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i.
A fire crackles nearby, its embers floating upwards in escape.
Clarke settles further against her sleeping bag, the material soft yet riddled uncomfortable by the ground beneath. She tucks her cheek against her hand and glances up at Bellamy, his face illuminated by the orange glow of the firelight, brows knitted together in thought. She knows he doesn’t like anything about their current situation, the idea of working with those deemed their enemies from the moment they arrived here still an unwelcome one, a temporary truce still standing on shaky ground.
It’s not like she can say she blames him, really—she knows it’s the right choice to make, the one to keep them from starting a war no one wants to fight. One they’re not equipped to.
Hushed conversation from those around them has stopped, a quiet falling over them. She can hear the insects in the vicinity, the tapping of Bellamy’s fingers against his thigh, but despite all that’s weighing her down at the moment, it’s the closest she’s been to silence in what seems like years . It lets her feel as if, for just a second, the world isn’t resting on her shoulders, though she knows that isn’t the truth. It’s the realization that everyone’s depending on her, the thought of those she’s already let down, that causes her to come back to reality.
When she turns her head to look at Bellamy- really look at him- his own shoulders are rigid, a tension in his jaw that’s only there when he’s stressed, too lost in his own mind.
“You think too much,” she whispers as she sits up, careful not to startle him. The tapping stops as he turns his head to look at her, a mirthless huff of laughter escaping his lips.
“It’s hard not to,” he says as he shifts to face her, leaning against the log behind him. “Besides, you’re one to talk.”
“Like you said,” she starts and swallows heavily before continuing. “It’s hard not to,” and though she’s tried to push it all away, the grief stirring inside her begins to find its way up, eyes starting to burn with tears she knows are a manifestation of her guilt and the pain from the last twenty-four hours. She blinks once, then again, and wills them to go away with the hope that Bellamy doesn’t notice.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, merely watches her, and she knows her hope was fruitless, that it’s come to a point where he’s beginning to know her as well as she knows herself, and she isn’t exactly sure how to feel about that. Maybe she likes it, the thought of him knowing her telltale signs—his ability to understand her without so much as a word spoken between them.
But maybe, just maybe, it terrifies her.
“Hey, you okay?” His voice is gentle, cautious even. As if he’s wary of scaring her away. She nods, but he doesn’t seem to believe her, continuing quietly, “Because even if you’re not… there’s nothing wrong with that, Clarke,” he assures her, and God , does she appreciate him for it. It’s not a novel idea, no, but something she already knows to be true. Yet, hearing them from someone else- from him- makes her feel worlds better than merely thinking so herself.
“I know,” she smiles, reaches out to him. He’s close enough she can wrap her hand around his, appreciate the warmth of it in her grasp. She holds it only briefly, offers a gentle squeeze before letting her hand fall back to her lap, suddenly cold. “Thank you, Bellamy,” and when his eyes flutter slowly as if in disbelief, lashes casting a shadow against his cheeks, she adds, “For everything.”
He watches her, considering, and she half-wonders what he’s doing when he moves closer, cradling her face carefully, almost like she’s fragile goods. She freezes under his touch, and her mind moves too slow, inhibited by it. (It’s unfamiliar yet nowhere near unwelcome). There’s no time for her to question his actions any further before he’s leaning down, lips pressing gently against her forehead.
He doesn’t linger any longer than necessary, pulls back to meet her stare. His thumb brushing against her cheek, mouth tilting up only barely, he murmurs, “Get some rest, Clarke.”
She swallows heavily before telling him, “You too,” though she knows he won’t listen. “There are others keeping watch, you know.”
“Yeah,” he says, wistful. “I know.”
Her words won’t have changed his mind. She knows he’ll keep watch all night, stubborn to a fault, and therefore relents.
With a sigh, she returns to her sleeping bag, though not without one last glance over at him, her skin still afire from his touch.
(The ghost of it continues to linger as she drifts to sleep, and whereas she longs to push the other ghosts haunting her away, she welcomes this one with open arms, easily decides it can remain).
ii.
Broken screams and cries fill the room around them, pain once again restored to those who had forgotten the word and feelings that accompany it.
Alie’s finally been defeated, but the part of Clarke that hoped they would be free is once again filled with dread. She takes a deep breath, tightens her grip on Bellamy’s hand.
His eyes are filled with tears, dark red marring his features, splotches of it mimicking the freckles hidden beneath. Her heart aches for him, wants to reach out and pull him into her arms. She doesn’t, though, stays content with holding his hand in hers as they overlook the room surrounding them.
“She’ll be okay,” she says, knows Bellamy’s still thinking about his sister, the image of her walking away, sword grasped tightly in her hands, still running through his head. He swallows, nods once, but she knows he doesn’t believe her.
It’s later, once they’ve walked away from the scene of heartbreak and destruction that had lay in front of them, that she tells him.
Clarke leads him to a vacant room down the hallway, pushes the door open gently, but it still makes a noise in response. The space is dark, light just barely coming in through the windows on the far wall. Her limbs feel tired, mind even more so, and with only a short glance in his direction, she walks over to the bed in the center of the room and takes a seat on the edge.
She looks down at her feet dangling just barely above the floor as Bellamy gently sits next to her, their arms brushing slightly. She can feel his gaze on her, knows it’s time to tell him, and lifts her head, eyes meeting his. Able to draw the strength she needs from the silent reassurance he’s always been able to give her, she begins.
Voice wavering, head clouded with harsh thoughts of what the future holds- his reaction- she repeats what Alie told her. He’s quiet as he takes in her words, brings a hand up to squeeze her arm gently when it gets too much and suddenly they’re caught in her throat.
“We’ll figure something out,” he says. It’s not a promise, nor is it a sentence she figures he, himself, believes. It’s said out of a hope he somehow still has for a world that’s already tried to ruin them one too many times, out of wanting to provide the comfort he knows she would provide him.
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t,” he starts, turning to face her. “But I do know that we’ll try our best to, and if it doesn’t work…” he trails off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t work. Based on past experience, though,” he pauses, tilts his head in a smile. “I think I like our chances.” She can’t help but do the same, mouth turning upwards before she can try to stop it.
“If you say so.”
“I do.” His thumb brushes against the back of her hand as he leans over, closes what little space there is between them with the soft press of his mouth to her temple. It’s unexpected, doesn’t fully register until his lips are already on her skin. Her stomach flips in response, feeling sick with want, and when he murmurs, “We’ll be okay, Clarke,” she wants to believe that, