. "Really?" Ever since she explained how the crowded cafeteria scares her sometimes, he's been endlessly mindful about it, always picking more secluded spots for them. "You know I'm fine with not eating there, right?"

"I do," she shrugs, "but I'd like to. Can we do that?"

He nods. "I'll save us a table."

*

(xix.)

Harper's the one who tells her. She drops the news like it's no big deal, as if it hasn't completely tilted her world on its axis.

To be fair to Harper, it probably isn't that big of a deal to her.

"They what?" Clarke asks, unsure if she heard her right the first time. She's been having hearing problems lately, it could be a lingering effect.

"They broke up," Harper repeats, still with the neutral tone, still unaware that these three words have thrown her for a loop.

"What?" Her hands still over the medicine she's measuring out for her. "Sorry, I'm just… processing."

"I know, it's so weird," she says, which isn't very comforting. "But they've been fighting for a while, so it's not that weird, if you think about it."

Clarke hasn't thought about it. She never let herself. There had been no point to it, when he was never going to break up with her. "Do you… know what happened?" She hopes it doesn't sound eager. It probably does.

"I only heard about it last night," Harper answers, a little apologetic. Hastily, Clarke makes to reassure her, forcing a laugh along.

"Oh, it's fine." She counts off the last pill and caps the bottle, passing it over. "So, um, yeah, take that for the next week and you should be all good. Once a day, in the morning."

"Thanks, Clarke," Harper says warmly, coming in for a quick hug that surprises her at first, but then she relaxes into it, hugging her back. She doesn't think giving her the proper medicine necessarily prompted a hug, but she won't complain about it. It's really nice.

In fact, it puts her in such a good mood that she forgets about the earth-shattering news that Harper had shared until she's walking back from the med center and glimpses a familiar profile in a room that's not his.

Without meaning to, "Bellamy," escapes her mouth.

He looks up, visibly relaxing when he sees who called his name. "Hey." The door opens a little wider and he gestures for her to come inside. She does, but after a moment of debating, dragging her feet as she walks into the barren room.

"I can see you're really busy," she comments, taking a seat next to him on the floor.

"Yeah," he chuckles, "how could you tell?" Waving a hand around the room, he adds, "I've been at it all day."

"I really like what you've done with the walls. They're very bright."

"Thank you, but would you believe that they came like that?" He says, catching her eye and laughing easily. Their laughter mixes in the empty room, swirling around them, and fades out after a few minutes. Her smile is uneasy, unsure.

"I, um—I heard," she just says, wondering if she should elaborate.

It turns out she doesn't. "Wow," he draws the word out, leaning back on his palms. "News travels fast. It's only been three days."

"That's what you consider fast?"

"Isn't it?"

"I don't think you quite understand how gossip works."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "And you do?"

"Well, I ended up hearing about it, didn't I?"

"Tell me it's not a big topic of conversation," he pleads, horror splashed onto his face. She suppresses a giggle and puts him out of his misery.

"No, it was just Harper." And after a moment's pause, thinking about it, "And she only found out last night. And she only told me by accident, too, I think."

"Thank God," he mumbles, heaving out a sigh. "I'm trying not to make it a big deal."

"It's not a big deal?"

"Nope," he says resolutely.

His answer and his attitude throw her off. "You don't… sound very upset," she tests out, watching him for any change in expression, any indication that he's just putting up a front. Nothing changes.

Still with the same blasé tone, he says, even adding in a shrug, "Well, I'm not upset. I feel pretty good, actually, and no, it's not a big deal." She opens her mouth to express her confusion, but he keeps going. "Can we talk about anything else now?"

"Um," she stammers, trying to think of a new subject, despite the fact that all she can think of is this. "Madi, um, she really enjoyed the, um, the book you gave her. She's been meaning to talk to you about—okay," she'd tried, she really had, but the curiosity won't let her go, "I can't talk about books while  you're acting like this."

"Acting like…"

"Like you need to pretend you're not okay!" She looks at his face, certain he's hiding it. She doesn't know why he is, but it doesn't make sense that he's just not upset about it. "You don't have to… put on an act around me. You know that, right?"

"I do," he says simply, "and I'm not."

He sounds like he's sincere. "But you guys seemed so… solid, like together," she says it almost bitterly, because she can't help it, "like you balanced each other out."

"Did we?" He blinks at her. "We fought a lot."

"People fight."

"But we fought about things that neither of us were going to compromise on."

"Like what?" She doesn't mean to, isn't trying to pry, but it happens anyways.

He waves it off, both in hand and in tone. "Just a lot of things. But it got to a point that… it just got so bad that I realized I couldn't do this anymore—"

"So you broke up with her," she finishes, hearing the words coming from her mouth and still having a hard time processing them. It was going to take a lot more than an hour and a half to come to terms with it, and even then, she doesn't know if she will. Clarke had made herself accept the thought of Bellamy and Echo together, no matter how much she disliked it, no matter how much she disliked her, no matter how much she wished it wasn't true, that the idea of undoing that thought felt unbelievable.

He cuts into her thoughts. "Yeah, and that's why I'm here now. I lost the room in the breakup."

She looks around again. "It's nice, at least." Closer too, her brain supplies helpfully, even though that's not necessary. "You're really not upset?"

"Not really."

"Okay, then."

"Really?"

"Yeah." He deserves that much from her.

A sigh of relief. "I'm really glad you didn't say I told you so."

"Why would I?"

"You're going to think it's stupid," Bellamy grimaces, jumping in with an explanation before she gets bogged down in the whys and hows of it. "It wasn't anything you did. It was just… I guess, I knew that you didn't like her—" The feeling, she really wants to say, is mutual, "and then when Octavia found out, she went on this long thing and did say I told you so, by the way, I don't think an apology is imminent the near future, and—"

"I wouldn't have said I told you so." She actually sits up straighter, offended by the implied accusation, putting some distance between them. "I told you I was happy for you."

"No, no, no," he says hurriedly, noticing the distance and scooting closer to make up the space. It throws her off, to be honest, but she lets him. "I know you did. That wasn't fair of me."

"No, it wasn't." To his credit, he does look ashamed. "Are you worried about how weird it's going to be now?"

"Why would it be weird?"

She cocks her head at him. "Because… you share the same friends, you live in the same spaceship? You kind of can't escape each other. If you wanted to, I mean."

Easily, he says, "That won't be a problem," and her eyebrows go way up.

"Which part?"

"All of it." At her skeptical look, he adds, "We're adults and we can handle this like adults."

"Was it a mutual decision?"

"No, but—"

"Is she mad at you?"

He winces. "She isn't too happy."

"Then it's going to be weird," Clarke says.

"It'll be awkward for a bit," he says haltingly, before he sounds more sure of himself, "but it's not going to affect anyone but us."

"You can't be serious."

"Well, I am. And I know Echo a lot better than you do."

It isn't an insult, but she still takes it like one. She doesn't need to know Echo, she thinks, to know that it's not going to be as cut and dry as Bellamy thinks it'll be. But he's too stubborn sometimes. "Okay," she concedes, "I'm sure it won't be weird at all."

"Thank you," he says, right before he falls backwards, resting on the floor and leaving her sitting there, staring at him, uncertain as to whether or not she should follow him. Then he motions for her to do so, so she does.

She turns her head towards him, observes him as he stares up at the ceiling. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"To be honest, I've had better days."

"Do you want me to leave you alone?"

"No. Stay," he says, turning to look at her, "but can we not talk for a bit? I'm tired of talking."

"Of course," she says softly, holding her gaze to his. There are lines at the corners of his eyes that turn up when he gives her a grateful smile. Boldly, Clarke reaches over and squeezes his arm. She doesn't think about how he's newly single or how he's just a foot away from her. That'll be something she can think about later.

For now, she'll lay here, in Bellamy's new room, and pretend this is enough.

Chapter Text

(xx.)

It's weird now that Bellamy's single.

Nothing ostensibly changes, apart from the obvious — he sleeps in a different room now, he doesn't sit with her at lunch anymore, he is officially unattached — but in a way, everything has changed. Clarke is hyperware of him in a way that she hadn't been before, in how he looks (in general and at her), in how he acts (in general and towards her), in how he moves (in general and around her), overanalyzing and overreading into everything. Before, when she could rely on the fact that he was with someone else to deter her from thinking anything else, when she knew she had no chance, and thus never let herself hope, now she finds herself drifting into the possibility, as slim as it is. She'd thought that it'd go away after, at the most, a week, but three weeks out and it's still that bad.

At the moment, she tracks his hand too closely as he moves a piece on the board.

"You're not even listening to me, are you?"

Her head doesn't snap up, but it's close enough. "I can listen and watch you make a wrong move at the same time." To prove her point, she says, "I don't understand why Monty's so worried, though. We knew it would take a while for the Earth to become habitable again."

"There's a big difference between five years and twenty, or thirty."

"It can't be thirty years."

"It might not," though he doesn't sound very confident in that. "He's just worried about that possibility."

"How much of a possibility is it?"

"Maybe 10%."

"I don't like this," she proclaims, moving her pawn forward.

"And I do?" He does the same with his pawn. "He's going to look into it. It's probably nothing."

"Whenever we say that, it ends up being something."

"Should I take it back?"

"You've already put it out in the world."

"So you can blame me if something happens."

"I wouldn't do that," Clarke says, firmly, "and besides, it'd be my bad luck that brought it upon us."

"You don't have any bad luck, Clarke."

"Would you like me to start listing things, because I will—"

"Hey," Bellamy says instead, cutting her off with a hand folding over hers, the weight of it grounding her. She can't remember the last time their hands touched like this, because it was years ago and it didn't matter then, but it does now because—

She pulls her hand back quickly, nearly knocking over the pieces on the board. "Your hand's cold." It sounds as lame as it is, especially because his hand is practically radiating warmth even inches away.

"I've been told I always have warm hands," he says, going so far as to place his hand on his cheek to test it. "It's supposedly weird."

"It is weird," she says, hopefully projecting a certain lightness, "because your hand was cold just then."

"Give me your hand."

Automatically, her first response is a squeaky, "Why?"

"So I can see if something's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong," she says evasively, dropping her hand to her lap. "Are you going to play or what?"

"I'm still thinking," he says, now crossing his arms. Good. The farther away he is, the better for her sanity. "You can't rush these things."

"You take, on average, twenty minutes per turn. I have to rush you."

"I take ten minutes because I need to make sure what I'm doing is the best option," he scoffs, "and if my memory serves me correctly, it worked out last time."

"That was a fluke," she gasps. "I still don't know how you won."

"I'm a better player."

"You wish."

"Then how do you explain the fact I beat you?"

"Beginner's luck, obviously."

"I've played chess before. Many times, actually." There's a mildly amused look on his face as he plays along, even though she doesn't care as much as she's pretending she does.

"But it was the first time you played with me."

"That's not how it works."

"It's the only explanation."

"I didn't know you were such a sore loser," he teases, still not making any move towards the board.

"I'm working on it."

"No, it's great. I'm learning a lot about you during this, Clarke."

"Did I ever tell you about the time Wells and I were playing, I think, poker, but we were like twelve, so we didn't actually know how to play it, but I was convinced I did even though I was just making all of these rules—"

"That sounds like you," he comments, a slight smirk on his face.

"So," she says, slightly louder, "we were playing and it was going really well and then all of a sudden, Wells says that he's won. And I got so mad, I threw the cards at him and just stormed out and I wouldn't speak to him for a week."

"Poor Wells."

"I know. We never played poker again. Not even properly."

"I don't blame him," he laughs, a short chuckle that slowly builds into something uproarious. She can't help but follow suit, in action and intensity, and their laughter fills the bridge. "You threw your cards at him!"

"I was twelve and I apologized for a month!"

"You were a menace!"

"I was twelve!" She's dissolved entirely into giggles at this point, only just managing to finish her sentence. The thing is is that it's not even funny — not a matter of that funny or not, just not funny — but he's laughing so she's laughing and it becomes a cycle of encouragement that doesn't let up until she hears the door open and she hiccups at their unwelcome visitors.

As soon as she sees Echo standing in the doorway, with Raven by her side, she's hit with a wave of shame and guilt. It's stupid, and ridiculous, because she hasn't done anything wrong, but one look at their faces is enough to think otherwise. She can't even look at Bellamy right now.

"We didn't know people were here," Raven says, after a moment of silence that seemed to stretch out forever, her eyebrow quirked just slightly so that Clarke knows there's judgement in it. "We can go." Making to leave, Echo stops her with a hand.

"Bellamy," she says instead, "I want to talk to you."

"I'm in a middle of something."

You're in the middle of a game," she says flatly.

"Yes, I'm playing chess." He moves his bishop to prove his point. If that was all it took, Clarke should've called Echo in earlier.

"With Clarke."

"Yes, I'm playing chess with Clarke. Great observation. We do that sometimes."

"You're such a liar," Echo snarls suddenly, the heat in her voice a mean, vicious thing that lashes out at them. "It's always like this—"

"Always like what?" He asks, almost bored with the topic. Clarke wishes she could sink into the floor.

"Like you're always going to—"

"Okay, kids," Raven cuts in, stepping neatly between the two of them. It's a good idea, because Echo looks like she's a wrong word (or any word) away from lunging at him. "Take it outside."

Bellamy looks over at her, annoyed. "I'm in a middle of a game."

"I'll fill in," she says, gesturing for him to get up from the chair.

"You don't know how to play," but nonetheless, Bellamy follows the gesture and vacates the seat.

"Wait," Clarke says, but it gets lost in the shuffle.

"I'll have Clarke catch me up," Raven says easily, sitting down across from her like this is a normal, everyday occurrence.

"Don't get too comfortable," Bellamy warns, "I'll be back in a minute." He directs the last part to Clarke, his voice smoothing out to something resembling soothing. It does nothing for the annoyance she feels about being stuck in this situation, trapped in a room with a girl who wants nothing to do with her.

"It's your turn, isn't it?"

"My what?"

"In the game." Raven knocks her knuckles against the table. "Bellamy just went."

"I'll just wait for him to come back," she says, intending it as a hint. Raven doesn't take it.

"You know, I tried to learn how to play once, but I could never get it." It doesn't strike her as odd; Raven's patience would never allow her to enjoy it. "Like, how does this thing move?"

"Diagonally," she answers. "Bellamy will probably move that next."

"You can tell?"

"I can guess."

Raven nods, making a noise of understanding that Clarke doesn't like the sound of. She wishes that Bellamy was back already. "Walk me through this."

She can't help being suspicious. "Why?"

"So that I can figure out how the hell this game works."

"I can explain the pieces and how they move and what your goal is, but you kind of have to play it out to get a sense of it," she says, slowly, waiting for the punchline. Raven's being too civil, conversing with her like they talk on a daily basis, when they absolutely have not.

"See, therein lies the problem. I can't just wait around like that."

"Well, if you don't play against Bellamy, usually it goes a lot faster."

"He takes a long time?"

"Yeah," Clarke laughs, "mostly to annoy me, I think." Again, that unsettling hum of acknowledgement. Rather than sit in it longer, she gets to the point. There's no use in driving herself crazy. "What are you doing, Raven?"

"Trying to understand the appeal of this game," she says, tossing one of the pieces on the side into the air and catching it neatly. "You and Bellamy play this a lot?"

"When we're bored." She knows Raven knows what she'd really been asking. "And what are you doing, Raven?"

"I just told you," she says nonchalantly.

"You know what I mean."

"I'm making conversation. Is that not allowed?"

"You haven't wanted to talk to me before."

"I've changed my mind."

"You've—just changed it?"

"It happens."

Baffled, and sure that there's something else behind it, Clarke gapes at her. She's saved from a response with the door opening, as both their heads turn towards a clearly frustrated Bellamy, rubbing at his forehead.

"Raven," he says, tired, "will you go check on her?"

"What did you do?" She demands, already out of the chair and striding up to him.

Bellamy scowls. "Nothing. We talked and she got upset."

"Because you made her upset." Raven smacks his arm as she passes him. "Why don't you just avoid each other?"

"You told me to talk to her!" He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Will you go and see her, please?"

"Fine, but this is the last time," she says brusquely, heading towards the exit. When the door closes behind her, Bellamy lets out a sigh and practically collapses in the chair, resting his head back and closing his eyes. The entire time that exchange had gone on, Clarke had pretended to mind her own business — not that it was hard; she was the only other person in the room and it was much more preferable to watching them fight — but now that he was across from her again, she looks up and takes the sight of him in.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he answers, mumbling.

"You don't look it."

"Thanks."

She lets a few seconds pass. "If you wanted to talk about her, you can. I don't want you to think that… you couldn't do that with me or anything."

One eye peeks open. "I don't want to drag you in the middle of it. She already thinks—" He cuts himself off quickly. Her eyebrow quirks up. "It's really nothing. But I guess you were right about it being weird."

"Well," she says, biting down her desire to press further, "I won't say I told you so."

"Thank you for that."

"Even though I kind of just did."

Laughing at that, he pulls himself upright and rests his arms on the table. "Well, you were right, so I guess I deserved that. Are we still playing?"

"If you still want to." Her move has been calculated since he moved his. "But you can't take thirty minutes this time."

"Twenty okay?"

"Ten. "

"Deal."

*

(xxi.)

Raven stops into the med center the next week with a nervous expression that doesn't suit her. She loiters by the desk while she waits for her to finish up with the patient and once she is, before Clarke can ask her what's up, she says, "Look. I'm not good at this apologizing thing."

"The apologizing thing?"

"You're going to make me say it?" Raven groans, leaning against the desk with her arms crossed.

"You came in without any explanation," she points out because it's true, but also because a part of her does want to make her say it. "So some context would be nice."

There's a roll of her eyes but she doesn't storm out like Clarke half expects her to. Instead, Raven says, "I've been unfair to you. I haven't listened—or wanted to listen—to you. I still don't think what you did was right but I can—"

"That's not an apology," she interjects, causing Raven to gape a little.

"I'm getting there. What I was trying to say was... " she huffs out an annoyed breath, "look, there are a lot of misunderstandings between us. I was…" Her face twists a little, "...being selfish in thinking only about what I wanted." Clarke restraints herself from reacting in surprise, but she knows her eyes widen a little. Raven keeps going, although she looks more strained now, as if the words are hard for her to say. "I'm—I'm sorry about what I said to you and… the way I cast judgement on you. I… shouldn’t have treated you because of it."

Clarke had always thought that, if it ever happened, getting an apology from Raven Reyes would be more satisfying than this felt. She knows that it takes a lot from Raven to apologize like that. But instead, it was disappointing. No matter how nice it initially felt, she can’t shake off the larger part of it that’s disappointing.

However, she says, "Thank you," because Clarke says thank you when someone apologizes to her.

"So… we're cool?" Succinct, avoiding a messy discussion of emotions, to the point. Very Raven, so very much the best that'll get. There's a lot she wishes Raven would say instead, a lot that would make her feel like this was more sincere, more permanent than it seems, but that's not who she is. For now, she doesn't mind.

"Yeah." And then a question pops into her mind. "Can I ask something though?"

"Besides that?"

"Funny. Just…" She struggles with the words for a brief moment, "what made you—I don't know, change your mind?"

"Bellamy," she says with a shrug.

"Oh." She should've known. Of course Bellamy had talked to her. "I see."

"Not the way you think," Raven says, knowingly. "He never said anything. But I thought... if he could get over it, I didn't really see why I shouldn't.” Raven pauses, allowing the silence to fill the space between them, and then points towards the door. "I've actually got to get back, but look," she nods at her, "Bellamy's birthday thing on Friday. Are you coming?"

In the back of her mind, she'd been aware that the date was approaching, but hadn't realized it was approaching that quickly. It went without saying that she hadn't even thought about attending. "It's Friday?"

"He didn't invite you yet? Well, it's not anything big—just a party, I guess, if he lets us call it that. He didn't really want to make a big deal out of it so he nixed our surprise party idea." She rolls her eyes at the inconvenience.

"You really want… me to come?"

"Yeah. Bellamy wants you there."

Quiet, and pleased, she lets out an, "Oh."

Raven brushes past it, thankfully. "So—yeah, it's at 3. In the bridge. Will you be there?"

"Um… yeah," she agrees, "I'll be free."

Jackson arrives for his shift an hour later, relieving her from the past hour of boredom. Her initial destination is her room, because she's overdue for a quick nap, but halfway through, she makes a detour. It's Tuesday, Bellamy's day off, so she knows that he's where he usually is: the library.

Sure enough, an empty room and only Bellamy in it when she enters, immediately finding him on the couch by the window. He looks up from his book and smiles at her. Her heart flutters. She tells it to stop.

"Hey," he says, happily, she thinks. "I was going to find you."

"Yeah?" She comes closer.

"After I finished the chapter."

"How many pages do you have to go?"

"About ten."

"I saved you some time then," she says, sitting down next to him, far enough that it isn't a big deal, but close enough that she feels a thrill anyways. She's been working on feeling more comfortable with being in his space. It's nowhere near how easily she could've sat next to him years ago, but it's a work in progress. "Do you like it?"

Bellamy sets his book aside when she sits down. "I do. How was work?"

"I'm very happy to report that no one has broken their leg today."

"One less disaster on this ship to account for," he replies, wryly.

"There's still time in the day. Mitchell is due for some sort of accident this week."

"If I can count on anything, I can count on that. I don't know if I know anyone else who attracts as much trouble as he does." He pauses. "Except you."

"I do not attract trouble," she protests, as if he isn't right.

"Trouble flocks to you. But you handle it pretty well."

"Pretty well?"

"Very well." She catches his eye as they share a grin.

Lapsing into silence, Clarke plays with her hands for a few seconds before blurting out her next words. "Were you going to invite me to your birthday party?"

It's gratifying to see the surprise on his face. "It's not a party," he says first, like a reflex. "And I wanted to. I was going to, but I—I didn't want to push you."

"Push me?"

"Because you're still working on being around everyone again."

"That's really considerate," she says, because it is," but you don't have to tiptoe around me."

"That's good to know," he says, looking like he's actually filing it away for the future. There's a brief pause and then, "Are you coming?"

"Can I bring Madi?"

Relief floods his face. "Of course."

"I'll be there."

"Good!" He clears his throat, embarrassed, which is something she's trying really, really hard not to find as cute as it is. "Good. How did you find out?"

"You're not going to believe me," she answers, laughing.

"Try me."

"Raven invited me. Kind of."

He blinks a few times. "Raven?"

"See?"

"I believe you," he says, shaking his head a little. She'd feel the same if it hadn't happened to her. "It's just… I didn't quite expect that answer. When did this happen?" She recounts the meeting and after, he tilts his head slightly, observing her. "How do you feel about it?"

"Good, I think," Clarke says, shrugging. "Glad. Kind of tired of thinking about it, maybe." An imperceptible pause. "You had nothing to do with it?"

Sadness audible in his voice, Bellamy says, a frown working at the corners of his mouth, "Is it so hard to believe that people care about you?"

In lieu of a response, she smiles, though a little forced, at him. "Tell me about your book."

"Clarke," he reproaches. "People care about you."

Perhaps more evasively than she wants it to be: "I know they do."

"I had nothing to do with it." She meets his eyes and nods. Once he sees that, he adds, "Besides, can you imagine anyone forcing Raven to do anything? It's impossible unless she actually wants to."

"You're right," she concedes.

"Of course I'm right."

"Don't start." He snickers when she glares at him, so the only practical response is to pluck the book out of his hands, drawing an offended noise from him. "Tell me about this."

"You like science fiction?" He asks, skeptical.

"I like listening to you talk about things you like," she says, a little shrug at the end of it. Bellamy seems taken aback by this, blinking at her in a daze. "You don't have to—"

"No," he says immediately, a grin blossoming across his face. "I'll have to warn you, though. It gets pretty crazy."

"Try me."

*

(xxii.)

"So when's your birthday?"

"October 25."

"And when's mine?"

"I don't know, you never told me."

"I don't remember having a birthday."

Clarke stops what she's doing (rifling through the sparse collection of shirts she owns) and looks back at Madi, laying back on the bed and dangling her legs over the edge impatiently. In a gentler voice, she says, "You can pick a birthday and we'll celebrate it."

"That's not how birthdays work," she says, lifting her head to grumble at her.

"Who says?"

"Everyone."

"Everyone is wrong." Another shirt is tossed back into the closet. "Think of a day and that'll be your birthday, okay?"

She perks up a little. "Okay." Sitting upright, she adds, "Are you ready yet?"

"I'm still deciding."

"You've been deciding for hours," Madi complains, springing off the bed and bounding over to her. "Just wear the blue shirt. You look nice in that."

"I wear that all the time," she points out, although she does like it. She wears it all the time because she likes it that much.

Madi pulls out the shirt and dangles it in front of her. "So?"

"So I should probably wear something different."

"But you can't even decide!"

"What have I been doing then?"

"Making us late for the party," Madi groans, headbutting her in the side lightly. "I want to go!" Clarke smooths her hair down apologetically.

"You can go ahead," she reminds her. "They'd love to see you."

"I know," she mumbles, face still hidden in Clarke's shirt, "but…"

"But?"

"But it'd be weird. They're your friends."

Clarke giggles a little. "Okay, I promise I'll hurry up." Ignoring Madi's retort of, "That's what you said an hour ago," (because it had only been ten minutes ago) she pulls out the light purple shirt that she rarely wears. This would be nice. "How about this?"

Madi nods frantically. "I love it! You should wear that! And then we can go!"

Just for that — and definitely not because she was nervous or anything — she changes more slowly than normal. By the time she's ready, Madi is practically jogging in place. "Ready to go?"

The walk is short, Madi chattering the entire way, but Clarke has to pull her to a stop a few feet away from the bridge. "What's wrong?" Madi asks, her forehead creasing together in confusion.

"Nothing," she says quickly, "why don't you go on ahead?"

"I'm not going without you," Madi protests, tugging at her hand. "I don't know why you're scared."

"I'm not scared."

Knowingly, annoyingly so, "Then why aren't we going inside?"

"Because," she says, swiping her thumb over Madi's cheek, "you've got something on your face." There's nothing there, but she doesn't have to know that, just like how she doesn't need to know that Clarke is scared. It'll be the first time she's spent time with all of them since that horrible lunch, and although she'd said that she wanted to come, and she did, it felt less daunting when she wasn't standing in front of the door to the party.

"It'll be okay, Clarke."

"I know," she says, nudging Madi towards the door. "Let's go."

Harper greets them each with an enthusiastic hug. "You're here! Raven said you would be, but I didn't know if she was joking or not." She looks behind her, waving at Raven, who's currently in a conversation with Zeke. It gets her attention, though, and she waves back. Clarke joins in a second later.

"Sorry for being late," she says, offering her an apologetic smile.

"Yeah, Clarke was—" A squeeze of Madi's shoulder shuts her up.

"That's okay," Harper says, unbothered, "we're just glad you came!" It's kind of hard to process how nice that simple sentence is, but before she has to scramble to think of something to say in response to it, Harper keeps talking. "It's not really a party, because Bellamy won't let us call it that, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him."

"What don't I know?" Bellamy chimes in, sneaking up behind Harper, a big grin stretched across his face.

"Bellamy!" Harper almost shouts, so startled by his presence.

"Sorry, Harp," he says, still grinning, albeit sheepishly. "I should've said something first."

"Yes, you should've," she says, huffing as she smacks a hand against his shoulder. "Now that you're in capable hands, I'm going to try to recover from that."

Harper's exit leaves them alone and it fills her with some nervous excitement.

"Hi," Clarke says.

"Hey," he says back, with none of the nervousness that plagues her. "You came."

"Is anyone not surprised about that?" She mock-sighs, moving past it. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you," Bellamy accepts, ducking his head down just slightly. "And you could've changed your mind."

"I wouldn't miss this."

"But we almost did," Madi decides to helpfully say, "Clarke couldn't make up her mind about what to wear—"

"Madi," she says immediately, feeling her face flush with heat.

"What? You couldn't!"

"Madi." But Madi's grinning like she knows what she's doing. She does, too. It's been a problem for years. "Don't you have something to say to Bellamy?"

"Oh, right." Turning to the man in question, she says, like she's reciting it, "Happy birthday."

"Thank you, Madi," he says graciously, warmly. For a split second, he seems to debate with himself over his next move, but decides to do it anyways, pulling her into a hug that Madi giggles through. Clarke nearly sighs at the image. When he pulls back, he says, directed at Madi, but meant for both of them, "We've got some cake and there are some games, if you want to play. Actually…" she looks back again, gesturing to the table that's set up, where they're sitting with cards in their hands. "We're looking for two more players since Raven and Zeke abandoned us. Do you want to?"

"Oh, I—"

"We don't know how to play!" Madi says for her, looking curious about it.

Harper laughs from the table. "Most of us don't know either, but Monty will explain it."

Murphy's interruption makes her decision for her. "Just get over here! The longer we wait, the more likely it is that Monty's going to change the rules on us!"

"Name one time I've done that," Monty growls, tossing a card at him.

"Like you'd cop to it." He looks up at them. "Do I have to sit next to the kid?"

"I'm not sitting next to Murphy," Madi declares, almost at the same time. The exchange prompts a round of laughter, but a quick rearranging of the seats breaks the impasse. Although she's sat between Madi and Bellamy, she still feels out of place, like an interloper in a chair that's not meant for her. It definitely doesn't help that Echo's hostility is written across her face. For a brief moment, the tension in her body threatens to expand, like a cloud over the entire group, but then, from across the table, Monty smiles at her and for some reason, this small action, noticed by no one else, slowly unravels the stranglehold in her chest. Bellamy's arm comes up to rest on the back of her chair and she almost melts into the near-touch.

"Okay," Monty starts, "it's actually really simple, but—"

A chorus of disagreement rings out. Murphy's "Are you serious?" mixed with Harper's, "Monty…" and Emori's "Not this again," make for an amusing sight. Monty looks at the three of them, huffing as he lays his cards down. "I haven't even explained it to Clarke yet."

Everyone turns to her. "Go for it," she says. The game, it turns, isn't as complicated as everyone's made it sound. It's a variation on something she actually used to play a lot, so Clarke catches on pretty quickly and one, two, three games go by where she's just winning every hand. At some point, Madi's completely given up any pretense of playing along, instead just leaning on her and telling her what to play next. But more than winning the games, it's the hour that flies by that doesn't feel like she's unwanted there or out of place. She laughs a lot, genuine, natural laughs, because she's having fun and gets drawn into conversations aided by the distraction of a game that doesn't require her to be on edge the entire time.

When Clarke knocks Murphy out for the seventh time, he throws his hands up in despair. "Okay, what gives?"

Perkily smug, Madi answers for her. "Clarke made us play a lot of games like this back in Eden."

"And you couldn't have given us a heads up?" Murphy says, incredulous.

"I didn't want you to win," she says back, shrieking out of his way when he pretends to lunge at her, scuttling to the side and seeking safety between Bellamy and Clarke's chairs. Implicitly, the game ends then, everyone going off to do their own thing (with Murphy continuing to grumble). Soon, it's just the two of them left at the table, Madi having left for her lessons with Gaia.

Clarke feels relaxed in a way that she hasn't in a long time.

"I knew it couldn't be beginner's luck," Bellamy says, shaking his head. Sheepishly, Clarke shrugs.

"My dad taught me this and when we found a pack of cards a few months in, there wasn't much else to do so I taught Madi."

"The art of how to hustle us."

"No money exchanged hands," she grins, collecting all of the cards together and setting the deck aside. "Is it my fault you underestimated me?"

"In all fairness, we thought Monty was the only person in the world who knew how to play that game.."

"And now you know that he was just the only person on the Ring who knew how to play it," Clarke corrects, easily pulling a laugh from him. "So how does this rank for your birthdays?"

Bellamy thinks for a moment. "I didn't lose as badly as everyone else did, so it could be worse," he jokes.

"You're welcome."

Chuckling, he continues, "Seriously, though. It's been good. I'm really glad you're here." His eyes spark with a hint of softness. "You have fun?"

Almost shy, she says, "Yeah. I was… worried." At his inquisitive look, she explains, "That it'd be like… last time. But it was really nice. I, um, probably wouldn't mind doing something like this again." And before he can interject, she cautions, "As long as you don't say I told you so at any point."

"Even though it's my birthday?"

"Especially because it's your birthday."

He makes a face at her. "How is this fair again?"

"Oh, you didn't specify fair…" Exaggerated, he rolls his eyes at her, though he can't keep the grin off his face. She loves how easy it is for him to smile, how nice it looks on him, how natural it feels. She'd spend all day chasing that if she could.

But she couldn't, or she shouldn't; whichever it was, it was out of the question, so instead, she changed the subject. "Any wisdom to impart on those younger than you?"

"Have I really reached the age where I can impart wisdom?"

"Haven't you?"

"I'm only…" he paused, grimacing.

"Go on, say it." When he doesn't, she nudges his arm with her hand, trying to pry it from him. "Six years ago, we didn't even know if we'd live a year, you can say you're thirty."

"Well, when you put it like that…" he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I can't believe I'm thirty."

She smiles a little. "You're exceptionally old now."

He huffs. "Now you're just rubbing it in."

"Pointing out a fact."

"Looking that smug about it?" Clarke doesn't even try to rein it in.

"That's just how my face works."

"Rather convenient face you have, isn't it."

"It's just the truth! I can't help but notice these things. For example," She starts to squint at him, peering closely. "I'm pretty sure you've got some grey in your beard?" Without thinking about it, her hand reaches up to pat his cheek, scratching against his beard. She doesn't even realize what she's doing until her palm actually curves along his jaw. Her eyes widen and then Bellamy's wrapped his hand around her wrist, gentle, unyielding.

He doesn't say anything about what she's just done and it's this that helps her sink into his touch, rather than pull away from it. "You don't think it makes me look distinguished?"

"You?"

Bellamy nods. His eyes don't leave hers.

"I don't know," she manages, taking in his slow blink. "I'm not the best judge on that."

"Why not?"

"Well, I—" She doesn't know anymore, doesn't know if she had an explanation."I'm—still not used to it."

"It might help if you liked it."

"I like it," she says weakly, sounding completely full of it, so it's a good thing that Murphy's raucous voice cuts through them, forcing Bellamy to drop her wrist, letting it fall into her lap. It is a good thing, even though she recognizes that flare of disappointment.

Tuning back into Murphy's voice, Clarke catches the end of what he's saying. "—leaving, if you care!"

"Already?" Bellamy asks, turning his head towards the departing group.

" Some of us have jobs to do."

"When did you get a job, Murphy?" He scowls, but doesn't have a comeback so he sweeps out the door. Clarke laughs along with everyone else, then stands up and gestures apologetically to the door.

"I should go too," she says, wishing she didn't have to. "I've got a shift."

Bellamy nods as he gets up too. "I'll walk you back."

"The three minutes it takes to get to the med center?"

"Those are long three minutes."

Laughing at the look on his face, she guides him back down into the chair. "It's your birthday, maybe your last one in space. Stay. Enjoy. Have fun."

He almost protests, but then stops himself. "Lunch tomorrow?"

Clarke smiles. "The usual place?

"Sounds good."

With that, she leaves, exiting the bridge with a warmth in her chest. It stays with her even as she enters the med center and greets Jackson, who looks surprised at her appearance.

"I thought you were at Bellamy's party," he says, looking over at the clock. "It's already over?"

"I ducked out a little early," she explains, grabbing the stack of folders from his desk.

"Why? Oh," he furrows his brow, "for this?"

"I was scheduled—"

"I told you you didn't have to worry about it," Jackson says and she remembers now, but it hadn't been something that she thought was serious. "You should go back to the party."

"But," she starts, though it's no use.

"There hasn't been anyone in today."

"There might be."

He concedes a chuckle. "I can handle it. Look, you can't honestly rather be here than at the party."

"No, I," she says, her brain already tripping over itself to finish the sentence, really want to be there instead, tempers it into something that isn't rude. "I don't want to slack off or anything."

"You aren't. You're the most dedicated person here." Jackson stands up and physically turns her towards the door. "And technically, you had the day off."

"It wasn't clear," she mutters feebly, already on her way out. "Thank you, though."

"Don't mention it. Hey, tell Bellamy happy birthday from me."

"Will do." Though slightly embarrassed, Clarke is still pleased about this turn of events. Even if it had been a bit much, it was the first time she'd actually felt okay, happy even, in a group of people. The fact that it was that particular group of people made it all the more surprising. The feeling humming through her body is an unfamiliar excitement, a realization that draws her smile wider.

It dims as soon as she sees Echo, or rather, her arms wrapped around Bellamy, pulling him in for a hug that makes Clarke stop short just a few feet away. She watches as he hugs her back, a comfortable laugh spilling out of him, an easy smile gracing his face. Echo laughs as well, maybe makes a joke. She's too far away to be able to hear what they say, but, and she knows it's selfish, it still tugs at her seeing how they get along. She'd spent so much time avoiding the two of them that she'd forgotten how much she really hated seeing the two of them together. Clarke's eyes stay on them, her feet stuck to the ground somehow, her body unwilling to move. There's some more conversation, another laugh, a departing side hug and then Bellamy's ducked back inside the bridge.

Echo stays outside, smile still on her face, and her eyes catch on Clarke.

Clarke freezes. How obvious was it that she had just walked in on a clearly private moment? She comes closer to her, brow lifted in a mocking display. "Were you spying on us?"

She ignores the dig. "Just going back to the party."

"Weren't you leaving?"

"I changed my mind," she says tightly, intending to leave it at that, but then Echo laughs sharply and she sighs. "Do you have something you want to say?"

"I don't care how many people you've got fooled," the other woman practically snarls, her eyes narrowing as she stalks closer. "I don't trust you."

Clarke snorts. "That's ironic."

"What?" Whatever response Echo had expected, it certainly hadn't been that.

"I could say the exact same thing to you," she explains.

"I know what ironic means," Echo snaps. "We're nothing alike. I earned my forgiveness. I spent three years with them proving that I was different. That I'd changed." She barrels through, her jaw clenching. "Three years. And then you—"

"And I suppose I forced him into it," she challenges.

"You might as well have."

"How did I do that?"

Echo's answering laugh is dry and bitter. "Because you made him feel guilty. That's the only reason he forgave you. It wasn't anything else."

"I know he feels guilty," she says, simply, because it's true. "He wouldn't be Bellamy if he didn't. But I also know that it's not just about guilt, so you're wasting your time." Everything she was saying, Clarke had thought before, had entertained before, had reluctantly dismissed before. If Echo thought she had found something new, she'd be sorely mistaken.

Echo stalks closer, eyes flashing. "How often do you have to tell yourself that?"

Too often. But she's not about to let her know that. Rather, she volleys back, "How much does this bother you?"

"You'd have to matter to bother me," Echo answers, a little uncontrolled.

"Right," Clarke scoffs. "Because that's why you're going out of your way to tell me all of this. Usually when they go out of their way to bring it out, it means they don't care at all. I'm sure that this… whatever this is," (though it feels more like a territorial dispute than anything else, not that she'll say it), "is out of the kindness of your heart."

"I'd just hate for you to be blindsided when things go back to normal," she says, eyebrow pointed.

"Normal."

"Before you decided you belonged with us."

Her fist clenches involuntarily. "I didn't decide that."

"You're always deciding things." Echo sneers at her. "Whatever Clarke wants, Clarke gets. Isn't that how it works?"

"If you think that, then you don't know me at all."

"I know you. And so do they. It's just a matter of time." Her smile is slow, self-assured, terrible.

She knows that she just wants a reaction out of her. For her to deny it, to shout at her, to fight back. From her smile to the way she's holding herself, Echo is trying to provoke her into a response. For that, and so many other reasons that generally boil down to spite, she won't let her.

"Let's just agree that we won't ever get along," Clarke says instead, fixing her with a declarative look. "You've tried to kill me too many times for that to happen. So here's a deal. If you stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours." Without waiting for an answer, Clarke moves forward, breaking her gaze. She's met with a hand shooting out to grab onto her elbow, nails digging into the skin, making her cry out in stunned pain. "What are you—"

"You have no chance with him," she practically spits in her face. "I know Bellamy better than anyone." Her face turns cold, harsh, mean. "I know what he's like when he's happy, when he's sad, when he's angry. I know the things he likes, the things he hates, anything you can think of. You think I don't know what he's like when he feels guilty? That this isn't just out of some obligation he feels towards you? That as soon as he's finished with this, he won't come back to us? He will never see you that way."

"Let go—I don't," Clarke says, pushing at her, a little off-kilter due to the hold Echo has on her arm, "what are you even talking about?"

"Oh please," Echo scoffs, her grip tighter. "Everyone knows that you're in love with him." She freezes, her entire body going stiff as the back of her neck tingles. Everyone? Had she been that obvious? Had everyone known and just laughed at her for thinking of it? "Don't even think about denying it."

"Then I've got nothing to say," she finally settles on, once she finds her voice again. It's a lie. She wants to ask how she knew, what she means, whether Bellamy's said anything. She wants to deny it, to laugh it off, to dismiss it as something so unbelievable that there should be no credence placed on the thought. But it's clearly pointless.

Her answer infuriates Echo, the reaction splashed across her face and in the way her nails dig deeper, maybe even breaking skin. "I can't wait for Bellamy to come to his senses about you. Because he will! He'll stop feeling guilty and realize just how fucking selfish and self-righteous you are—"

"Get a hold of yourself and get away from me," she grits out, clenching her teeth to prevent a grimace from showing. Barely understanding what Echo is ranting about, Clarke reaches out with her other hand, shoving hard at her, the force of which finally releases her hand from her elbow, which is, of course, the same time Bellamy exits the room and spots the two of them.

"What's going on?" He asks immediately, looking at Echo, who crosses her arms, and then to Clarke, who does not look back. The blossoming red on her skin screams at her.

Instead of answering him, she points her message to Echo. "Whatever your problem is, I don't want to be a part of it."

A mirthless laugh. "Deep down," she says tightly, turning to leave. "You know I'm right." Then she's gone, so fast that Clarke barely registers the time passing.

Her arm aches. "Clarke," Bellamy's voice cuts in and she has to blink at him to remember he's still here. "What happened?"

Shaking her head, she replies, "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Nothing? I can tell that something happened," he says, forehead knotting together. "Look at your arm!"

"I'm fine," she says, flashing him a tired, ingenuous smile. "Your girlfriend has an anger problem. I have to go now."

Instantly, the rebuke, followed by the offer: "She's not my girlfriend anymore. Let me walk you back."

"No," she says quickly, already shrinking back. "I think I need some time alone."

"But," he objects, stopping himself before he continues down that line. Instead, he shifts tracks. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I am."

He doesn't believe her, she can tell, but he doesn't ask again, so she's grateful. Clarke takes the out, doesn't look back.

*

(xxiii.)

For the most part, she tries to put it out of her mind. It's not easy to do, because she keeps thinking about it but then there's a convergence of luck in the form of a cold that keeps her busy in the med center for almost a week. It gives her enough to do that she can forget about Echo's biting comments, how she had hit at every one of her weak spots, and especially, the way she had tossed her feelings back in her face. For an entire week, she doesn't bother herself with either Echo or Bellamy, so, of course, as soon as she finds some time to breathe, she finds herself face to face with the latter. With the door ajar and her mind exhausted, Clarke doesn't realize someone's in the second floor bathroom until she's in there, blinking at the sight of Bellamy Blake, shaving cream plastered to his jaw, razor in hand, turning his head at her intrusion.

"Sorry. I'll leave," she says, already backing up.

He sets his razor down. "Hey. No, it's fine. Stay? Please?" She won't analyze whatever compels her to comply, but she stays, taking the ensuing silence to look him once over while he turns his head back to the mirror and makes an attempt at finishing his shave. It's mesmerizing, in a way, to watch him do something as simple as that, to go through the routine. There's nothing particularly special about it, but it's the first time she's properly seen him in a week and she can't look away. If it wasn't for his next words, she might've gotten lost in it.

"What?"

"I asked," he says, faintly amused, head quirking towards her, "how's your arm doing?"

"Oh. It's okay," she answers, looking down partly to check on her arm and partly to hide the blush on her cheeks. The redness had faded after a day or so, along with the pain; the only reminder that it had even happened was the light bruising that was noticeable only if you looked closely at it.

"Just saying that or is it really?"

The corner of her mouth lifts. "I'm just saying that it really is okay."

Flashing her a grin, he picks up the towel next to the sink, wiping away the remnants of the shaving cream, and then tossing it into the bin next to it. He hasn't gotten far with his shave, so there's still some stubble left over.

"You missed a spot."

"I'll finish it later," he says. "I wanted to talk to you about something." Voice deep, tone serious, it piques Clarke's curiosity.

A little apprehensively, she asks, "About what?"

Bellamy taps his fingers along the edge of the sink and then, "Echo was wrong."

Unable to stop herself, she quips, "You'll have to be more specific than that."

There's a definite quirk of his lips, quickly flattened into a line. "I didn't forgive you out of guilt," he says. "I don't feel obligated," this he accompanies with a curl of his mouth, a disdain for the word, "to do anything like that. Us being friends again is because I missed being friends with you. I thought you knew that."

She hadn't expected Echo to have actually told him the truth of what she had said. Surprise in her words, she says, "That's not the problem."

He falters, taken aback, rambling now, "What is it, then? Because you've been avoiding me and I want to fix this but I don't know how I'm supposed to fix this if I don't know what's wrong."

Clarke goes back towards the door, closing it for privacy, leaning up against the cold metal. She stays silent for a few minutes. "The problem is that there's someone who knows you better than anyone and she's telling me that all the doubts that I have are real. She's saying that maybe I shouldn't have stopped questioning it. And look, if it was anyone else, I wouldn't care. I wouldn't. I've thought about it enough times that I've probably run through every option. But because it is her," she stops to laugh, though there's nothing funny in it, "well, she said so herself. She knows everything about you." The back of her head knocks back slightly against the door as she looks up briefly at the ceiling. "Of course it's more convincing."

"Except she's wrong. If she really thinks that, then she doesn't know me."

"Bellamy—"

"Look, don't listen to her, okay?”

“It’s not as easy as you think it is. I’ve tried but then I keep coming back to it and my brain keeps doing that thing where it tells me she must be true and she’d know, right?”

He's furious now, the rage barely contained in his voice. "I—I think I know why she said those things, but it isn't because they're true."

"Then—then why?"

Bellamy passes a hand over his face, putting pressure over his eyes before he speaks again, voice a little tight this time. "She thinks I picked you over her.”

“Why would… she think that?”

He keeps his gaze level on her when he says, “Because when Echo asked me to pick between the two of you, well, I picked you."

"What?"

"Right before I broke up with her, she gave me an ultimatum, because she didn’t like us spending time together and she didn’t like you, and I chose to keep our friendship over her. There was no question to her," he says, with such a normalcy to it that she wonders if she imagined her heart stopping and restarting at the same time. "My guilt doesn't extend that far."

"You," she exhales, struggling for words, "...did that?"

"Of course I did," he answers easily, like it had been the only possible option, like he hadn't ended his relationship over a matter like that.  "I couldn’t be in a relationship where I felt like I couldn’t be friends with you. I lost you once. I never want to do that again, Clarke. Haven't I made that clear?" He pauses. "Maybe I haven't. Maybe that's been the problem the entire time." He chuckles, slightly harsh, self-deprecating.

"But…" His words come back to her now, suddenly, slipping into her consciousness. Bellamy had told her that he had broken up with Echo because they had been fighting a lot, because of certain things he wasn't willing to compromise on. It was true that Clarke had not allowed herself to think about what had driven them to that point, what had caused Bellamy to end something that had lasted so long, but even if she had, she doubts that she would've ever suggested herself, their friendship, as a determining factor in its demise. She doesn't know how to process that information. She doesn't know how to understand the implications of that revelation. "I don't get it. She was—she is so important to you."

Bellamy laughs, a little miserably. "Not more than you. Never more than you."

A sharp intake of breath. He couldn't just say things like that. "That's," she says, without going further. Every word is failing her now.

Bellamy runs a hand through his hair and huffs out a breath of exasperation. "Fuck. This is my fault. She's mad at me and took it on you."

And then he's moving towards the door, his strides fast and angry. Almost instinctively, Clarke catches him by the arm to stop him from bulldozing past. "Bellamy," she says.

"This is my fault," he says, one hand on the door handle.

"No, it isn't." Her fingers grip his arm a little tighter.

"Yes, it is. If I had handled things better, then she wouldn't have said that to you. She shouldn’t have said that to you. She shouldn't have touched you. God, she shouldn't have brought you into this. I didn't think that she'd take it out on you. I thought—" He starts to turn the handle. "I'm going to go talk to her."

"Wait," she squeaks out. "Don't go."

"Clarke, I don't want this to happen again. She has to know this isn't okay."

"Later." Her head is ringing. "Can you talk to her later?" A moment later, Bellamy's guided her to the toilet seat, sitting her down on top of the cover. He crouches down to look up at her, his hands holding onto her elbows.

"You okay?"

She nods, focusing on the way his thumb has started caressing the crook of her elbow. It takes her a bit to find her words. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"And what," he sighs, grinning crookedly, "have you blame yourself for something that isn't your fault? I know you, Clarke. You would've." She has no defense for that. She would've. "Hey." She pulls herself out of her silence. More hesitant, the grin dropped from his face, his thumb stilled on her elbow, Bellamy says, "Have I ever made you feel like I'm only friends with you out of obligation?"

"No, of course not."

"But you said that you think about it all the time."

"It's not because—" she sighs, shakes her head. How can she make rational something so irrational? "I don't do it because of anything you've done. I just… it's just how my mind works, Bellamy." Her hands tighten over her knees. "It's hard for me to—I'm, I'm not used to this."

"Used to what?"

Again, it takes a few seconds before she can put it to words. "Believing that people care about me? Maybe just people caring about me in general."

"I have told you before—"

"It's not that easy."

"What about Madi?"

"Madi's different." Her hands start to loosen from her knees as she feels more comfortable talking about her. "Madi is… for six years, all we had was each other. All we had to care about was each other. I know where I stand with her. With everyone else, I don't have that. With you, I don't have that. I mean, I can think of a hundred reasons why you shouldn't care about me."

"You're wrong," he says, but she isn't listening.

"I'm selfish and self-righteous," she starts, repeating Echo's words. "I don't listen to others. I make the worst decisions. I'm wrong so many times. I can be cold and judgemental. I form first impressions and I stick to them. And, and I'm manipulative. How many times have I lied to get my way? How many times have I lied to you, just so that I could do what I thought was right? Even though it's put you in danger?" The end of her mini monologue comes as more of a fizzle and less of a bang, her words leaving with almost a desperation to them, as if she's trying everything to make some of it stick. Bellamy has stayed quiet during the entire thing, without any interruptions, without any agreement or disagreement. The most he's done is an absent minded squeeze of her hand. It isn't at all what she had expected.

And then: "Are you finished?"

She frowns. "What?"

"Do you have more?"

Taken aback by his nonchalance, she shakes her head in answer. He smiles, turns her hands over, palms up, clasps them with his. "Okay. Then can I say something?"

She nods.

He takes a breath. "You are the most selfless person I know—no, you're the most selfless person in the entire world. I can't think of anyone who would sacrifice as much as you have for the sake of others." he says, punctuating his last sentence with another squeeze of her hands. "You have the strongest force of will I've ever seen. And you're generous. You always see the good in people, even when you have no reason to." His thumb smooths over her pulse. "You're warm and you're brave and considerate, forgiving, loyal, and you never, ever give up. Maybe you don't believe me right now, but I know that one day you will."

Her throat closes up, unable to parse through the sincerity of his words, directed right at her. No one's ever told her that before. "I didn't say all that to fish for compliments," she starts, struggling through the words at first. It's a little too much all at once. "How," Her voice cracks towards the end of the word, "how do you know that?" She sniffles a little. "I don't even know that."

"Because I think you haven't heard it enough." He frowns at that. "So I'm going to keep reminding you."

"That's it?"

He laughs, a little tiredly. "It worked for me. Every time you reminded me that people cared about me—that you cared—it helped. It helped a lot." A vague memory tugs at her brain, words spoken a long time ago floating back into consciousness. You have such a big heart, Bellamy, she once said. It was still true.

"That was the truth."

"And so is this."                                          

For a long minute and a half, she studies his face, drawn to his eyes and its honesty, his mouth and its concern. The problem is, she has to fight against her natural instincts. She has to ignore her impulses, her natural pessimism. It's exhausting. But then there's Bellamy, whose eyes tell her something different, who is sitting in front of her, for God knows how long now, telling her everything she's tried to deny. "Fine," she finally says, giving in.

"Fine?"

"Fine," she repeats, more petulant than anything. "I'm sorry I avoided you."

"I thought you were just busy with work," he teases.

"Well, I was," she defends. "It just… also made it easier to avoid you."

"Yeah, you weren't very subtle about that."

"We live on a crowded spaceship. You really can't avoid anyone here."

"I'm okay not testing that theory." Bellamy waits a beat. "Do you feel better?"

The weirdest thing is that she does, in a way. Getting that off her chest lifts something off her, a weight that had been suffocating her since she began to reconsider it a week ago. She doesn't know about anything else, but she doesn't feel the thread of it following her every thought. "Yeah. I do." Her hand slips out to touch his shoulder, a brief moment that makes him grin at her.

"Good," he says, "because my legs are starting to hurt." He rocks back on his feet and winces, nearly loses his balance until Clarke steadies him hastily.

"Be careful," she scolds, letting go of his arm when he makes to get up.

"My hero," he laughs before he stretches his arms up and rolls his shoulders around, causing his shirt to strain against his stomach. Her eyes, seemingly drawn to it, flickers over the flash of skin exposed by the movement. She almost misses his question. "Doing anything later?" He strikes her as uncharacteristically nervous.

"Maybe sleeping a little."

"Oh," he says, disappointment lining his voice. His arms dropped back to his side, which sent disappoint through her brain.

"It's not—I don't have to, I mean, why do you ask?"

"Just…" he straightens out his shirt, "If you don't have anything else to do today, I don't know, uh, maybe… do you… want to go sit in the bridge for a bit?"

"Now?"

"If you want to. If you don't, it's—'

"No, I do," she clarifies hurriedly. "It's just…"  

"What?"

A small, watery laugh bubbles out from her chest. "I think you should finish shaving first."

"Oh. I forgot about that." He scratches his stubble. "It's not that bad."

"There's a whole uneven patch right there."

With a forlorn sigh, Bellamy trudges over to the mirror. She watches him examine himself and grins when he turns to look at her, a begrudging admittance of her being right. "How long have you been waiting to point that out?"

"To be fair, I said it when you stopped," she points out. "I can wait."

"I could just keep it like this," he suggests, although he's already gathered some shaving cream and lathered it across his face. "And then grow it out again."

"If you wanted to do that, you wouldn't have shaved in the first place." Clarke draws her legs up, folding them against her chest as she watches him scrape the razor against his jaw. "I thought you liked it."

I did, but," he winces at a small cut, "I wanted a change."

"Oh?"

"Felt like time, didn't it?" More of a rhetorical question, he nevertheless looks over at her, waiting for her opinion. She nods because it feels right. He grins through the shaving cream. "Can you pass me a towel?"

He could easily take a few steps to the right and get one himself, but she doesn't mind the chance to get up and walk over to him. "Here," she says. Bellamy's hand brushes hers as they do the hand-off. "I like this."

"Yeah?" He turns to lean his hip against the sink, his task of wiping away the shaving cream having gone to the wayside. "Should I keep it like this?"

"Yeah, you can start a new trend. Dry shaving cream," Clarke laughs.

"It would definitely be a change," he comments, not even putting up a fight when she steals the towel back from him and starts to wipe it across his jaw. He stays still the entire time, his eyes following her movements, the air around them suddenly thick.

She blinks when she finishes, staring back at a clean-shaven, cleaned-up Bellamy, who looks so much like the one that had kept her company in her memories. Except, that isn't right. He's different, older, as seen in the lines around his eyes, the difference, more freeing, in his smile, the intensity, more opaque, but not unreadable now, in his eyes. Although he looks like the Bellamy she knows, he's also the Bellamy she's coming to know.

Bellamy passes a hand over his jaw, his eyes roving over her face. "Better?" He asks, voice deeper than usual.

Clarke nods, and then, recklessly, spontaneously traces her knuckles along his jaw. This close, she can feel his breath on her face, the warmth from his skin. She even imagines following the way his heart beats. I'm in love with you, she thinks desperately. Do you know that? "Better," she says, throat dry.

"Good," he says, which should be the end of that, but it isn't. Bellamy stays solidly against her, unmoving except for one hand drifting to the back of her neck and the other cupping her cheek and then dip of his head as he draws closer to her. "Clarke," he says, a whisper, a hope.

Her heart skips and skips and skips a beat.

He gets even closer.

For almost a moment, Clarke leans up, the indiscernible angle of her head, chasing after something that seems a sure thing. And then, another moment, and her nervous giggle pierces the room. "We should really get going," she somehow, for some reason, says, pulling out of his embrace, tucking her hair behind her ear, trying to tame the blush on her cheeks, the heat across her neck. "It's getting late, isn't it?"

(Bellamy had almost kissed her.)

His face falls, recovering just a little too late for her to have missed it. The smile is a little weak. Her heart is thumping so loud she can hear it drumming in her ears. (He had almost kissed her.) "Yeah, you're right." Bellamy steps back, running a hand through his hair. "I need to clean this up first."

"Oh." She'd forgotten about all of that. "I can help."

Seemingly surprised, he looks back at her. (He had almost kissed her.) "You will?"

"It seems only right." If she doesn't bring it up, then maybe things don't have to be weird. "I did interrupt you. Shaving."

His smile curves upwards. "You did. But I didn't mind."

Her stomach flutters. "No," she says, "me either."

Chapter Text

(xxiv.)

She's glad that she locked the door. Or maybe Bellamy had locked it. Whoever had been responsible for it, she isn't exactly sure at the moment, but she's glad nonetheless. It's good foresight. Having someone walk in while Bellamy spins them from the wall, pushes her back onto the bed, and slots his mouth against hers is not something she wants to share with anyone else.

That goes double for the whine she lets out when he breaks the kiss, which quickly turns into a low moan when he starts kissing down her neck, across the top of her t-shirt-clad chest, his hand slipping under the hem and stilling with just the barest of grazes. Shivering under his touch, she pulls him back up to her, until they're face to face, where she can revel in the satisfaction of seeing just how flushed he is too. His eyes are dark, devouring, his mouth red. He's beautiful. It's everything she's wanted for six years.

He brushes her hair away from her face before placing a kiss on her cheek, taking a moment to murmur, "Too much?"

"No," she says, drawing him into a slow kiss that leaves her a little dizzy, even despite the fact that she's laying down. "I just wanted to kiss you."

He kisses her sweetly. She sighs, contented. "Like this?"

"That's a start."

"What about this?"

"A little better."

"And this?"

"Shut up and kiss me already."

Slightly smug, almost blinding in its intensity, Bellamy's grin is all she sees before he captures her mouth again, like it's all he's wanted to do, like it's all she's wanted to do. He starts slow, tentative, alternates between long, tender kisses and quick, easy ones, works his way up, bides his time. It'd be almost infuriating if she didn't enjoy it so much. She curls her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the soft strands caress her, and lets him lick into her mouth, the gasp swallowed by his tongue and his wandering hand, traveling from her neck to her shoulder, grazing past her breast, then pausing, waiting for her permission to go further. Clarke gives it with a small moan and a murmured yes into his shoulder, her fingers digging into his back, wanting more and more and more, not enough and enough and enough, and then it all comes crashing down as she jolts awake.

With heavy disappointment, she blinks the sleep out of her eyes, the bleak grey of the room coming into focus.

Of course it had been a dream.

It had really been too vivid for it to be real and that wasn't even taking into account the fact that they hadn't kissed (they hadn't because she'd stopped him) or the other fact that it'd been awkward in the three days since (especially because she didn't want to talk about it and he hadn't brought it up either) or the last fact that even though there was a possibility that Bellamy did and had really wanted to kiss her, he wouldn't try it again, not after the way she'd rejected him.

Not that she could blame him. Not that she would either, because that would just open up a can of worms that she wasn't ready to handle, including but not limited to questions like were you really going to kiss me (yes, probably, Clarke had figured that out, at least), why didn't you talk to me about it (I don't really know what to say, or the ever useful, what's there to talk about), and the worst one, the one she never wants to answer, why did you stop me (I got scared). She'd rather not touch that at all.

But other than that, everything would be fine. It was just an almost kiss, after all, and that didn't count. She would get up, get ready for the day ahead of her, and treat it like a normal day. With a sleepy groan, Clarke goes about doing just that, changing out of her sleeping clothes, putting her hair into a low braid, and brushing her teeth. By the time she gets back to her room, she's feeling a lot better.

As luck would have it, she finds Bellamy in the small kitchen space at the end of the hallway, busy at the counter, the smell of whatever he's making wafting in the air. Approaching him slowly, unsure of how she should make her presence known, half-certain that it'll be a mistake, she ends up nudging his shoulder. He looks back.

"Hey," he says, a smile lighting up his face. Her heart skips a beat at the sight. "Breakfast?"

"What are you having?"

"Pancakes, if you want them."

Not expecting that answer, her eyes widen a little. "I thought we ran out a month ago."

"So did I." Pointing towards the batter, he adds, "So?"

She nods, watches as he gets to work, turning on the stove, melting the butter, scooping batter into the skillet. Bellamy does it with an almost laser focus and it's such a funny sight that she has to laugh at it. As if he knows what she's about to say, he preempts her, "I haven't done this in a while."

"Do you need help?"

"Have you done this before?"

"I can learn."

"You really want to?"

She nods again, stepping closer to him to observe him. "What if you're too busy one day and—Madi wants pancakes? Do you want me to disappoint her?"

"You could never disappoint her, Clarke," he says sternly, flipping a pancake. It's a little burnt.

Biting back the automatic denial, she laughs it off. "Until I have to tell her I can't make her any pancakes."

With a roll of his eyes, he gestures for her to come closer. She does. "All right, you've twisted my arm." Flipping the finished pancake onto a plate, Bellamy reaches for the bowl of batter again. "It's really easy. Just watch."

It is really easy, or at least he makes it look easy, especially after he relaxes into it. A few are burnt, but she doesn't care. He lets her try after he makes a few more, and those end up more burnt than any of his, and he very graciously only comments on it twice. He tells her about how he'd actually come across the extra batter (a tale that involves a lot of cajoling on his part) and she tells him about the time she and her dad had made breakfast together (a tale that involves a lot of burning things on her part). It all goes so normally, and so without incident, without unnatural pauses, without any hint that just a day ago, they'd cut a conversation short because it'd been too awkward to get through it.

The subject doesn't stay dormant for long, though. Once they sit down, Bellamy barely waits until she's situated before he says, "We should probably talk about what happened."

She freezes in her chair. "We don't need to," is her eventual reply, once she recovers her wits.

"No. We need to," he says stiffly, like he's trying to convince himself of it too. "I was… out of line. I'm sorry for… what happened."

Whatever she had expected him to say — even though she had dreaded every bit of it — it wasn't this. Dueling the twin reactions of disappointment and relief, Clarke nods. "It's okay. Um. Nothing happened," she says, proud of herself for sounding more confident than she feels. "So we really didn't need to talk about it."

She doesn't know what consequences the possibility of doing so might bring up and she's certainly not ready for the feelings she's only held to herself.

For a brief second, she wonders if this is a test, if he's trying to tease out a response from her. She banishes it from her brain almost as quickly as it comes up. He isn't that kind of person. It takes him a bit to respond. Her body is all twisted with tension and anticipation. What if he changes his mind and does want to talk about it? "Then we agree," he says, his eyes dark, his mouth set.

Stop looking at his mouth, she reminds herself. It would defeat the purpose of this entire conversation.

Her laugh a little off, her cheeks a little warm, her hands a little shaky, Clarke instead says, "We agree."

He reaches over to take a corner of her pancake. "Something else though."

Her back straightens. "What?"

He waits, then grins. "Your pancakes are burnt."

She can't even begin to understand what her ensuing sigh means. "Shut up."

*

(xxv.)

The next time they meet in the kitchen goes much more smoothly. It starts with an impromptu lunch with mostly everyone else present, filing in unannounced, drawn to the smell of food, and ends with her volunteering to do the dishes. She really doesn't mind because she likes the simplicity of the task. It's a silly thing to like, but it takes her back to the days in Eden when there were only simple tasks that passed the day. She can't even remember how many traps she'd made.

"You look very deep in thought," Bellamy says suddenly, sidling up to her at the sink, standing close enough that their hips touch. He had joined their lunch group a little later than the others, pleading a long meeting. Despite his absence, spending time with everyone without him went without a hitch. Maybe it was because Echo hadn't shown up. "Want some help?"

"Depends who's asking," she replies.

"Monty."

"He never did finish telling me about the properties of witch hazel."

"Harper."

"I can ask her about all the embarrassing stories she has about you on the Ring."

"Hey. There are no embarrassing stories of me on the Ring."

"That's not what Harper says."

"Harper's exaggerating."

"But not lying?"

"What about Emori?"

"She could tell me some embarrassing stories too."

"For the last time, there are no stories."

"Whatever you say."

"I do say. How about Murphy?" By this time, Bellamy's already sunk his hands into the soapy water, working on plates and handing them over to Clarke to rinse and dry.

"Yes. I know he'd be honest about the stories."

"He saw nothing."

"Convenient, that."

"He was the one who chose to hide from everyone."

"Someone will tell me eventually."

"Raven will never break."

Her grip on a plate slips. It's luckily plastic, so the most it does is sink to the bottom. "She'd have to talk to me first."

Bellamy turns to look at her. "I thought you were good again."

"So did I," she says, picking up the plate again, stilling any further action. "I think we are. It's just… we haven't talked since she apologized, really. And I've tried." It'd ended the same each time, Raven having to dash away after a few minutes, saying that they'd talk next time. After three attempts, Clarke'd gotten the message, but she still wondered why.

"What are you thinking about?"

She drags herself out of her thoughts. "Who says I'm thinking about anything?"

"Your face," he replies. "You've got the look."

Amused, she asks, scrunching her face in curiosity. "The look?"

"You have a look for when you're really deep in thought and you aren't saying anything about it," he answers, nudging her shoulder. "So?"

She splashes her hand in the water a bit before she speaks. "When I was eight, I was best friends with a girl named Emily. I didn't know Wells yet, or, well, I didn't really talk to Wells at that point. But Emily and I hung out all the time. We had sleepovers almost every night." She laughs a little at the memory of one. "We sat by each other in class, we always picked each other for teams. We were pretty much inseparable. And then it was like, one day, I don't know… she started sitting with other people and had a new best friend. We didn't even fight, I mean, I don't remember us fighting. I just remember us being best friends forever, and then not."

"Do you think that's you and Raven now?"

"A little," she says honestly. "Not really? Because Raven and I weren't close, not like me and Emily were. But it feels the same. She has new friends and that's fine," even if Echo was one of them, "but it doesn't mean it's not hard to deal with that."

"That doesn't mean you guys aren't friends anymore."

"I didn't say that. But I don't want to keep being the one who reaches out and gets nothing back." She turns to look at him, unsure of what his reaction will look like. "Does that make sense?"

"Yeah. You shouldn't have to if it's only making you feel worse." He wipes his hands on a towel, then turns his body so he's actually facing her. "Do you want me to talk to her about it?"

"No," she says immediately, almost aghast at the suggestion. Bellamy starts to laugh.

"Relax," he says, knocking his arm against her shoulder. "I was just joking."

She knocks back. "You better be. And it wasn't even funny."

"Sorry, I'll work on it for next time."

"You just need to work on your delivery a bit."

"And then you'll laugh?"

"I'll think about laughing."

Sighing in exaggeration, he says, "You're hard to impress, Griffin." She grins at him.

"Madi's very funny. It's hard to live up to that."

"She is a hard act to follow," he teases, making her smile. It's nice when he compliments Madi. "And just so you know," she turns back to him, surprised that he has more to say, "what Raven is doing is shitty. I don't know what's going on, but it is, and you don't deserve that."

"She can't have other friends?"

He rolls his eyes at her, like he knows she's being deliberately obtuse. "'Course she can. But not trying when you are? That's shitty."

Clarke looks away, scratching her cheek with a wet hand. "She's your friend too."

"But so are you." A second later, she feels his thumb caressing her cheek, almost guiding her to turn back to him. She follows the direction, eyes glued to his. For a moment, she holds her breath. For a moment, she thinks he's going to kiss her. Bellamy swipes over her cheek again, soft and gentle, before he drops his hand. "Sorry," he says, voice low, smile easy. "There was some—soap."

"Oh," she says, as if she isn't thinking about the pressure of his thumb on her cheek, his hand curling around her jaw. "Thanks."

"Anytime." Bellamy reaches over to grab one of the rinsed plates. "Let's finish these?"

She nods.

*

(xxvi.)

"Why didn't you tell me?" Bellamy demands, coming out of nowhere, catching her off guard enough that he ushers her into a nearby alcove without much of an opposing complaint.

"Tell you what?" Her mind runs quickly through the list of things he could be talking about, but settles on nothing. She hasn't been hiding anything from him—well, except—

It's not that. "That Echo tried to kill you. Back on Earth."

She feels the color drain from her face. "I don't—well, you were there that time, so—"

"The other time," he stresses, then pauses, as if he finally hears the sheer ridiculousness of there being not one, but another time this could apply to.

There is no point in hiding it anymore, not that she had done so to protect anyone in particular. She just hadn't said anything about it. There had been no use to it. When Bellamy had been dating Echo, it was useless to tell him; he wouldn't have believed her. He wouldn't have cared. There were a number of excuses. Now that he wasn't, Clarke had no occasion to think of her. She preferred not to.

"How did you find out?" She asks, a sigh of each word.

"Madi told me."

Her head snaps up, confused. "Madi? Why w—"

"Not on purpose." His face morphs into something disapproving. "You should've told me."

"You didn't need to know," she says simply, hoping that's the end of it. Of course, it isn't.

"I didn't need to know that Echo tried to kill you?" Incredulity in both his voice and face. "If Madi hadn't been there, you would've died."

"I know I'm not a trained warrior," she scoffs, "but I can hold my own in a fight. I’ve done it dozens of times."

"Clarke," he says.

She drops her act. "I didn't tell you because it was her."  Her gaze falls to her hands, wringing and unsure.

"I would've believed you," he insists. "I would've."

"You have a blind spot when it comes to her." She waits for him to deny it, for him to protest against this characterization. It never comes; at least there's that. "Bellamy?"

"Yeah."

She takes a deep breath. "Echo tried to kill me. She would've killed me, she had her hands on my throat and I couldn't stop her." Bellamy flinches hard, recoiling away from her words. She stops for a second and then continues. "I deserved it. I left you to die and I didn't go back for you. And she wanted revenge for you. There. Do you feel better knowing now?"

He shakes his head.

"Then why did you want to know?" She says this with a faint air of amusement because it's almost amusing.

"Because my ex-girlfriend tried to kill you and I would've liked to have known about that," he answers, tightly frustrated. "Because it's fucked up and I'm pissed about it."

"You didn't need to know about it."

"I don't think that's really up to you."

"It's not up to you." Clarke rubs at her eyes, suddenly tired. It's late. Madi's probably asleep by now. "There were a lot of reasons why I didn't tell you. Because it was her, because you were so happy with her—" she can't help but roll her eyes here, "because I was scared that if I did tell you, you wouldn't care—"

"I wouldn't have done that," he interrupts, fierce and a little hurt.

"I know that," she says quietly, taking a moment to, nevertheless, let his reassurance wrap around her. "Look, I don't know. It happened months ago and I'm over it." Not a full truth, but enough of it that it isn't a lie.

Bellamy's head knocks back against the wall as he lets out an aggrieved sigh. "Sometimes," he starts, right before he meets her eyes again, "it's like you forget that you're not alone anymore."

"That's not—" Instinctually, the response comes from her, before she stops herself and thinks. She thinks about how she seeks Bellamy's company, how she looks for his advice and support. She thinks about last week, when she'd spent half the day with Harper laughing about nothing in particular and enjoying it. She wants to point to that and say, look, you're wrong. But she also remembers the way she still has trouble confiding in someone else, whether it's Bellamy or not, how she struggles with an easy trust still, and the times when she shrinks back and looks to solve things by herself. "It's hard to break out of that."

"I know," he says softly, moving off the wall and towards her, his arms slightly outstretched so that she knows the sign and shuffles close, and closer, her head pillowing on his shoulder. Bellamy is warm—always warm, she thinks—and solid and sure. Her arms wind around his back and she breathes him in. "But you're not alone. You have Madi. You have me. You always have me."

You shouldn't say things like that, she almost says, like her stomach doesn't swoop and her heart doesn't beat a little faster at the sound of it. You have me too, she almost says. Clarke closes her eyes and exhales. She says none of those things. Instead, she thinks about how nice it is to stand here with Bellamy and believe in him. "I wish Madi hadn't said anything," she mumbles finally, making a mental note to talk to her about that tomorrow.

"It's not Madi's fault that you didn't tell me," he retorts, though the amusement is there.

"It is a little."

Bellamy chuckles, low in her ear. Then, sounding more serious than before, he says, "I was wrong about her. I thought she'd changed." She doesn't have to ask who he means to know it's not Madi he's talking about. She bites her lip, does not say what she immediately thinks. It doesn't help to.

"It's not your fault," she says instead. That is, at least, a truth they can both confront. "It's on her."

"I don't—"

"Oh!" Lulled into the lazy comfort of Bellamy's arms, it takes Clarke a little over a second to realize that the exclamation had not come from Bellamy. It's too high, too girlish, too unfamiliar. She pulls away from him and finds herself face to face with two girls — Lilah, she remembers, from the Lake, and Demeter, from Delphi — whose eyes are wide, sparkling with interest at the scene before them. "We didn't know someone was already here!" Lilah trills, tugging at Demeter's hand with another giggle. "I told you!"

It's then that Clarke realizes, remembers, really. This alcove has a name, a stupid, silly name that had been a joke, and then caught on, as things like this are wont to do. Someone had called it the Kissing Bay, the Bay for short, but no matter what it was called, there was one purpose associated with it. Lilah and Demeter were clearly here for that.

Clarke blushes deeply, untangling herself from Bellamy, but not all the way, just enough distance that it doesn't look like they're doing anything— "This isn't—" she says, nervous, disliking the knowing glint in Lilah's eye, the smirk on Demeter's face.

"We can leave," Demeter says, clearly trying not to laugh. "Sorry for interrupting."

"We were just talking!" She tries again, looking at Bellamy for support, finding none of it because he's staring at them, frozen, something bewildering on his face.

Demeter doesn't look like she believes her at all. She nudges Lilah. "C'mon, Li, let's leave them alone," she says, letting out a giggle that rings through the alcove. Lilah smiles brightly at them before they leave, their laughter trailing behind them.

Clarke doesn't know how much more she can blush. "I can't believe they thought that—it's just—" She refuses to look at him.

He finally speaks. "Yeah," he says slowly. "We were just talking."

"Exactly," she says as she turns to look at him. He's still staring ahead, still looking a little out of it. It's understandable, she reasons, and besides, she's been putting up a fuss about it too.

It's just that—

"I forgot we were in the Bay." He slides his hands into his pockets, chuckles with a nervous energy. "Sorry about… ambushing you like that."

"Well," she says faintly, feeling the awkward tension suffocate them, "if I'd told you about what happened, this ambush wouldn't have happened."

He cracks a smile. "Come on," he says, his hand signalling for her to take the lead, which she does, "let's get out of here before we cause another misunderstanding."

Her heart flips. "It's just gossip," she says, all too aware of Bellamy's hand on the small of her back as they exit the alcove. "No one will listen to it."

*

(ludicrum.)

They do.

She has to deny five questions the next day.

(Madi's isn't a question; it's a knowing look. Clarke tells her to finish her lunch.)

She overhears Echo cornering Bellamy outside the living room one day, her sharp voice demanding: "Is it true? Are you and her—"

He says, "Of course not," and the voices fade as they leave. Clarke thinks that makes sense. Of course not. It's not like that.

It gets better after a week.

Clarke definitely isn't thinking about it.

*

(xxvii.)

The greenhouse is hidden through a little back hall on the second floor, practically unseen unless someone knows where to look for it. Clarke doesn't know how there is a greenhouse in a spaceship, but after ten and a half months here, she's learned not to question it. She doesn't go there much, has no reason to, except for when she has to pick up a few herbs. Sometimes she'll run into Monty there and sometimes she doesn't.

Today, she does.

He sees her as soon as she walks in, peering up from a plant he's tending to. "Hey, Clarke," he says. "The usual?" Once she nods, he's off, returning a minute later with a box in his hand. "So there's chamomile, aloe, echinacea, and motherwort. We're running a little low on the latter, so it might be longer before you can replenish your supply."

"That's fine," she says, taking the box and opening it to examine the contents for herself. "We've made do with worse." A shared look between them: a remembrance of the dropship. "Anyways, thanks for this. Jackson's going to be so relieved."

"I figured. He's been sending me not so subtle hints."

She laughs and tucks the box under her arm. "This will keep him busy for a while." With a wave, she sets off.

Before she reaches the door, Monty calls her back. "Wait! I almost forgot," he says, jogging to catch up to her. "There's actually something else I wanted you to see." He gestures for her to follow him, leading the way to the back row of the greenhouse.

Clarke doesn't know what she's looking at until Monty points to a sectioned off space in front of them. "This is valerian root. Diyoza confirmed it for me this morning."

"Valerian root?" She crouches down to look further. "I didn't even think we could grow that here."

"We have been, but it was hidden behind a few other plants," he explains, following suit so that they're level with each other. "I thought you could use it. It's supposed to be helpful for—"

"Anxiety and insomnia," Clarke finishes, visualizing the blurb she'd read about it.

"Yeah, exactly. I know you said a while ago that you had some trouble sleeping?" She blinks in surprise as Monty continues, "Do you still? Because this will help with that." She'd mentioned it in passing a month or so ago and had certainly never thought he would remember that. She barely remembered talking about it.

A noticeable pause later, she says, "Not as much now, but—sometimes. This will be really useful. I can really take some?" When he nods, she sets her box down and gathers a few of the roots in her hand, brushing aside the dirt. "Madi's been having some trouble sleeping lately, actually. She gets like that sometimes, but Eden never had anything like this to help with it, so I think this will be great for her."

"You're really good with her," he remarks, surprising her once again.

"Well," she stutters, "I hope so."

"You are." Monty joins her with her collection, picking up a few roots in his hand. "Hey, Clarke?"

"Yeah?"

"I never thanked you."

She stops rummaging in the dirt and looks at him. "For what?"

"For saving our lives," he answers plainly. "During Praimfaya, but you know, all the other times too."

"You don't—"

"I realized that I never told you that, even though I should've, so I'm sorry and I wanted to say it now." He smiles at her, a very kind, Monty smile that makes her smile back. "You must've had a really hard time by yourself."

Right on cue, she corrects him. "I had Madi. I wasn't by myself."

"Right," he amends, "but still, just the two of you. I don't think I could've done it."

Clarke doesn't say anything for a minute, then two. It was never a matter of could or not. Then, quietly, she says, while opening the box and depositing her roots in it, "I think you could've. I'm glad you didn't have to though."

"Because of you."

"I get it, Monty."

"I'm not trying to embarrass you," he says in reassurance.

"I know," she says, grimacing anyways. "It just makes me feel weird. I don't want to be treated like a hero for that."

Monty looks like he's biting back a response before he says, "I want you to know how much it means to me."

She nearly hides her face in her hands, but doesn't, out of sheer force of will. "Then thank you, but… you don't have to keep saying it." She laughs a little, nervous. "I get it, really."

"All right, I'll stop." But he grins at her, a smile that is easy to return. "Let me get you another box for the rest of that." So he does, leaving Clarke alone to her thoughts.

A minute later, Bellamy's voice rumbles through. "There you are," he says, shaking her out of her head. The suddenness of his voice knocks her off-kilter from her crouch, sending her backwards. The only reason she doesn't hit the floor is because Bellamy catches her before she does, his hands anchoring her shoulders, his face right next to hers as he steadies her. His subsequent, "Sorry about that," makes her tremble. She'll never get used to his voice right in her ear.

A little shakily, though she hopes he doesn't notice, she sighs out, "Have you ever heard of knocking?"

"The door was open," he says, squeezing her shoulders. The incident from the Bay is weeks-past; whatever awkwardness that had lingered around them had long gone. She's glad for it. She likes this Bellamy a lot more. "And no one responded when I asked if anyone was here."

She sinks back into his hold easily, quickly, before she makes to stand up. "Still," she says. "How did you know I was here?"

"I went to the med center and Jackson said you were running an errand for him."

"And you couldn't have waited?"

"I did wait." He pauses. "Jackson kicked me out."

"He kicked you out?"

"Said I was being a nuisance."

"You are a nuisance whenever you're in there," she says, giving him a look. "You can't sit still."

"I don't like hospitals," he scowls.

"You don't have to come by," she reminds him.

"I know, but I want to see you."

"That's—" she sputters, blushing slightly, "I'm not always there."

"That's not the point."

"I m—"

"Sorry," Monty cuts in, strolling towards them. "I ended up knocking over a bunch of them so—Bellamy? When did you get here?"

Bellamy claps him on the shoulder. "I've always been here. You've been ignoring me this whole time?"

She shakes her head at him, amused despite it. "Don't listen to him," she advises Monty. "He's only here because he got kicked out by Jackson."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing," Bellamy insists, hand on his heart. "I can't come to visit you every now and then?"

"You usually don't," Monty replies, dryly.

Clarke giggles. "All right, Monty's busy," she says, tugging at Bellamy's arm. "Don't bother him too."

"Too?"

She tugs again before grabbing the box in Monty's hands and filling it with the valerian root leftover from the other box. Without asking, even though she wouldn't have asked, Bellamy picks up one of the boxes and waits for her. Once it's secure, she waves at Monty. "Bye," she says, adding, "And um, thanks. Again." She hopes he knows what she means.

Monty smiles and nods. She takes that as a yes.

A floor down from the greenhouse, Bellamy turns to her. "You know I came by to see you, right?"

She flushes. "I figured," she says.

"Okay. Do you have to go back to work?"

"Only to drop these off."

"Wanna get lunch?"

"I'd like that."

*

(xxviii.)

It takes ten months, but there's finally a full-blown brawl on the ship, and of course, like the idiot she is, Clarke gets in the middle to try to stop it — by herself, mind you — and ends up in one of the beds in the med center, sleeping off a hit to the head that she's been assured is not a sign of an imminent concussion.

When she wakes up, hours later, the lights are dim and her hand feels heavy. It's not like those times when she sleeps on her hand and it feels like there's a lead weight on it; it just feels like something's holding onto it.

Clarke blinks and gets used to the light. There's still some grogginess, the natural result of a deep sleep, but slowly, she becomes aware of where she is and why she's here.

What had happened was a fight. She didn't know why Brock and Tyler had started fighting, still doesn't know now, but as soon as Victoria had come into the library, shouting, Clarke was off, running towards the second floor hallway where it was taking place. She'd tried to de-escalate the situation, first with words and then by getting some of the spectators to hold them back, but to no avail. She wouldn't have dived into it normally, except she hadn't been thinking clearly and there had been a lot of screaming at her to get them to stop as if she had the power to do so (and if she had, it would've stopped the second she came careening into the hallway), and before she knew it, she'd tried to push Brock away from Tyler and the force of both of their resistance had thrown her onto the floor, knocking her head back onto the metal with a harsh thud that seemed to ring in her ears.

That scene turned the tide, somehow dissipating the tensions, and forcing the fight to come to an unsatisfactory end. Then she'd hauled herself up, hauled herself to the med center, and hauled herself onto a bed, where she listened to her mother lecture her before clearing her to rest.

And now she was in this bed, awake, with an ache at the back of her skull.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

With, apparently, Bellamy, sitting in a chair beside her bed, not too furious to speak.

It takes a second for her to realize that his hand is clutching hers and that's what the sensation she was experiencing was. Carefully, she turns her head to look at him and sure enough, the fury is splashed across his face, but so is his anxiety, his concern.

Rather than feign confusion, she  answers his question. "I was thinking that someone needed to stop the fight before it spiraled out of control."

"And it needed to be you?"

"No one else was willing to."

"Then you wait for someone else to help you."

"No one else was going to."

"Then it still doesn't have to be you."

"You don't even have a reason now."

"You being safe isn't a reason?"

"I'm fine." Her head throbs to highlight her lie.

"You're in medical and you have a concussion," he pronounces flatly, raising an eyebrow.

Though it's not a very important point, given the truth of the rest of it, she still feels like she should correct him. "I don't have a concussion. My mom wouldn't have let me sleep if I did."

"That's what you're going with?"

"I don't know why you're mad," she says, pulling herself upright as she does, struggling with the weight of the blanket on her and a burst of dizziness. Bellamy flies out of his seat to steady her, not backing away until he does. More out of breath than she wants to be, she continues, "You would've done the same thing."

"Yes, I would've, and you would've chewed me out for it."

He's right. She looks away, not even turning when his chair scrapes against the floor and she hears him stand up and start pacing a few feet away from the bed. Only when he starts speaking again does she break her stance. "Brock and Tyler were fighting about work and it escalated from there."

"How do you know?"

"I asked them before I put them in lockup."

"You put them in lockup?"

He turns around, glaring. "They started a fight and injured someone during it. What else was I supposed to do?"

She huffs in exasperation. "I didn't say it was a bad move."

"You questioned it."

"For clarification's sake."

"Right."

Sitting up straighter now, Clarke shakes her head in disbelief. "Why are you arguing with me? This isn't even an argument!"

"Because you're—" he starts, sputtering into silence a second later. "I don't know."

She snorts, but somehow, that turns into a giggle, which turns into a laugh, and when she looks up at him, she can see that he's trying to stop himself from joining in. He looks less stressed than before, now, the anger gone from his face as he returns to the chair.

Quietly, he asks, "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay," she says, smiling at him. "My head hurts and I want to sleep some more, but the good news is that I don't have a concussion and it could be a lot worse."

Bellamy sighs, leans forward so that his arms are resting on the edge of the bed. "That's not very comforting. But good," he says, "I was scared."

"Wh—"

"Victoria told me there was a fight and you got hurt."

"She's not a very good bearer of news, is she?"

"Not very," he says, with a tired chuckle. "I'm sorry I shouted at you. I was worried and I took it out on you."

"No," she admits, "I wasn't thinking. I just knew I had to do something to stop it before it got worse and then I chose the worst way to see that out. I'm working on that. But I'm really okay."

"But if you aren't—"

"I am."

"Okay. I believe you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Satisfied, she changes the subject. "How long are you keeping them in lockup?"

He mulls it over. "A week. Maybe a month. It could go either way."

"Bellamy," she admonishes. He grins.

"What do you think?"

"Release them in the morning. Make sure they know this can't ever happen again." She sounds authoritative when she delivers her verdict and for the first time in a long time, she likes the sound of it.

He must too, because he nods with approval. "Good call."

She likes the sound of that too. "How long have I been sleeping?"

Craning his head to look at the clock on the wall, he says, "About four hours. Madi was here earlier—" She perks up at the news and he smiles. "She wanted to stay but she was getting really tired so I sent her back to your room." He frowns and stands up. "I can bring her back, though, if you—"

"No, it's okay," she cuts in, grabbing onto his arm to stop him from leaving. "I'll see her tomorrow." Then she thinks about it, realizing what time it must be and how long he must've stayed here, waiting for her to wake up. It makes her feel awful. "You should get some sleep. You don't have to stay any longer. I'm awake, I'm good."

As if to prove his point, he sits back down, shaking his head. "I'm not tired."

"It's late."

"You don't know what time it is," he counters, which is the truth.

But still, "I can guess. You should go back."

"I'm going to stay here," he says instead, looking around for something. "You should really keep more books around here. There's not a lot to entertain guests."

"It's the medical center. It's not meant to be entertaining." Clarke sits up straighter and sends him an encouraging look. "I know you've probably been here for a while now, so really, you don't need to stay anymore. I'm happy you checked in on me."

His disappointment is clear in his next words. "You don't want me here?"

And of course, that's not true. "No, that's not it," she hastens to say. If it was up to her, she'd absolutely, selfishly ask him to stay, but she knows she's monopolized too much of his time already and has no right to do so. "I just feel bad about having you spend even more time here. And I know that chair's not comfortable and you already said it, there's not much to entertain you, and I'm—"

"Clarke," he laughs, lightly, leaning forward and placing a hand over hers, "I don't need to be entertained. That was a joke."

"But I'll just be going to sleep soon anyways," she tries again, distracted by the end with her eyes flickering down to their hands.

"Then I'll stay until you fall asleep. Will be that okay?" The slight curve of his mouth and the teasing tone his words take just add to her distraction. It's enough to make her give in, or truthfully, it's enough to make her stop fighting him for the sake of fighting him.

"I guess so," she finally concedes. "I don't want to put you out."

"You're not." He squeezes her hand for emphasis. "I want to be here."

Oh. The pleasure she feels at the sound of his words, the thrill of it entwines up her spine. It gives her the courage to say, looking into his eyes, "I want you to be here too."

*

(xxix.)

Bellamy's still here. He said he'd leave when she fell asleep, and she must've during his story about Earth Skills, but she's awake now and he's still here, sleeping uncomfortably in the chair, his head awkwardly resting on his shoulder. How long had he stayed after she'd fallen asleep?

Carefully, so as not to startle him awake, she removes the blankets and gingerly moves out of the bed, letting her legs dangle over the sides. She slips her feet into her shoes and tilts her head from left to right to test it. A slight twinge of pain, but nothing else. It's a different story when she touches the back of her head — no matter how gently she does it, she feels the bump and winces at the pain.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she sees her mother standing in the lit doorway of the office. She jerks her head once so, with a sigh and quiet steps, Clarke makes her way to her, very carefully closing the door behind her.

Abby circles her with a clinical look. "How do you feel?" She asks, pressing against the bump.

Grimacing, she says, "Like I got knocked around a bit and then slept a lot." She reaches back to swat her hand away. "Yes, it hurts still." Her mom gives her a disapproving look. "I'm fine. It could be a lot worse."

"That doesn't sound as good as you think it does." But she's satisfied with the checkup because she steps back, crossing her arms at her daughter. "You're all clear."

"I can go back to my room?"

"If you would like to."

She would.

Her mom's voice reaches her just as she's about to open the door. "Has Bellamy been here all night?"

Back to her, she answers, nonchalant, she hopes, "I think so. Yes."

A pause. "Did you ask him to?"

"No." She turns the handle. "He wanted to."

Abby lets out a considering noise that Clarke already hates. She waits for the response about it, expecting something vague, but none comes. Instead, she just says, "Tell Bellamy he can go back too."

"Thanks for the permission."

"Clarke."

She waves a hand behind her, a goodbye of sorts, and leaves the office without another word. Bellamy's in the same position as she left him; his head still lolling on his shoulder, his body slouched in the chair. He's sleeping so soundly, so peacefully that she stops for a bit next to him, taking the sight of him in. She's stolen so many looks at him, catalogued everything she remembers of him, compared it to the new parts of him that she sees now, and still, it doesn't compare to this moment.

Up close, her eyes follow the splash of freckles across his face, the curve of his nose, the dip of his upper lip, the bow of his lower. The shadow of stubble peeks out at her, but since he shaved, he hasn't let it grow back beyond a few days. His chest moves with every sleeping breath, but no matter the discomfort he must be in, he doesn't let it show on his face. His hair is getting long again—even though he'd just gotten a haircut a month ago; it grows back too fast, he's complained about it before—and it falls over his forehead in dark, thick curls. Clarke's fingers dance over his hair, the barest of whispers on his curls.

She almost wants to let him be, leave him to sleep in the chair until he wakes up, but—she couldn't.

Reluctantly, she places her hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Bellamy," she says. A light sleeper, he startles awake easily. Tense at first, he relaxes when he sees it's just her. Half lidded, his eyes are nevertheless still dark and mesmerizing, filled with a glimmer that she can't identify. A smile curves across his face, sleepy, sated.

"Hey," he says, slowly picking his head up and wincing at the crick that's no doubt formed in his neck. He rubs a hand over his neck, massaging it. "Aren't you supposed to be asleep?"

"I woke up. Aren't you supposed to be back in your own bed?" She asks, trying to look stern, but knowing that she's failed.

"What can I say?" Bellamy stifles back a yawn. "I prefer sleeping in chairs."

"You're ridiculous," she sighs. "My mom says I can leave. She says you have to leave."

"I see how it is," he says, mock offended, but he stands up, stretching his arms out. "How do you feel?"

"Better," she says. "A lot better."

*

(xxx.)

Madi decides that her birthday will be next Saturday. She tells Clarke this over breakfast today, while clanging her spoon around the empty bowl of porridge she'd practically inhaled, and looks expectantly at her.

This is all Bellamy's fault. If he hadn't had a party, she wouldn't have gotten it into her head that she needed one.

She tells him this later, storming into his makeshift office space—a small room in the corner of their floor, used more for storage than anything—with her hands on her hips. "She wants a party."

He glances up from his papers and sets his pen down. "Who wants a party?"

"Madi. She wants a party."

"A party for what?"

"Her birthday."

HIs head tilts to the side in inquiry. "You never told me her birthday was coming up."

"We don't know her real birthday," she tells him, feeling guilty as she says it. She shouldn't be complaining. "She wants her birthday to be next Saturday."

"What's the problem then?"

"It’s not really a problem but," she starts playing with her fingers, looking down, ashamed, "I don't have time to plan a party." Not with inventory happening and Kane taking another turn for the worse and dealing with her mother's relapse and the dozens of other responsibilities she'd managed to accept in the past few months. Clarke tells Bellamy all of this too, expects a sympathetic ear, doesn't expect him to solve the problem for her.

Maneuvering himself out of his chair (a feat every time, as it's squished between the wall and the desk), he comes around to the front of the desk, close to her, leaning back against it. "I can plan it."

Not sure if she heard him right, she asks, "Plan what?"

"The party." He mistakes her confusion for rejection. "I've planned parties before. For Octavia. It was just us and our mom, but I think even she can say they were fun. There were some on the Ring too. Plus, it's not like I'm busy. I can get these reports done in my sleep. And I think Madi deserves something nice—"

"She does," she agrees.

"So let me plan the party."

She could say that she doesn't know what possesses her to say yes, but she does know. It's him offering to do it, for her, for Madi. It's the kindness of the gesture, the sweetness of the ask. It's his hopeful face, nudging her to give it a chance. She'd made up her mind once he'd said it. Touched, and embarrassed by the prick of tears in her eyes, she tries to tease him, "She has very high standards, you know."

"I know better than to do something and not consult you about it," he says agreeably, laughing a little. "Is that a yes?"

Clarke says it as a matter of formality. They both know it's already a yes. His face lights up with a smile, pleased by her acceptance. It's ridiculously sweet.

He reaches for her hand, picking it up and turning it over, and she lets him. She's gotten used to this now, or she's getting better at getting used to it, how tactile he is, how much he always wants to be touching her. She doesn't pull back or look twice now. She likes that he likes to touch her and she likes that he doesn't look for an excuse to do it.

"Now," he says, "do you want to talk about the rest of it?"

Her shoulders sag, released from the tension of keeping all of her stress inside her. "If you've got time."

"I've got nothing but time."

*

(xxxi.)

"Don't you think this is weird?" She asks, while watching him put the finishing touches on a card he'd made. "You said you'd consult me about the party, but you've been hiding everything from me."

"When did I do that?" He looks up at her, pausing over his message. "Remember when you agreed that you wanted to be surprised too?" He finishes writing his interrupted sentence. "I know you remember. It's only been two days since I asked."

Two days, it was true, but now she was curious. He'd been so secretive, yet so sure about his plans for Madi's party. It’s only made her more curious. "I'm just worried about whether or not she'll like it."

"She'll like it."

"You sound really confident."

"Because I am," he says, closing his card with a dramatic flourish. "I asked her what kind of party she wanted. She's been very detailed about it."

"You," her forehead creases, "just asked her?"

"Yeah," he says. "I want her to have a party she wants, not a party I think she wants."

If it was possible, Clarke had never loved Bellamy more than she did at that moment, staring at him, mouth open slightly, watching him act like this is nothing at all to him, even though it is something to her.

"Was it okay that I asked her—I thought because she decided on her birthday and—"

She blinks, smiles. "No, of course." And because she can't not say it, because he should know it, "I think… I think that's—really sweet of you. It's really nice." To her horror, it comes out a little choked, and her resulting cough does very little to disguise it.

But thankfully, Bellamy's ducked his head, maybe missing it entirely. "I don't know about that," he says, bashful.

"I do."

He looks up, meets her eyes, scoots his chair over so that their legs knock into each other, their knees touch. "What if you don't like it?"

She nudges his knee. "I know I will."

*

(xxxii.)

She does like it.

Not that there had been any doubt, after all of that, but she does. They hold it in the living room, decorating the space with a mishmash of party decorations that Shaw helped them find. There isn't much in the way of birthday ones, but there's different Christmas, Valentine's, something called St. Patrick's Day ones that they pick through to make it work. When Madi arrives, she gets a paper crown that Harper presents her, which she delights in (and causes Bellamy to nudge Clarke's side and smirk, mouthing "princess" at her). It turns out all Madi wanted in a party was something similar to Bellamy's: some time with everyone, some games, and a cake that Monty brags about making.

Madi flits around the room, revelling in the attention and affection of everyone there. Harper braids her hair and compliments her crown; Monty tells her all the fun stories of Jasper he can think of; Murphy snipes with her but surprisingly never goes too far; Gaia reenacts an old legend that draws everyone in. Bellamy spends nearly an hour talking to her and answering her questions (far too many of which concern Clarke—they shoo her away after the fifth one she interrupts).

Clarke is on the verge of tears the entire night. She's never seen Madi look so happy and it takes a superhuman feat of strength to not burst into sobs the more time she spends at the party.

The best part of the entire night is the movie at the end. Bellamy guides them both to the couch, tells them that this is just for them, and then he leaves them alone. Madi chatters through the whole movie, enthralled by the mere sight of the screen and what's happening on it, asking questions, gasping during the dramatic scenes, delighting in the musical numbers. She curls up with her head on Clarke's lap and tells her about how much fun she had and how much she likes being here and thank you, Clarke, you're the best, even when Clarke protests and says it was all Bellamy's idea.

Madi falls asleep as the credits roll around and Clarke spends ten minutes smoothing her hair down and just enjoying the moment. The last time she remembers being this happy is back in Eden.

Once she's sure Madi won't wake up if she moves her, she extracts herself off the couch, covers her with a blanket, and escapes to the hallway. There, she lets out a little sob, which snowballs into a series of sobs, and results in deep, wracking sobs. She doesn't even know how it happens, only that it does happen — one second, she's fine, the next, she's crying so much that she keeps hiccuping for air.

"Hey, hey, hey," she distantly registers, "Clarke. Clarke, it's okay, it'll be okay, what's going on, what happened—" In the back of her mind, she knows it's Bellamy's voice that speaks to her, Bellamy's arms that pull her into his chest, Bellamy's shirt that she's ruining.

"Nothing," she laugh sobs, the sound of it so discordant that she laughs even more. "I'm—" Hiccup. "I'm just, just happy."

"You're so happy you're crying?" He asks, bewildered, as he rubs her back soothingly. It does wonders to calm her down and she burrows closer to him, because she can, because she's crying. "Did something happen? Did someone hurt you—was it Echo? Did Echo come by—" As flattering as it was that his first suspect for blame was his ex-girlfriend, she shakes her head.

"I'm really—no one did anything," she laughs again, burying her face into his shoulder, taking a moment to regain control of herself. Once she is, she picks her head off his shoulder and smiles at him, watery but genuine. Bellamy smiles back, though it's still tinged with concern and confusion. "I'm happy," she says again, feeling the words twist around her tongue like it's becoming more natural. "And I got overwhelmed by it."

"I don't understand," he says, as he takes her hand and guides her to sit back against the wall, joining her right after. He keeps his hand tangled with hers.

To explain, she'd need to go back a few years. "I imagined this before," she says quietly. "Not this exactly, I guess. No spaceship, no birthday, no cake." She smiles again. "But Madi, having fun, having fun with everyone. I always liked to imagine that. And she had so much fun today, she was so happy, so I'm so happy. I'm so happy and I don't know how to deal with that."

She knows how it sounds, she knows how it looks. It's embarrassing. It's strange. It's not normal. That she doesn't know how to be happy, doesn't know how to live in it. That she cries at the slightest tip of too much of it.

Bellamy sits with his shoulders straight, his hand intermittently squeezing hers, and seems to take a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm glad you're happy, Clarke."

"I am," she says. Her head drops to his shoulder and he shifts to make it more comfortable for her. His hand—the free one—comes over and steadies her. "I'm so happy, Bellamy."

*

(xxxiii.)

They stay there for a long time, neither of them making a move to leave, even though they both know how late it's getting. No one comes down the hallway the entire time and she likes it.

They don't say much. It's nice, because she remembers a time when she'd been so afraid of silence between the two of them, but now it's peaceful, comfortable, normal. She listens to his breathing and follows the movement of his thumb as it caresses her knuckles.

"Hey, Bellamy?" She eventually says. "How did you know?"

"Know what?" He says, surprising her. She'd half expected him to be asleep.

"The movie. That I'd like that."

"It's not about the movie." No, she supposes, it isn't. "You've been really busy lately. Really stressed, staying up late. I figured you haven't had a lot of time to spend with Madi." His hand stills. "Did you really like that?"

"Yeah," she breathes, feeling a lump in the back of her throat. She won't cry. She can't cry again. "I missed her a lot. I know that's weird because we see each other every day, but—"

"It's not the same?"

She sighs. "Not like Eden."

"I hope…" He turns his head; she tilts hers to meet his eyes. His voice softens. "I hope that was a little bit like Eden, then."

She looks away first. His eyes are doing that thing again and she doesn't know how to deal with it just yet. "It was just missing some trees."

Bellamy laughs, a low rumble in his chest that Clarke feels through her fingertips, warms through her body. "I'll take that under consideration for next time."

"Please do."

He lets out a breath of air that blows across her forehead. "I was really worried you wouldn't like this," he confesses.

"You shouldn't have. It was perfect." She feels him smooth over her knuckles again. "Bellamy?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we stay here a little bit longer?"

His head falls to rest on hers. "Yeah. Whenever you're ready."

*

(xxxiv.)

There's a thirteen year girl who won't leave her alone. "You know I wouldn't mind, right?" She scoops some ice cream from her bowl and sticks it in her mouth. "Because Bellamy's really nice and he's been fun and you're always really happy when you're with him—"

"Madi," she says, mortified. "Lower your voice." The cafeteria is as loud as ever, but Madi's words make her paranoid, projecting the volume to be much more than it is. She's heard a variation of this every day since Madi had found them asleep in the hallway, their heads together, their hands tangled. But it'd never been in public. The fact that she's talking about this in public is just—

"I'm just saying," she says, batting her eyes at her. "If you want to date him, you should. I don't have a problem with it!"

"I don't think you should be talking about this right now," Clarke warns, her tone shifting to something serious. It works, because Madi looks contrite, turning her attention back to her ice cream with a sullen expression. At least for a few minutes, she does.

"Everyone already thinks you are," she pipes up again, ignoring Clarke's admonishing glare. "I hear people whispering about it all the time. You're not very subtle."

"Madi."

"You aren't! You spent six years telling me all kinds of stories about your friends but he was the star of them." She sighs, resting her chin in her palm. "I knew you loved him way before you did."

"Madi, finish your ice cream," she commands, desperate for a subject change. There's really no use in denying what she had just said. Madi does not go along with it, instead rolling her eyes because she is really taking the whole "newly celebrated teenager who's tired of her parents" thing to new heights.

"I will if you stop telling me what to do," she says, sticking her tongue out. Despite taking on multiple wars, the end of the world, and the second end of the world, taking care of a teenager is probably the most stressful thing Clarke has ever had to do.

And as her luck would have it, Bellamy arrives right on time. "Hey, why aren't you guys sitting at your usual table? I almost didn't see you here."

"Someone stole it," Madi answers, smiling brightly at Bellamy, which does not bode well for Clarke. Sure enough: "But it's okay. We were just talking about you."

"Were you?" He turns an amused eye on Clarke. "Is this good or bad for me?"

She forces a laugh. "Ignore her. We were talking about…" her mind kicks into overdrive, trying to think of something that would make sense, "the celebration. How's the planning going?"

His head drops down to the table. The celebration is meant to commemorate the year they've spent on the ship, a three-day long event that had started as a wishful thought and snowballed into a real plan. There's a committee to plan for it. She had begged off, citing her schedule. In actuality, she had felt weird about celebrating it. A year on the ship, a year since Eden was destroyed. A year since her mistakes. She doesn't know if she'll get through next month in peace.

Her hand goes up to rub Bellamy's back, while she ignores Madi's stare. It doesn't mean anything, she wants to say, would say if Bellamy wasn't here. She just silently begs for her to say nothing at all. "That bad?"

"They take it so seriously," he answers, aggrieved as he lifts his head back up. "I understand why they're excited but I'm tired of talking about it."

"I told you not to volunteer. You knew this would happen." Patting his back a few times more, Clarke withdraws her hand and smiles.

"You'd think I would've learned not to gainsay you by now."

"Well, we all make mistakes."

"Has anyone ever told—"

"Are you going to the dance, Bellamy?" Madi interjects, her voice startling both of them. She'd been quiet for long enough that Clarke had thought she had been distracted away from their conversation. After all, every other time she'd sat in on a conversation with them, she had lost interest quickly.

But it seems like she has other plans today. Before Clarke can stop her, Bellamy pipes in with an answer. "I was planning on it."

Madi leans forward. "With a date?"

"Oh, uh—" he looks at Clarke, confused, "I don't know. Why are you asking?"

"If Clarke's going to go to the dance with someone, I need someone to hang out with!" Madi proclaims, clapping her hands together. The response, almost like she had planned it, comes instantaneously.

"I'm what?" She asks.

"You're what?" He asks. They turn to look at each other, then over at Madi, who smiles like nothing's wrong.

"I'm not going with anyone," Clarke clarifies — her intention is to sort this out with Madi, but she can't deny that she wants Bellamy to know the truth too. "I don't understand why you think I am."

"Well, not yet but Lon's definitely going to ask soon," Madi says, matter-of-fact.

"Who's Lon?"

"He's one of the Eligius people. He helps out in the med center sometimes," she answers, distracted by Madi's assertion, missing the look that clouds over Bellamy's face. "I'm not going with him."

"Yeah, yet," Madi says, smug. "Because he hasn't asked you. But he will."

Clarke has no idea where to begin with that. She hadn't even been aware that Lon had any feelings of that sort towards her; they talked a bit, since he was sometimes around the office when she was, but it had never been particularly deep. She was not interested in him; the only person she was interested in was—

"Do you think that's safe?" Bellamy interrupts, bristling. "To have a criminal working in the med center?"

Her head turns incredulously over at him. "What? You were the one who said we should be giving them second chances." Had he suddenly forgotten? "And aside from a few incidents—"

"The most recent of which landed you a trip to the medical center," he says.

She ignores this. "Do I have to remind you of our pasts?" Bellamy is flustered now, the muscle in his jaw prominent and his ears slightly pink.

"That's not the same. Their records are filled with murder," he argues. Something is wrong with him.

So is mine. "You didn't mind this when you offered them space on the ship," she says slowly, trying to wrap her head around this sudden, abrupt change in stance.

"I changed my mind, is that not allowed?" Bellamy says, snappishly. It makes her rear back, hurt by the tone he's taking with her and the way he's glaring at her.

"I don't know what the hell is wrong with you today, but maybe you should go," she finally says, keeping her voice level, making it clear that she's serious.

"Fine," he says, clipped, looking away.

"Don't worry," Madi says, sliding into the brief window of opportunity their lull in fighting presents her, "Lon wouldn't kill Clarke. He likes her too much."

"Madi," she berates, turning her expression onto her. Her smile drops a little as her gaze moves to the bowl of melted ice cream in front of her.

Bellamy stands up, his chair screeching against the floor. Without looking at her or Madi, he mutters, "I'll see you around," right before he walks away, his steps brisk, his gait vexed. Clarke watches him go, cycling between an irritation that won't go away and a confusion that digs at her. What the hell had just happened?

Madi seems to read her mind. "See," she says, chin jutted out in defiance. "He's jealous."

No. He wasn't. He couldn't have been. If he was, that meant he was interested, that he wanted to be with her, that he wanted her. Bellamy didn't want her, not like that, at least. She knew that.

She scoffs at the suggestion. "No," she says, putting that idea to rest, "he's just being stupid."

"Isn't it the same thing?"

"Finish your ice cream."

*

(xxxv.)

She doesn't see Bellamy for a few days. She knows he's avoiding her; he knows she's avoiding him, but neither of them are willing to make the first move. And frankly, she doesn't know why she's expected to — she hadn't gotten mad out of nowhere, she hadn't made nonsensical arguments, she hadn't been the one to act like a child during all of this. Those honors all fell on Bellamy.

When he does show up, loitering around the entrance to the med center, Clarke does something childish in return. She deliberately extends her conversation with Lon, who, contrary to Madi's belief, has not broached the subject of the dance at all in any of the days since. When she can't anymore (there's really only so long you can talk about inventory before you want it to end), she reluctantly says goodbye. Once he's gone, Bellamy starts forward, though his head is turned back towards the retreating steps.

"So," he says, a peace offering in his voice, "that's Lon."

"Yep," she says, busying herself with the files on her desk. He shuffles closer, and out of the corner of her eye, she can see him stuff his hands into his pockets. It's his nervous tic.

"What kind of name is Lon?" Her eyes snap to his.

That's what he'd come here to say? "That's what you came here to say?" Crossing her arms across her chest, she stares him down. "Are you serious?"

"It's just a question. I'm just asking," he says defensively, digging his hands deeper into his pockets.

"No," she says, taking a step closer so she can jab her finger against his chest, as a way to emphasize her words. "You're just being a dick. I don't know what's gotten into you but I don't want to talk to you when you're being like this."

"I know, I know," he says immediately, backing up, away from her finger. "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to—" Bellamy blows out an angry breath of air and his hand flies to his hair, messing it up out of frustration. "I was trying to lighten the mood. I'm sorry. I came here to apologize."

She waits, her lips pursed.

"I was being a dick. I am being a dick." He smiles at her for a second but she refuses to smile back. "Look, I was completely unfair. I don't have a problem with… Lon, or with anyone else in Eligius, unless they give us problems to worry about." Bellamy runs his hand through his hair again. "I was just…" His face contorts into a grimace, something of hesitation, of displeasure in his eyes, "Worried." See, she thinks, as if she can send it to Madi, like she's not disappointed, not jealous. "But I trust you, so if you trust him and… want to go to the dance with him, then—"

"Am I invisible?" She cuts in peevishly. "Well?"

He frowns, confused. "What?"

"Because I distinctly remember saying that I am not going to the dance with him and if I wasn't invisible, then I'm certain this would have been clear by now."

"He... hasn't asked?"

"No, that's not even the— even if he had, which he won't, because there is nothing there," she's so tired of saying this that she's ready to rip her hair out, "I wouldn't. I don't want to go with him. I don't even want to go with anyone!" The last statement is impulsive, unthinking, and a complete lie. She wants to go with Bellamy, but she's not about to ask him. And he won't ask her, so it's out of the question. Want and will are two completely different things.

"Oh, okay," he says, faint, like he's trying to digest her outburst while also trying to figure out how not to offend her even further. He does not look disappointed, he does not look angry, which, she reasons, he would have to be if he cared about whether or not she wants to go with anyone. "I'm really sorry for not listening to you." Oh, he'd been apologizing. She'd forgotten. "And for snapping at you and for being a dick and a general pain in the ass. It was… a bad day, but that doesn't make it okay."

She could feel herself wavering. True enough, a moment later, she nods. "You were ridiculous."

"I know."

"And stupid."

"I know."

"And—"

"Trust me. I know."

She bites her lip. "Thank you for apologizing."

He sighs, relieved. "You don't have to thank me for that."

"I don't like fighting with you," she admits, making a face. "It reminds me of being at the dropship and at each other's throats."

"Hey," he says, reaching out to squeeze her arm, "it wasn't all so bad. After all," Pausing: "that was when I realized you weren't that much of a spoiled princess."

Knocking his hand away, she huffs, "I guess you're right. I did believe you weren't a pain in the ass for a second there."

His laughter is still her favorite sound. "I miss it, sometimes."

"I do too." Nostalgia creeps into her voice, tempering it into something wistful.

"It was nice," he says, reflecting the same yearning in his words, "to have something that was… ours."

She'd never thought of it like that, but she really, really likes the sound of it. "Yeah," Clarke sighs. "Me too."

*

(xxxvi.)

Day one of the celebration is a dinner, a feast, really, where everyone on the ship files into the cafeteria and lines up for the buffet that's set up. It's a banquet, a luxury with all the stops rolled out for them. The last time she had been treated to a meal that was set up along a long table, she'd almost been poisoned, so this was definitely better.

Day two is more quiet. People float in and out of the bridge, taking a look outside the window and allowing themselves to remember. Clarke sits there for a long time, Madi by her side, and they tell each other stories of Eden, of memory. She cries a little and hugs Madi tight. She misses it a lot these days, the home she'd made, the one she never thought she'd have.

Day three is the dance. She's full of nervous energy all day, teetering between excitement and dread. The thought of being in a room (the cafeteria, which is the only place that's big enough to hold everyone) with so many people at one time still twists her stomach into knots, but she also feeds off Madi's enthusiasm. She's practically bouncing off the walls the entire morning and afternoon and barely lets Clarke change her clothes before she's dragging her to the cafeteria.

They're a little late getting there. There's already a growing crowd of people and for a second, she feels trapped, the familiar tightening in her chest threatening to overwhelm her until she feels a tug at her hand and she blinks, seeing Madi's smile. It helps, the tightness uncoiling with each step she takes, with the sound of Madi's laughter as she makes her dance with her, with the joy on Harper's face once she steps into Madi's place. Even though she isn't a great dancer, Clarke dances with a lot of people that night, constantly on her feet, barely stopping for breath, from Niylah to Monty to Shaw. Even Lon asks for a dance, although she regrets agreeing to it when she spends the entire time trying to avoid his heavy feet.

She takes a break after that, to catch her breath and to watch Madi getting spun around by Murphy. Begrudgingly, she admits it's cute.

A voice interrupts her thoughts. "No more dance partners?" Bellamy. She turns to him, the smile on her face getting wider once she sees him. All night, he's been elusive, probably busy with making sure the preparations are in place. She'd caught a glimpse of him earlier, twirling Madi for a second, but then Niylah had asked her to dance and she'd agreed. But now, Bellamy, in front of her,  is the best thing she's seen. "You look… really nice," he says, staring at her.

Clarke looks down, like she'd forgotten what she was wearing. "I've worn this before." A few times, even: a blue shirt, the better pair of pants, a bracelet Madi had made for her.

"You looked nice then too," he says.

"You just want to stay on my good side."

"You don't have a bad side."

Laughing, she pushes at him, "See? Stop it. It's weird."

His laughter soon matches hers. "Okay, okay, but only if you dance with me." He holds his hand out.

She looks out into the crowded dance floor, just as the song changes into something soft and stirring and beautiful. It's almost, if she lets herself think it, romantic. She drops her hand into his. "I'd love to."

T

It's a little awkward at first. Earlier, she'd danced to upbeat songs that she'd never heard of, supposed popular hundreds of years ago. They danced more in a group. Now, she's supposed to stand close to Bellamy, wrap her arms around his shoulders like the couples around them are doing, act like it's normal that he has his hands on her waist. She trips over her own feet and laughs nervously, pitching forward so that she can hide her face in his shirt. Bellamy smells like the ship, a little sharp, like the soap, a little minty, like the detergent, a little crisp, with a chase of warmth binding it together.

"I'm sorry," she laughs against the fabric, pulling back when she's more composed. "I haven't—this is the first time I've done this."

"Me too," he admits, which makes her feel a lot better. "I don't think I know how to dance."

"Of course you do. You just—" she moves her head from side to side.

"What's that supposed to be?"

"Dancing."

"Moving your head is dancing?"

"It's part of it."

"That's more like swaying."

Her head falls back onto his shoulder as they do just that, moving to the beat of the music, gliding from side to side. "Swaying is dancing," she argues, her fingers latching onto each other behind his neck. She can feel his hands dip down, lowering to her hips. She has an ultra-awareness of how close he is now, his breath on her hair, his fingertips stamped into her skin, his heart beating under her ear.

His voice rumbles low in her ear and she's faintly cognizant of the song coming to an end. "Do you want to get a drink?"

They sway a little bit more before she says, "Yes."

*

(xxxvii.)

Bellamy is drunk.

"No," he clarifies, leaning heavily on the doorframe as Clarke makes her Madi has enough blankets on the bed. She'll inevitably kick them off by the time she gets back, but at least she has them now. "I'm slightly tipsy. Not drunk." He smiles at her: look, not drunk, he's saying. It'd be convincing if she hadn't watched him get progressively tipsier and tipsier until he hit the drunk stage. It hadn't been his fault; as soon as they finished their dance and found their way to the bar, their friends were all gathered in a circle, playing a drinking game that Bellamy had been drawn into. He'd refused at first, but one game turned into two, and well, she wasn't about to drink, so he had to pick up the slack. So it was their friends' fault. And his low tolerance for alcohol.

She rolls her eyes, though there's no heat in it. "You tripped four times on the way here."

"Tipsy."

"Drunk." But she guides him out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. "Come on," she says, once they're steps away from the room. "I'll walk you back to your room." She doesn't need to; it's about twenty steps away, but she likes walking with him down the hall, their arms swinging close enough that they could touch, but never doing so. The first thing he does once he gets into his room is to sit on the floor, his back against the side of his bed as he takes his shoes off.

"You missed the bed," she comments as she leans against his doorframe this time.

"I'm not tired yet," he insists, throwing his shoe into the corner before getting up and contrarily throwing himself onto the bed. Laying back, he looks confused for a second, head tilted. "Why are you so far away?"

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Come over here." He pats the mattress next to him and she laughs, closing the door and joining him a second later, more on the edge than on it. "Hi," he says, eyes crinkling at the corners.

She couldn't believe there had been a time when she couldn't bear to look at those eyes. "Hi," she says back. "You know, I'm a little surprised by how badly you hold your alcohol."

"I was pretending," he scowls, his inebriation making his expression funnier. "People let their guard down when they think you're drunk, they make mistakes, which means you can win the game." Even his lies are worse than usual when he's drunk.

"And yet," she points out, trying valiantly to contain her grin, "you lost every game."

"It's possible," he closes his eyes, somehow still sounding conspiratorial, "I'm just not very good at these games."

"You should've tagged me in."

"You were busy laughing at me."

She giggles. "I remember now." Her fingers tap over his hand, but he doesn't open his eyes. He might be falling asleep as she speaks. "For all your complaints, you did a really great job with the celebration. I even heard Orget compliment it."

"Ah, the coveted Orget endorsement." One hand flies to his chest, though it's weighted down by a sleepiness. "I've been hoping for that." When she laughs at that, he smiles, like he's achieved some great victory. It's a heady feeling, knowing that Bellamy wants to make her laugh. She could get drunk off that feeling.

A few minutes later, he speaks again, surprising her. She'd thought he had actually fallen asleep. His breathing had evened out and his eyes had remained shut. She'd planned to cover him with his blanket and then leave quietly. "For all my complaints," he says, sounding like he's drifting in and out of a nice sleep, "I had a really good time tonight."

"Is it because you learned how to dance?"

"Yeah, something like that."

'You're very lucky, you know," she says, nudging at his knee, "I don't teach just anyone." Maybe she is a little bit drunk. It would explain the lightness she feels, the smile she can't wipe off her face. Or maybe, she thinks, she's just really happy. It could be that too.

Again, there's a delay in his reply. She should really leave him alone now, but she can't, not when he looks and sounds so content. "I am very lucky," he agrees, slowly blinking himself towards a state of half-consciousness. Half-lidded, his eyes search for her, at least until she smiles at him. "Can I tell you something?"

"Of course you can."

Through the haze of sleep, Bellamy's eyes are dark and bright and fixed on her. His hand reaches out to lazily circle her wrist, his thumb pressing down on her pulse.

He hums for a moment. Then: "I wanted to kiss you tonight," he confesses. Her heart stops. It comes out as more of a whisper, but it might as well be a yell, because that's how she hears it.

"What?" She asks, her smile glued onto her face now, because it is—must be a joke. A joke at her expense, a joke that isn't funny, but a joke nonetheless.

He mistakes it for something else. "Tonight, every night. Every day. I think about it all the time." His thumb follows the curve of her cheekbone. "I think about you all the time."

His eyes are dark and bright and fixed on her.

He's drunk, her heart hammers, haphazard.

"You're drunk," Clarke says, forcing a laugh that sounds too harsh to be believed. "And half-asleep."

Bellamy frowns, the motion marring his face. "I'm not."

"You can't even keep your eyes open," only prompts him to do the opposite, though she's not wrong. He's fighting the way sleep pulls him under.

"I mean it," he continues. "You looked so… pretty tonight, Clarke. So pretty. Should've said that." Her heart lets out a lonely pang. It's not fair that he's drunk and tired and saying things like this, saying things he doesn't mean, saying things she's dreamt of. It's not fair that he'll sleep this off and forget about it when he wakes up. He doesn't mean it to be mean, but it doesn't mean it isn't.

"Okay, Bellamy," she says softly, reaching for the blanket on the side and draping it over him. "We can talk about it tomorrow."

He catches her hand. "I'm not drunk," he says again, very earnest, very emphatic, tense enough that he clearly won't let it go until she believes him. She doesn't, but she wants to get out of here. She can't be here, with the things he's said, with him like this, anymore.

With a quiet sigh, Clarke nods. "Tomorrow," she repeats. Instantly, his hand loosens and he smiles, pleased with her acceptance. His eyes close, ready to sleep now. This is how she knows he's drunk. If he wasn't, he would've said that didn't count because he would've known she was evading the subject.

Mindful of the fact that he's the lightest of sleepers, she carefully moves off the bed and towards the door, quiet enough that her movement does not disturb him. She allows herself to look at him once before she leaves the room.

I wanted to kiss you tonight.

I think about it all the time.

I think about you all the time.

She sucks in a breath, slumping against the wall. While he'll forget this tomorrow, she doesn't know if she ever will.

*

(xxxviii.)

She knows it's a dream before she wakes up from it. After all, the sun was shining down on them and there was a breeze on her face. There were trees around them and the rushing sound of a river current nearby. It couldn't be the spaceship. Only her mind could dream this up. In her dream, she feels the whisper of words against her ear. She turns her head, meets Bellamy's steady, dark gaze, and giggles into his mouth when he closes the distance between them. In her dream, he tells her, pulling back, one hand framing her face, the other arm serving as a pillow for her head, "I want to kiss you," and she throws her head back, all of it delight, and says, "Isn't that what you're doing now?"

She knows it's a dream, but she's still disappointed when a sharp, persistent knocking pulls her out of her sleep. At first, she thinks it's part of her dream, with the setting moved to the library, where she lays on the couch staring at the ceiling, curled up under a borrowed blanket instead of wrapped up in Bellamy's arms. The knocking gets more insistent and urgent, so much so that she wonders if whoever's responsible for it will break down the door.

"Clarke? Are you in there?" Although the voice is muffled through the door, there is no mistaking it for Bellamy, the knowledge of which makes Clarke sit up immediately, her eyes finding the clock, her hand going to her hair to smooth it down. 4:40 AM. She'd slept for about an hour. His voice comes through again. "Clarke?" It's the panicked nature of his inquiry that forces her up, pulling her hair into a messy bun in the back, and hoping she doesn't look as sleep-deprived as she is.

"Clar—" When she opens the door, Bellamy's shoulders sag with relief. "There you are," he mutters.

"It's not even five yet," she says, taking in his disheveled appearance. He's still in the clothes from last night, sleep-rumpled, with an added jacket, and his hair is barely tamed. "Is something wrong?"

"No," he says, "no, yes." He shakes his head. She's so confused. "Are you busy?" His face turns imploring and she steps aside, concerned. Bellamy has a strange, frantic energy about him, unable to stand still and unable to stop fidgeting.

"It's 4…" she looks back at the clock, "43 in the morning."

"Are you?"

"No, of course not," she says, baffled by his question. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"Shouldn't you?"

"You woke me up."

"I know, I'm sorry—" he runs his hand through his hair, "I'll make it up to you. Later. But now, uh, since you're not busy, can you come with me?"

She stares at him, sure that her eyes are as wide as they can go now. "Come with you where and for what?" Stepping closer, she places her hand on his elbow, guiding him back towards the door. "You should go back to sleep, Bellamy."

"The bridge."

Once Bellamy gets an idea in his head, it's incredibly hard to move him off it. He has the look in his eye that tells her it's going to be near impossible to do it. So she says, "Okay," and follows him as he weaves down the hall and stops at the door to the bridge. "I don't like surprises. You know that."

"I know. Can you make an exception this once?"

She's already here, so she might as well. "Fine. Are we going inside?"

"Yeah, come on." Having expected a surprise party (it was the only reason she could think of that he was being so cagey, so vague about whatever he was trying to do) to be waiting behind the door, the empty bridge is a shock. Well, nearly empty. There's a blanket on the floor and the window is unobscured of its cover, showing a bright view of the moon. This doesn't make sense.

"What are we—" Clarke starts to ask, looking around and then back at him, even more confused when she sees him stuff his hands in his pockets before pulling them back out. "Bellamy?"

"Here's the thing," he says, his tone a bit off, his voice a bit high. He coughs and it evens out. "I, uh, I had this whole thing planned, you know? There was going to be food and wine and I know this is your favorite place so I picked it specifically and we were going to look outside and," Bellamy laughs, more at himself than anything, "—I kicked out a bunch of drunk Grounders so I could do this because I ended up ruining it because I couldn't keep my mouth shut while I was drunk and then I fell asleep and—"

"Bellamy," she whispers because she's afraid that if she says it any louder, this will all shatter. It seems too unbelievable to be real anyways.

"That's not even the point, I—what I'm trying to say is," he stops, trails off helplessly, shooting her a shy, crooked grin, the image of which she will never forget, "well, what I want to say is… I like you. I love you. I’m in love with you.”

Dizzy. She’s dizzy. “I—you’re what?”

“In love with you,” he says, and if him saying it again made it easier to believe, she hasn’t hit that point yet.

Faintly, she hears herself responding. “No, you aren’t.”

“Yes, I am. I know I am,” he asserts and again, it feels so far away from her consciousness. He’s in love with me, Clarke thinks, tests out. Her breathing stops. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long.”

She breathes again, all too aware of the sound of it. “How do you… know? How do you—”

“Because when I think about you, I never want to think about anything else. Because when I look at you, everything makes sense. Because you’re the only person I want to be with. Because you make me happier than I ever have been.”

Bellamy doesn’t look tired at all now. He looks earnest and alive and young and beautiful.

They’re all the ways she knows too. “You like me? You—” She can't finish the sentence.

“I love you, Clarke,” he says for the third time and this time, she hears it completely. “Did I ruin this?”

Later, when she tells this story, she says Bellamy was so nervous, his hands were trembling. She makes sure to mention that he'd woken her up at 4:40 AM (because that was a time she'd always remember from then on) and that he'd brought her to the bridge, where nothing was set up. She always talks about how cute his nervousness looked on him and how she'd never have wanted it any other way. But she leaves out the part where she had burst into tears as soon as he finishes and alarmed him so much that he rushed to her, framing her face while she clutched at his elbows, because if she includes it, everyone will ask why she cried.

Bellamy asks her the same thing, half-laughing, half-panicking. "Are you crying because you hate it?"

"No," she cries, clutching at him harder. Her tears are blurring her vision and choking her words. It's remarkable that he can even make sense of them. "It's not bad. It's not. I'm happy. I'm so happy."

"You are?" He asks, still laughing a little, fondness and affection woven into it, she can tell, because he loves her, as he tilts her face up towards him, smoothing her hair away from her eyes, wiping her tears away. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to tell the difference between you crying because you're sad and you crying because you're happy."

"Why would I be upset about this?" She says, but it doesn't sound very convincing when she's still hiccuping through her tears.

"I can't read your mind," he teases. "Maybe you just hate the sound of it. Maybe you're mad at me for how early it is. Or how I had nothing ready here. Maybe," his voice softens, losing its teasing edge, replaced with an uncertainty in it, "maybe you don't feel the same way."

"But I do," she says, choking on her hiccups in her haste to make it clear, "I do feel the same. I loved you when I didn't even know you were alive. Of course I do." There's so much more she wants to say, things she's swallowed down since he came back for so many reasons — because he had a girlfriend, because there was never the right time or place for it, because he didn't feel the same way, because she was scared — but she doesn't — or rather, she doesn't, because one second, she's about to, and the next, Bellamy's kissing her and she has no time for anything else.

Bellamy doesn't kiss her like he does in her dreams. In her dreams, he takes the lead, setting the pace, teasing her, already knowing what she wants. In this reality, he is tentative in the kiss, like he's waiting for her to stop it. She freezes up for a moment, the brief he's actually kissing me flashing through her brain, and then he's kissing me, relaxing into it. For as much as she thought about this, she's painfully aware that it has been years since she kissed someone and it makes her shy and stiff, even as she kisses him back. But he is sweet and gentle about the kiss, never pushing. It doesn't last long enough; by the time she fully shakes her nerves, he's pulling back and pressing his forehead against hers. His eyes are closed, but his smile is unmistakable.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," he murmurs.

She finds her thumb tracing over the little scar in his top lip. "You said that already."

He laughs slightly as he opens his eyes again. "I did. I'm surprised you believe me."

She feels like laughing too. "I kind of don’t."

"Really?"

"Are you sure this isn’t one of my dreams?"

"You've dreamt about this?"

With blush high in her cheeks, she nods. Of course she has. "Right before you woke me up."

His eyes dance at that, then grow serious. "It's not a dream," he says, dipping his head down so that his mouth hovers over hers. "I promise you it's real." And he seals it with a kiss and another promise, the i love you a whisper chased between her lips.

Chapter Text

(xxxix.)

Bellamy insists on walking her back and she doesn't have to suggest that they take the long way because he already seems to know. There's a shyness in her that doesn't fit the situation, not when she's just spent the last half hour trading kisses, but she can't help it. It's different now that he knows how she feels and she knows how he feels. There's more consequence to every interaction, more intention behind every movement. Earlier, as soon as he saw that she was cold, he'd draped his jacket over her shoulders, ignoring her protests, and she'd spent five minutes overthinking it even as she slipped her arms through the sleeves and let it hang big over her frame. When her hand accidentally hits his, she nearly jumps backwards, but then she laughs and he laughs and takes her hand in his, tangling their fingers together. It's comforting, actually, to feel how sweaty Bellamy's palm is, to know that he's nervous too.

Halfway through their second tour around the ship, somewhere between the control room and the third floor supply closet, she asks him a question she can't not ask anymore. "How long?"

He doesn't need to ask what she means. "Before my birthday. That's when I realized. But it started before then, little by little. You’re my favorite person to see every day, my favorite person to talk to. I thought I was so obvious. A lot of people thought so too."

"Not me," Clarke says, a little stunned.

"You never pay attention to these things."

"Yes, I do," she argues, lies. "How was I supposed to know? You were either with Echo or still in love with her so—"

He pulls her to a stop, very serious when he says, "I'm not."

"I didn't mean now."

"Before. I haven’t been for a long time."

Pleased, but not wanting to show it, she bites down the smile she wants to show. "Okay. You weren't. But it wasn't obvious to me."

"I almost kissed you that time."

"And then you apologized for it."

“I thought I had ruined our friendship! And you didn’t want to talk about it, I can tell when you don’t want to.” She scowls a little. Yes, but, on her tongue. Yes, but he’s right. “And I was jealous when Madi brought up you taking someone else to the dance.”

“I thought you were just mad.”

“I was. And jealous.”

What was it people said about hindsight?

“I didn’t think you were. Or would be.”

"Because you're not good at picking up these things," he sighs, as he pulls her along again, slowly so that she walks in step with him.

"Like you can talk," she retorts, slightly offended. She wasn’t the best at it, but it wasn’t like he was either. "I spent every day for six years trying to send you messages. What else would that mean?"

His hand tightens around hers. "Even then?"

"Day 219. I couldn't tell you what we were doing, I don't remember that. But I do remember finally saying it, that I loved you. I should've known before, but I didn't. Madi always said she knew." They stop again and his hand gets tighter. "Bellamy."

"I should've told you earlier," he says, rambling. "I should’ve said it right when I realized. I should've told you I was stupid jealous of Lon, I should've told you that I wanted to go to the dance with you, I should've told you so many times before, I should've told you before Praimfaya—"

"Hey," she cuts him off, like her mind isn't spinning right now, trying to process all of the information he's just tossed at her in a span of a few seconds, "let's not do that."

"I should've waited for you," he says. In her most uncharitable moments, she'd thought this too, her regret spun into bitterness, a way to vent her anger at her own mistakes and fears and insecurities. But she doesn't like hearing it from Bellamy, not like this.

"Don't," she says, sounding of warning. "Don't do that. Trust me, I've been down this road. It isn't a good one."

"Six years, Clarke."

"What were you doing to do?" She cocks her head at him. "Commandeer the ship away from Raven and come down where you would've died from radiation immediately?"

"We could've found a way."

"You're being ridiculous."

He starts to object and then stops. "I know. We could've had more time."

Her answering smile doesn't quite get rid of its sadness in it, but it's passes quick. "We could've. Except I wasn’t ready to hear that. I wasn’t ready to say it. But," she lifts their hands and smooths over his knuckles, "we have time now. Isn't that what you told me the first night we were here?"

Bellamy grimaces with a laugh. "What?" she asks.

"I said that," he makes another face, "to be a dick to you."

"I know."

"I'm really sorry about that still."

"I know." This time, she's the one pulling on his hand so that they start walking again. "You apologize too much."

"As opposed to not apologizing enough?"

"Good point."

He makes a hum of agreement to her acquiescence, but otherwise, falls silent, his fingers intermittently tightening and loosening as they walk down the hall. But she can tell he still has more to say; sure enough, he starts again a few minutes later. "You let me off too easy sometimes."

That thought had crossed her mind before. "Maybe I do. But why don't you let me worry about that?"

"When have I ever done that?"

"Would you rather me be mad at you?"

"Not particularly."

"Should I give you the cold shoulder?"

"Preferably not."

"Do you want me to storm off and say I never want to see you again?"

"No!"

"Then you can't complain."

"Then how else can I pick fights with you?"

"Have you ever considered not picking fights with me?" He grins when she looks over at him.

"My first memory of you is picking a fight with you. I like that too much."

"I knew you only did that to annoy me."

Bellamy's laugh rings loud in the empty hallway. "That was just a bonus," he says, as they make a turn that brings them to the corridor of their rooms. Now that they're here, Clarke is loathe to let go of his hand, wishes that they could stay in this moment, these past few hours without going back to their lives. It's nice, though, to know that he feels the same way, if his steps slowing down is any indication.

She can see her and Madi's room up ahead, getting clearer as they get closer. Before long, they're standing outside the door, Clarke leaning back against the wall and Bellamy hovering over her. She looks up at him to remember the way his hair falls over his forehead and the way his smile reaches his eyes. She remembers when her classmates would come to class and gush about the boys who had walked them home the night before. She'd always rolled her eyes when they started, but now she understands. "Thanks," she eventually says, quiet enough to not disturb anyone, "for waking me up at 4 AM."

When he leans in, she can count his freckles. "It was closer to 5. Almost a normal wake up time."

She stifles a laugh. "And thanks for coming to find me."

"There were only a few places you could be."

"And," she says, when he's a breath away, "thanks for walking me back." He kisses her then, with enough longing and lingering in it that it makes her dizzy, holding onto his shoulders for support.

"I had a really… really nice time tonight," he says.

"Me too."

"Do you," he stops himself, picking back up a second later, "well, do you want to have lunch with me later?"

"Like as a date?" Clarke blurts out, which is a silly question, and she knows it is, which is why she starts laughing into his shoulder.

He laughs too, relief in it. "That's what I was hoping."

"Yes, yes, I'd, um, I'd love to." He kisses her again, short and sweet.

"Okay, uh, I'll see you tomorrow. Well. Today. Later today," he says, stepping back from her reluctantly, his expression not doing enough to hide his reluctance.

She understands completely. "Wait," she calls, a little louder than she should, before she lowers her voice again, wincing at the sound. Her hand reaches out to grab his wrist.

"Yeah?"

"Did you—" a slight pause, "did you really love me before Praimfaya?"

His face softens. "Yeah. But it was different."

"How?"

"It was… this is better, I think," Bellamy's thumb finds her pulse again, a steady beat that must be so loud, "I didn't know you then and I loved you. I know you now and I love you more."

Clarke's heart soars. "You talk too much," she finally says, right before she rises up to kiss him. You love me, she thinks. You love me, you love me, you love me. "But I love you too."

He does leave after that, after another embarrassingly long, drawn out ordeal where they keep making excuses to stay, so when she finally steps inside her room, she lets out the happy sigh she's been holding in all night. Thankfully, Madi's still asleep, sprawled out on the bed, as violent of a sleeper as she always is, so she can live with her happiness alone for a little bit longer.

She might've spoken too soon. "Clarke?"

"Hi sweetie," she whispers, because Madi's half-asleep and just needs the right mood to fall back into it. "Sorry for waking you up."

"What time is it?" That is a good question.

"Not early enough to wake up. Come on," she pulls the blankets up to cover her up, "go back to sleep."

She nods, closing her eyes. Just as Clarke is about to walk away so she can change into her sleep clothes, Madi's voice pulls her back. "Were you hanging out with Bellamy?" She asks, voice too drowsy to hold any hint of glee or victory.

"Yes, I was," she replies, if hanging out was a good way to describe it. "How did you know?"

Snuggling closer into the blankets, she grins. "You're wearing his jacket." She looks down and blushes. So she is.

Within minutes, Madi is back asleep, her light snores filling the air. Clarke changes out of her clothes and into something more comfortable, almost reverently folding Bellamy's jacket over the back of the desk chair. Almost as soon as she leaves it there, her hands are drawn back to it, picking it up, tracing the lining on the sleeve and the worn patch on the elbow, and hugging it to her chest. She lets out another happy sigh before she lets go of it and heads to bed.

*

(xl.)

Lunch is going well. That was the only deliberation Clarke allowed herself to give, too afraid to jinx it otherwise, but she could say with almost certainty that even if someone else had said it, they would be telling the truth. After a near disaster of a start (both of them had overslept, then literally run into the other on their way here, and then managed some truly spectacularly awkward small talk that she did not want to relive), they started laughing, feeling more at ease before Bellamy took her to the kitchen, and they had scrounged up a late (late, late) lunch from whatever was around.

There's not much around: some crackers, a thing of oatmeal, a few protein bars, the remainder of the peanut butter, the last of the celebration cake, and some questionable bread.

"I think this is from those sandwiches Murphy gave up on halfway through," she comments, gesturing to the leftover bread.

"I have a feeling we shouldn't touch that," he says warily, which makes her eye the bread with suspicion.

"Noted." Pushing the bread away, she returns to the crackers in front of them. "Oh! Let me show you something!" He watches, amused, as she spreads some peanut butter on a cracker and holds it out for him to see. "Madi taught me this."

"Wow," he drawls slowly, unimpressed but laughing regardless. "That's high cuisine right there."

"All I know is high cuisine."

"I can tell."

"Don't be jealous. You're the one who isn't utilizing Madi's talents."

"I don't need to. I'm having an excellent lunch of protein bars and tea."

"The flavors that no one likes."

"This isn't so bad." Bellamy looks down and breaks off a piece, holding it out for her to take. She does, popping it into her mouth, chewing, and grimacing. "You're exaggerating."

She snickers. He did know her a bit too well. "It's fun. And you made fun of my invention."

"Your invention."

"Isn't that what I said?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I must've misunderstood," he teases. "I shouldn't have made fun of your invention."

"I accept your very sincere apology."

Bellamy laughs a little, but slips into something solemn quickly after. His face turns into an apology as his shoulders fall slightly. "This probably isn't the kind of date you wanted."

"It isn't so bad," she says, taking the corner of her slice of cake.

He raises an eyebrow at her. "You do not have to say that."

"I'm not," she says easily. "I really don't mind it." And she doesn't. She hadn't exactly had the time to wonder what this date would be, let alone have any semblance of expectations for it. She just liked that she was here with Bellamy, making him laugh, and laughing with him.

"Clarke—"

"Bellamy," she says, before he can say anything else. "It's honestly fine. If we just sat here and talked about… restocking the kitchen, I'd still think it was a nice date." Clarke swipes at the frosting with her fork and tastes it. It's still sweet.

"It isn't much."

"Why does it have to be much?" She asks, watching as he looks puzzled, and then thoughtful. She pauses before her next words, the weight of them heavy on her tongue, the instinct of keeping them quiet too strong to push past. "I just like being with you. That's enough for me."

Bellamy doesn't say anything. Instead, he leans over and closes his mouth over hers, in a kiss that skirts the edge of improper in public, with one hand cupping her cheek. It's still a little startling, but she isn't freezing like she did last time. When they break apart, he murmurs against her lips, "I like being with you too," and kisses her again, too quick to be a real kiss. "But you also deserve more."

Heat climbs up her neck and settles on her cheeks. "Well," she says, leaning in to kiss him, just because she can now, "Let's start small, okay?"

"Okay," he agrees, picking a piece from her cake and laughing at her affronted look. "What were you saying about restocking the kitchen?"

*

(xli.)

People find out about them pretty fast, no thanks in part to how obvious Bellamy makes it. It's not that he's big on PDA, not the big, flashy kind at least, but Clarke discovers that he's definitely not adverse to it. Even before they started dating, which is probably the best way to describe what they're doing, if the constraints of a spaceship with very limited settings can be accounted for, he'd always been one to express himself through touch. People had wondered before, but there's a difference now.

She sees it in his casual touches to her back as he passes by her, the squeezes to the back of her neck when he gets close to her, the arm slung around her shoulders when they're sitting next to each other. It's in the quick kisses he presses to her temple, her cheek, her mouth to say hello, or goodbye, or anything in between. It's clear in the way he plays with her hands, always seeking them out. (He loves holding her hand.) Clarke soaks it all up, the attention and the affection, so really, maybe she's half to blame.

Everyone has questions, but none moreso than Madi, who asks her every chance she gets.

"If you really want to know," Clarke says drowsily, pulling the blanket closer, "ask Bellamy."

It shouldn't surprise her that Madi chooses to follow this directive, but it does.

"So how long have you liked Clarke?" She asks, eyeing him innocently over her spaghetti. Clarke's fork clangs against her plate when it slips out of her grasp.

"I didn't tell her to ask that," she informs Bellamy, eyes wide. "I didn't tell you to do that."

Madi twists some spaghetti onto her fork. "You said if I wanted to know, I should ask Bellamy. I am!"

There's some sauce on her cheek so Clarke wipes at it with her napkin. "I was kidding. And that was weeks ago."

"I had to think of all the questions I wanted to ask!"

"Madi!"

"It's okay," Bellamy interjects, slight smirk on his face. "She can ask them."

"Just pretend Clarke's not here."

"I am here."

Smooth as anything, Bellamy leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. She supposes it's to show Madi how unbothered he is, but Madi doesn't look that impressed. Clarke wishes this was not happening. "I've liked her for a long time."

"How long?"

"Do you want it to the day?"

"That would be nice."

"I'll calculate it and get back to you about that. But at least six months. More if we want to get complicated about it." He glances over at Clarke and she flushes under his gaze. None of this is new to her, of course, but she feels so bare having it addressed in front of someone else, even if that someone else is her 13-year old pseudo-daughter.

"What about Echo?" Clarke turns her aborted laugh into a cough.

"What about her?"

"Do you still…" Madi makes a face. "Like her?"

"No," he says, and without knowing she had been waiting for it, Clarke perks up. "What's with the face?"

Madi scoffs, pointing the fork at Bellamy. Sauce falls onto the table. "Clarke's better."

"Madi," she groans, not out of disagreement, but out of embarrassment. She appreciates the loyalty, but—like this?

Both of them ignore her. "Was I supposed to disagree with that?" He says, eyes alight and dancing, though they quickly turn fearful when he says, "I don't, by the way. I don't disagree."

"Good," Madi says, satisfied, removing her fork from its threatening position. "What's your favorite thing about Clarke?"

He thinks for a second. "How stubborn she is."

Before Clarke can object, Madi continues. "What's your least favorite thing?"

He grins. "How stubborn she is."

"Hey."

"Madi asked. It's a compliment."

"Do I need to remind you about what a compliment is?"

"Do you swear," Madi says, as if they hadn't interrupted her in the first place, "to never make Clarke cry?" She has a very serious face on, the kind she has when she's angry about something and figuring out ways to do something about it.

The teasing from earlier disappears off Bellamy's face as he leans his head in. "I swear," he says. Madi holds out her pinky and he hooks his onto it. Clarke can't help but sigh at the sight.

"Okay, good," she says, pushing the last of her spaghetti away from her. "If you're not eating it, can I have your jello?" He looks down and smiles, offering it to her immediately.

"Bellamy, don't," Clarke says tiredly, because this is the third time she's had to say this, "she doesn't need to be spoiled even more."

"I'm not being spoiled," Madi argues, pouting at her. "Bellamy doesn't even want his jello. Right?"

"It's true. I only got it because I knew she'd ask."

"See?"

Clarke shakes her head. There's no point. "She used to be so well-behaved when it was just the two of us."

"Like when she locked you out of the Rover and tried to drive away without you?"

"That was once!" Madi protests, now pouting over her cup of jello. "And I apologized!"

"Two weeks later."

"Clarke!"

"I didn't even tell him that story. You did." She laughs at Madi's scowl. "This is why you shouldn't ever tell Bellamy anything."

"I'm going to find Monty," she says in a huff, getting up from her chair with her jello in hand. Before she escapes, she adds, "Thank you for the jello, Bellamy."

"Anytime, Madi."

Once she scurries away, Clarke drops her head onto the table. "I really, really, really didn't mean she had to actually ask you about it," she mumbles. A second later, Bellamy's moved over to the seat Madi's vacated and lays his hand on her back, rubbing it soothingly.

"It's fine, Clarke," he says, "and it went a lot better this time than the first time she did it."

She freezes. "The first—what are you talking about?"

"She pulled me aside last week and asked me a bunch of questions like that," he says. "She's very scary when she wants to be."

"That sounds like Madi," she mutters, groaning again. "I'm so sorry. She shouldn't have done that."

"Clarke, honestly," he hauls her up, laughing, "Madi's just looking out for you." As she always had, even when it wasn't necessary. "Besides, someone has to question the boyfriend."

She hears how faint her voice is. "Boyfriend?"

He pauses, searching her face. "Only if that's what you want. I assumed—I—it's been a few weeks and we've—"

"Yes," Clarke breathes out, not letting him finish his sentence. It hadn't occurred to her they hadn't discussed this yet, despite the many dates they'd had since that night, because she, like Bellamy, had also assumed it, without putting it into words. She had never called him her boyfriend, but he was her boyfriend. "Yes, I want that."

His face lights up. "That makes you my girlfriend, you know."

She likes the sound of that. "I'm pretty okay with that."

He leans in and sneaks a kiss from her. "That's settled then," he says after, right before she steals the roll off his plate and he's protesting, pretending he cares, when a thought strikes her.

"You're my first," she blurts out, suddenly, cutting his dramatics off.

"First what?"

Blushing, Clarke says, "First, um, real boyfriend."

"Really?"

"Yeah. So I don't really know what I'm doing most of the time." It didn't help that she didn't exactly have a particularly stable relationship with either Finn or Lexa. Since she had never actually dated them, really, Clarke had nothing else to go by.

"I don't know what I'm doing most of the time," Bellamy says. "But I don't think we're doing too bad. Are we?"

"No," she says, thinking back to the last few weeks of lunchtime dates and stolen kisses and midnight strolls. "We aren't."

*

(xlii.)

"I should, ah," Clarke closes her eyes as her presses her into the bed. Bellamy's bed isn't the most comfortable, but that doesn't register right now, not when she has more important things to think about like the weight of him on her or how dangerously close his hand is to the hem of her shirt. "I should… go," she sighs out eventually, the words coming back to her.

Too busy trailing kisses down her neck, his response is almost lost in the crook of her neck, but he manages to pull back by the end of it, so she hears a rough, distracted, "I guess it's getting late," right before he returns to his earlier task.

"Yeah," she agrees, though all she does is tilt her head to give him better access. Unwittingly, she arches her back, pressing closer to him. "And I was only here to talk about—" She can't remember right now. "Something."

Out of everything she had not imagined, Clarke is the most unprepared for how much she wants Bellamy. Wanting Bellamy had been a state she'd lived with for years, the secret she'd hidden from Madi, from Bellamy. It'd lived with her for the same amount of time. She knows she wants him, but the intensity of it takes her by surprise. It isn't some muted, discreet sensation either; it thrums through her body whenever she touches him, it zings a loud note whenever she kisses him too long, whenever he wraps his arms around her, or brackets her body with his, it follows her as a constant reminder that she is all too aware of whenever he looks at her too much (it's always too much).

Thinking back on it, it's the latter that had led her to this moment, shivering with anticipation as Bellamy eases his hand under her shirt, grazing her skin. She'd found herself in multiple opportunities like this lately. Yesterday, he had caught her as she was taking her laundry out for a lazy makeout session that had left her lips red and swollen and her neck marked by at least two (that she's seen) light bruises that make her legs weak when she thinks about them. The day before, she'd almost been late to her shift because she couldn't (didn't want to) disentangle herself from his arms. A few days before that, although they weren't doing anything at the time, Monty had a knowing look on his face when he walked into the bridge for their monthly state of the Earth meeting.

He's saying something now. Through the haze of her desire, she pieces the words together. "If it helps, you were very good at talking about that something."

Her hand curls in his hair. "You used to be better at this," she says.

It gets the intended effect as he pulls back from her, looking offended and well-kissed. "Hey."

"Convincing people you're not lying, I mean," she grins.

He huffs anyways. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a little preoccupied."

There’s not much she can say to that, mostly because he captures her mouth with his, throwing all thoughts of preoccupation to the wayside. He tends to kiss her like he wants her to lead, inquisitive of all the things he can learn from it, but sometimes—like now—he's almost like the Bellamy who'd kissed her in her dreams. This kiss is rough and insistent and so sure of itself that she feels the idle stirrings of desire in her chest, in the pit of her stomach turn into something urgent and unabated. Part of it, she knows, is because he so rarely kisses her like this. She loves the way he follows her lead and the way he never pushes for something she isn't comfortable with.

But she loves it even more when he lets his guard down with her. She'd gotten a glimpse of it before, but not like this, not with his mouth burning a path down her neck like this, not with his hands all over her like this. Bellamy has an innate ability to make her feel praised, even when she's doing nothing but clutching him closer and gasping in his ear. He skims his mouth across her collarbone and shifts so when she rocks up into him this time, she can feel the weight of him on her thigh. When she lets out a soft moan, he tightens his grip on her hip and unbuttons the top few buttons of her shirt so that his mouth is grazing along the top of her breasts. There's too many clothes between them, she thinks, so delirious with desire that she's sure her eyes are as dark as his are right now, so she shakily brings a hand up to her chest, unbuttoning one more button, waiting for him to take the hint.

He doesn't need the prompting, bending down to kiss her knuckles before replacing her hand with his, undoing the next button. All of a sudden, it feels more real. The air around them stills and she watches his eyes rove over each section of skin exposed as he makes his way down her shirt slowly, deftly. When she had stopped by earlier to talk about Monty's latest doomsdaying, Clarke could safely say that she hadn't expected the night to end like this.

His breath ghosts over her stomach, tantalizing in its warmth and excruciating in its proximity. She holds her own breath as he works on the penultimate button, struggling a little, a laugh spilling out of him. She's not sure if it's this innocuous action that does it, or if it's everything building towards this, but as soon as he gets to the last button, she exhales, all tension in it.

"Wait," she says.

He pauses, looks up.

Her hand goes to clutch at her shirt. "Stop."

He stops, pulls back, has to shake himself from the haze of desire. "Did I…" His forehead creases. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," she says, with a frantic shake of her head. “I—” Her voice is dry in her throat.

"What is it?" Bellamy asks, reaching for her, stopping short of making contact. "Tell me what I did."

"It's nothing that you did," she says. "It's—it's me. I…" Hastily redoing her buttons, her fingers slipping on each one, she can hear how small her voice is as she explains, "I haven't… done this in years. I don't even know if—if I know how to—" Clarke grimaces, embarrassed and upset.

"Hey," he says, serious, "we don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"No, that's not it," she sighs, almost with a laugh. "Trust me. Wanting to is not the problem here."

HIs mouth opens and closes a few times, hit by the force of her words, even though she hadn't meant them to be particularly devastating. To Clarke, they were just words that reflected a truth. A moment later, he finally asks, "What's the problem?"

She has to hide her face behind her hands to say it, the embarrassment too much for her. "I'm just not… ready for this. To… have sex." She even stumbles on the word, tripping over it like it's forbidden. She should've known this would happen. It'd taken her a while to be comfortable with kissing him, even longer to kiss him for an extended period of time. The last person she was with was Niylah, six years ago, and the last boy she was with was Finn and she barely remembered that. She could dream about it and she could imagine it and she could think about it, but it didn't exactly mean she was ready for it. Not now, at least.

Bellamy slowly lowers her hands from her face and she doesn't know what she'd expected to see on his face, but it's an expression of understanding. "I'm not expecting anything, okay? Have I made it seem like I am?" Worry etches across his features.

"No," she says, "you've been great. Really great. I trust you. I'm so—" She rubs her eyes. "I'm such a mess."

"You are not," he says firmly, mirroring his tone with the way he squeezes her free hand. "Don't say that."

"Even though that's what I feel like?"

"Especially then."

"That's not very fair."

"You can try to appeal it but it's not worth the trouble."

Flopping back onto the bed, she curls up so that she's facing him, her cheek propped up and resting on an arm. "I really do want this, you know."

He lays down next to her, fitting around her, and caresses her cheek. She shivers at his touch. "I want this too. When you're ready." She wants to say sorry, because it's on the tip of her tongue, but she bites it back. Logically, she knows she has nothing to be sorry about, but logic isn't the easiest to accept.

"Okay," she says instead, tracing the divot in his chin. "I, um, really do think about it a lot."

He turns his face into the sheets, just enough that she can still hear him say, "You can't just say something like that."

"Why not?"

"Because," he turns back to her, a stern look on his face, "that's all I'm going to be thinking about now."

"Maybe that was why I said it," she teases, coming closer to him. "Maybe I want you to think about me all the time."

He doesn't waste time in closing the space between them and kissing her. "Believe me, I already do."

She sucks in a breath and tries to ignore the thrill his words send down her spine. It doesn't change her mind, but she'll really never get over hearing him say and knowing that he wants her. "Then you shouldn't have a problem with me saying that." A long second later, she adds, more reluctantly, "I should go."

"You don't have to," he says quickly, beseeching in tone before it smooths out. "You could stay. Not for that. Just… to stay."

She’s already sinking back into his arms. "Madi's going to ask questions."

"I can take her."

Clarke lets out a laugh, curling into Bellamy's warmth. "Okay, I'll stay."

*

(xliii.)

She doesn't mean to overhear the conversation, but—well, she has no good excuse for it. She just catches it because the door to Bellamy's office space is slightly open and their voices carry. She could've walked away so that she couldn't hear it, but she doesn't. She's never claimed to be that good of a person.

"So you and Clarke?" Raven asks. Clarke can't see her expression, but she can hear her tone, a mix of curiosity and slight judgment. It's almost a trademark.

"What about me and Clarke?" Bellamy says, unmistakably wary.

"How long's that been going on?"

"Raven. You know how long that's been going on."

Breezing past it, she tries again, "You guys serious then?"

Clarke at least berates herself for how eagerly she waits for his answer. "Yes, Raven, we're serious." She smiles down at her feet. She hadn't doubted it, but it was still nice to hear it.

She sounds taken aback by his words. "It's only been three months. How do you know?"

"I knew you knew," he says in vindication. "You knew it was serious with Shaw about two weeks in."

"That was different."

"Right." A pause. "Did you have a point to all this?"

"Answer the question."

"You know," he says, "I'm not sure this is out of concern."

"Jesus, Bellamy, I'm not asking to sabotage you or anything. It's just a question."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"I'm not asking for her," Raven retorts. "I'm done playing messenger."

"You say that like I'm sending any messages."

"You're avoiding the question."

He sighs, long and frustrated. "I know because it feels right this time. Because we know each other this time. We get each other. And we both want this."

Clarke really, really, really should've left once she heard their voices. It's definitely past the point of something she can pass off as an innocent curiosity. With that in mind, she backs away, keeping her steps light. Maybe if she takes a turn around the floor, Raven will have left by the time she's done.

The walk doesn't help much because it gives her an opportunity for her guilt to fester and prick at her, but when she makes it back to Bellamy's office, Raven's voice has disappeared, so at least that's not a problem anymore. She knocks three times, quick in succession, and before he's done saying, "Come in," she's already in, making a beeline for him, kissing him the second she's close enough.

Bellamy looks at her, dazed, when she pulls away and sits on the edge of his desk, facing him. "I don't think I can joke about expecting someone else, right?" He says, eyes focused on her mouth before he seems to remember that it isn't very polite.

She ignores it anyways. "I have to tell you something," she rushes out.

"That doesn't sound good."

"I overheard your conversation earlier." It's better to just come out with it. Bellamy frowns, remembering. To stave off his rightful protest, she keeps going, explaining, "I didn't mean to, well, I didn't leave, so I kind of did mean to, but I feel awful about it and I'm sorry. I'm so so—"

"How much did you hear?"

She thinks. "Um, Raven asked about us. Until you answered how you knew. That we were serious, I mean. I mean it, I'm so sorry. I’ll never do it again—"

He kisses her quiet. "It's not like I wouldn't have said that to you anyways."

"But still," she grimaces, "I shouldn't have eavesdropped. I won't do it again. I'll walk away as soon as I hear any voices."

"I"m sorry you had to hear what Raven was saying." A dark look passes over his face. "I know you've said you don't want me to talk to her about how she's treating you, but if you change your mind, you know that I would, right?"

She knows. That's the problem. Whatever's going on between her and Raven is something she wants to tackle herself. Hearing her question Bellamy today had hardly been unexpected, nor had it been particularly bad. Maybe in some way, she was concerned. Maybe she was just curious. "I know," she says, closing her eyes briefly when he reaches up and presses a kiss to her forehead, "but then I become the girl who sends her boyfriend after her friends to intimidate them."

"I'd use my diplomatic voice," he says, both the joke of the statement and his tone telling her that he won't pursue this any further.

"I've heard your diplomatic voice."

"So you know how effective it is."

"If that's what makes you feel better."

"Thank you for agreeing. That makes me feel better."

"As much as I appreciate you practicing your diplomacy for me, I think I'll pass on the offer."

"All right," he sighs, not actually disappointed. "I've still got a few things left to do, but I'll be done soon and I can come find you if—"

"I can wait," she says, leaning forward to push the hair from his forehead back, eliciting a smile, one that crinkles the corners of his eyes, from him. "I just wanted to see you."

It always fills her with a sense of triumph when she flusters him. He flusters her so much all the time, even when he's doing nothing, that she loves getting the chance to do it to him. Bellamy tries to sound unbothered, but there's no mistaking how pleased he is. "I don't have to finish this today."

"You don't?"

"I could finish it tomorrow." He's already gotten up, crowding closer to her, his body framing hers as she loops her arms around his neck. "What do you think?"

"I think you should kiss me."

"Will do."

*

(xliv.)

"That can't be right."

"It's as right as it'll get."

"Then run it again."

"Bellamy."

"Bellamy, I've run it ten times. I've run it a hundred times. It all ends the same."

"Then let me take a look at it."

"You think that if I made that much of a mistake, I wouldn't be able to catch it but you would?"

"Just let me see it."

Monty throws his hands up and walks away from them, releasing a loud huff of annoyance aimed at Bellamy. Clarke feels a headache coming on. It's been almost an hour of this back and forth between them, ever since Monty had delivered the news about the Earth. After twenty minutes, everyone else had shuffled out of the bridge, but she had stayed to look over the figures Monty presented them as if they made sense to her and Bellamy had stayed because he couldn't, wouldn't accept that there was no way the Earth was going to sustain any life for at least ten years.

Bellamy glares at Monty, as if all of this had been his doing. “How could this happen so fast?”

“I’ve been warning you of this possibility for months. Clarke, back me up.”

He had. “I think we all need to step back for a bit,” she says, at the same time that Bellamy snaps, “Yes, the possibility, not the actuality of it!”

“The problem is that you refused to consider it as more than a possibility, not that I didn’t warn you enough,” Monty argues, his chin jutted out in anger. “I warned you plenty of times.”

“No, you said—”

“Monty,” Clarke says loudly, cutting a warning glance at Bellamy that makes him sink back onto the seat he’d jumped out of seconds before, “what should we do now? We don’t have the resources to stay up here for that long. I don’t even think we can stay for half that time.”

“I was hoping you guys would tell me you had ideas,” Monty admits. “I don’t know. I need to get back, but I’ll come by later and talk about this?” He casts a wary look at Bellamy, who’s gone moodily silent hunched over the screen.

She flashes him a reassuring smile. “Yeah, no problem. Let’s talk later.” Monty shuts the door behind him with more force than usual. Without even turning to him, she sighs, “Bellamy.”

“I know,” he says, contrition already there, “I’ll apologize to him later.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of not shooting the messenger?”

“I only shouted at him.”

“That might be worse.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, with no amusement in sight. Just a few hours ago, he’d laughed with her and Madi. Now, he just looked tired. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

"We both know better than to believe in supposed tos anymore," she says gently, walking over to stand behind him.

He tilts his head back, half looking at her, half looking at the ceiling. "I know. But I still let myself hope."

She threads her fingers through his hair and waits a few minutes before she speaks again. "I really miss Eden right now." This was the Ark all over again, except this time, they had no planet to deposit a hundred delinquents, and this time, they would never do that. Her fingers still in his hair.

"We could get it back,” he says, a quick upturn of his head to catch her eye, “if we find a way to survive up here for ten years longer. Maybe even more.”

“You never know. We’ve found our way out of worse problems before.”

“So you have another spaceship hidden somewhere? Some magic blood up your sleeve that’ll let us live without water or food or air?”

“Not so much.”

“How are we going to find our way out of this?”

“The same way we always do,” she answers, bending down to rest her chin on his shoulder. His hand comes up to cradle her head. “By exhausting every option and then hoping for the best.”

“You’re very good at this reassuring thing,” he says dryly, finally cracking a smile that she can hear in his voice.

“I haven’t had a lot of practice in it,” she nudges him, “you’re the reassuring one out of the two of us. Now I have to pick up your slack.”

Bellamy laughs, low in his throat. “You’re not worried?”

“Of course I’m worried. But if both of us show it, then nothing will get done.”

Moving his head away from her, he stares at her for what feels like an insurmountably long time. She always forgets how much his eyes are, especially when they’re focused on you. Then, he leans forward to drop a kiss on her mouth. “I like you so much,” he says.

“Who knew that’s all it takes to win you over?” She teases through a blush. “I mean it, though, we’ll figure something out.”

“Yeah, we always do.”

*

(xlv.)

In the end, they aren’t the ones who figure it out. It’s Shaw. The answer is so simple that it stuns the entire group of people gathered in the bridge.

"Why can't we go into cryo? It's worked before."

Judging by the looks on everyone else's faces, they had also forgotten that the cryo room existed. And then, like a spell had been broken, the commotion starts, questions rattling off one by one, over each other, talking to no one and everyone all at once.

"How long would we be asleep?"

"Is it weird?"

"Do we have enough for the whole ship?"

"Why didn't we think of that before?"

"This sounds too easy."

But Clarke only has one question in mind. "Will it work?"

Shaw looks at her and nods. "The pods should still be functional and there are more than enough to fit everyone on the ship. I guess we'll have to figure out what happens if someone doesn't want to go, but isn't the more important thing that we have a solution?"

"It is," she says, feeling the sharp cold of relief filter through her. For the last week, they'd been running through every option they could think of, ranging from the most unrealistic (waiting as long as possible) to the most cruel (floating people to conserve resources, though the suggestion had been born of a more biting criticism than genuine idea), and none of them could've worked for them. But now, now, they had something. "If it works, then I think it's the best of our ideas right now."

"I agree with Clarke," Bellamy says, over the sound of someone scoffing. "But we need to be sure the pods still work. And we need to figure out the logistics if they do."

"And," she adds, "how many people are willing to do this."

"Exactly."

"I can check on the pods," Shaw says, getting up.

"I'll go with him," Raven offers, following him out the door. Their exit sets off a chain of exits, Monty to his figures, Harper to the greenhouse, the rest to their respective work, until just Bellamy and Clarke are left in the bridge.

Immediately, Bellamy pulls her into his embrace, hiding his face in her hair and breathing out his own sigh of relief. Her laughter muffles in his shoulder. "What did I tell you?" She says. "We always find a way."

"Shaw gets no credit?"

"Oh, I'm planning on creating a whole monument dedicated to him once we get back to Earth."

"What if the pods don't work?"

"Nix the monument."

"Clarke," he laughs.

"They'll work. And I'm not saying this only because I want them to work. I don't think Shaw would've offered that as a legitimate suggestion if he wasn't more than sure in it." His response is a hum that she takes as an agreement. "You can stop frowning all the time now. You've got a line between your eyebrows."

"I think it might be permanent." Pulling out of the hug, Bellamy rubs at his forehead, as if he can erase the so-called line by doing so. Of course, there isn't one, but he has been sporting a drastic frown for most of the past week.

"It's okay. I like you either way," she says, making him laugh again. "Will it make you feel better if we check on Shaw?"

“He might get offended that I don’t trust him.”

“So trust him.”

“I do. It’s not that I don’t!”

“I know. We can stop by. I’ll say I was curious.”

He perks up. “Really?”

“Yes,” she laughs, even more so when he kisses her cheek sloppily. Bellamy finds very little reason to kiss her all the time. She can’t say she objects. “But then you’re going to get some sleep. You haven’t slept at all lately.”

“You know, I still don’t take orders from you.”

“Then take it as a very strongly worded suggestion.”

*

(xlvi.)

The first time she wakes up that morning is because of Bellamy's stupid alarm, too loud and right by her ear. It rouses her immediately, even as she's fighting with herself to ignore it.

"Sorry," she hears, a mumble in the dark, as Bellamy maneuvers next to her to shut it off. Clarke was beginning to regret sleeping over, but then again, it had been really late last night and the thought of walking those few extra steps to go to her room and wake Madi up as she got into bed had not been appealing. Or maybe, (definitely) she hadn't needed a reason. Now, she wishes she'd foreseen this.

"I don't want to get up," she says, words muffled in the pillow, curling closer to Bellamy's warmth.

"I have to meet Diyoza so she can yell at me about whatever it is she's going to yell at me about today," he says, kissing her temple before he turns over and lifts the blanket off his body. "You have to sleep."

"I have to get up later, though." Her hand sneaks out to keep him there, but her grip is loose and she's already drifting back to sleep. "Come back."

Bellamy kisses her head again and releases her hand from his shirt. "I will. Go back to sleep."

He doesn't have to tell her twice. She's asleep before the door is closed.

The second time she wakes up that morning, Bellamy's slipping back into bed, and the hour is more reasonable. Clarke makes space for him right away, smiling sleepily when he strokes her cheek. "Stop staring at me," she says.

"Can't. You drool in your sleep. It's hard to look away."

"Liar. I'm a tidy sleeper."

"Tidy?"

"I still have two hours before I have to get up, stop bothering me." She tugs the blanket up, intent on savoring those two hours, but Bellamy has clearly set it upon himself to take that away from her.

"Guess what?"

She grumbles, not a response. A minute later, she yields. "Did Plenge's group change their minds?"

"Yes, they—how did you know?"

"Last night, Plenge told Shaw who told me."

"That just leaves Frost."

"He's still thinking about it. I was hoping," she informs him, hoping that as soon as she's done with this, he'll give up, "you could check up on them later."

"I will," he affirms, "but that's not what I wanted you to guess."

“Bellamy, please,” she begs, without opening her eyes, “I’m so tired. Just tell me whatever it is.”

He chuckles and slides closer to her. “Your schedule is all clear today. You can sleep as long as you want.”

"I have a shift and inventory and the records in the control room to look over," she points out.

"I got Jackson to take your shift," he says, and this time, Clarke opens her eyes, blinking the sleep away so she can focus on him. "He owes you for that week you covered for him and he said he'll be happy to do the inventory, unless you want to do it some other day. And I'll look over the records."

She blinks at him some more, almost wondering if this is some weird half-dream she's in. "You didn't have to do that."

He makes the face he always does whenever she says something like that. "Yes, I know that. I wanted to. Do you remember when I asked you what you wanted more than anything in the world?"

Clarke thinks about it. It's vaguely familiar in a way that she remembers the words, but not her answer. Then, slowly, it comes back to her. "We were playing chess."

A smile flickers across his face. "And you said that you wanted a day where you didn't have to do or worry about anything."

"How do you even remember that?"

"My exceptional memory."

She rolls her eyes, but can't ignore the flutter of emotion that floats behind her chest. "I hope you know I wasn't exactly telling the full truth then."

He freezes. "What? Why?"

"Because I didn't want to say what I really wanted."

"What did you really want?"

"I'm sure," she answers primly, gasping slightly when he grazes his hand over her hip, settling there after a moment, "you can figure that out for yourself."

His voice holds too much victory in it. "You should tell me instead."

"No," she says, stubborn, turning away from him and closing her eyes to force sleep to come back to her. "I'm going to sleep."

Bellamy laughs behind her, his breath ghosting over her neck as he kisses her shoulder. "Sorry for waking you up. Will you have lunch with me later?" She mumbles a yes and he kisses her again. Clarke waits until she hears his breath even out before she turns back around, dropping her head onto his chest. His arm comes around to hold her.

"Thank you," she whispers against his shirt. For this, for being here, for knowing. She doesn't need to elaborate. He already knows.

*

(xlvii.)

The night before they're set to go into cryosleep, Clarke can't sleep. It's funny, in a way, that she can't sleep now when she'll be sleeping for 10 years soon enough, but as she tosses and turns in bed, she doesn't find it funny at all.

Finally, giving up on the pretense of sleep, she swings her legs around, mindful of Madi, and gets out of bed, picking up a cardigan to shield herself from the chill of the nighttime air. Her first thought is to head towards Bellamy's room, but it's quickly discarded, her feet taking her almost of their own volition to the cryo room. Once she's there, it's clear that she isn't the only person with the same idea.

"What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" Bellamy asks, looking at her in confusion from his spot on the floor.

"I couldn't sleep," she answers. "What about you?"

"I couldn't sleep either." He gestures for her to join him on the floor, so she does, lining up her shoulders with his and leaning slightly against him.

"What are you thinking about?"

"All the ways this," he points to a cryo pod in front of them, "can fail."

"Morbid." But it's exactly what's been keeping her up tonight. The closer it gets to the date, the less she's been able to keep the thoughts at bay and the positive outlook on her face. This problem has too many uncertainties and relies a lot on something Clarke, despite six years of practicing it, has never been great at having: patience.

"I'm sure you're up because you're too excited to sleep." He knows her too well.

"I don't like not knowing what's going to happen. What if we don't wake up? What if it's not enough time? What if it's too much time?"

Bellamy's voice is quiet, but holds the same concern as hers does. "What if the Earth doesn't come back? Do we stay asleep? Do we stop it?"

"I don't know."

"I don't know either."

"But," she starts.

"We don't have any other choice," he finishes. They fall silent after that, a depressing note lingering in the air. Her head resting on his shoulder, she thinks back to Madi’s complaints yesterday, her laments about not wanting to go. At the time, she’d listened and dismissed them as something amusing — just the day before, she had been super excited for it — but deep down, and especially now, she’d understood. Maybe she didn’t have the same desire to not go because she didn’t want to leave, but she could sympathize with a feeling of not wanting to go because she didn’t know what the future held.

“Have you thought about it?” Bellamy says suddenly, breaking the silence. "What our life will be like once we're back on Earth?"

"A little," she admits. "But I didn't want to jinx it."

"I have too."

"Indulging in some fantasies?"

"Maybe a little."

She laughs, tugging on his arm. "Tell me."

"I want us to find a lake," he tells her, sounding wistful. "You made it sound so nice. And we could live right by it and this time, we know what we’re doing.”

“We do?”

“Well,” he amends, looking over at her, “more than we used to.”

“A lake would be great. I can teach you how to swim.” She could see it so clearly, the bright shine of the sun reflecting off the deep blue of the water, the scattered presence of their friends around them, leaving them alone. She could hear the laughter rolling around, bouncing off the water, rippling through the air, and she could feel the way Bellamy wrapped his arms around her, the lesson forgotten.

“Would you?”

“I’m an excellent swimmer. I guess you could ask Madi to teach you but I have to warn you, she yells more than me.”

“I guess I’ll choose you then.”

“Thanks so much,” she says dryly.

"How do you feel about a garden?"

"In general?"

"Specifically for me." A pause. "And you, if you'd like." She smiles instantly, one corner of her upturned mouth hidden in his shoulder.

"I love our hypothetical garden already," Clarke says sincerely, even though it's less about the garden and more about what he means.

"I'm glad," he almost sighs. She smiles even more.

"I hope it's like this when we get back down there."

"Like what?"

"Like… it's easy. Like, no matter what happens, it'll be okay as long as we have each other." There's silence again, but a comfortable one, one where her words take root.

"I pro—"

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Bellamy," she says before he can finish his sentence. Promises are hard. She doesn't want a promise.

She feels his head move, nodding. His hand finds hers and intertwines their fingers, his thumb over hers. "Then I hope so too. And I love you," he tells her, watching as his eyes soften, his mouth relax. "Whatever happens next, I love you."

"I love you too," she says, closing her eyes and sinking into the kiss he gives her, feeling, for the first time that night, that they'd find their way out.

*

(xlviii.)

Waking up from cryo makes her groggy and disoriented.

Finding out, in a matter of minutes, that they didn't just sleep through the past ten years, but the past one hundred and twenty five, that Monty and Harper are gone, that they have a kid named Jordan, that there's a new planet, is almost enough to make her start screaming and never stop.

But she doesn't. She asks Bellamy for the room and then she cries: for Monty and Harper, for Earth, for Eden, for the years that skipped them by. And then she straightens up and she remembers Monty's plea.

When she exits the bridge, Bellamy stands outside, his own eyes rimmed with red, and gathers her into a hug. "You okay?" He asks, because that's the kind of thing you ask when you don't know what else to say.

"No," she says honestly, "but I'll be okay. How are you?"

"About the same."

Both of them disentangle themselves from the hug at the same time, scanning each other's faces. For a selfish moment, she wants to stay here, like this, and not have to tackle everything else that lies in wait for them. Clarke thinks of Madi, soundly asleep in her cryo pod. "We should wake the others up."

"Jordan," his face twists with a brief glimmer of pain before it returns to normal, "he's waiting for us back in the cryo room."

Nodding, she pulls away from him, wiping at her face, twisting her hair back into a messy bun.

"Ready?" Bellamy says back, holding out his hand for her.

"Ready," she says back, slipping her hand into his. Her heart feels heavy, but beneath that, optimistic too, buoyed by Monty and Harper's trust, the hope of this new world, and Bellamy's warmth, all encompassing in its reassurance and support.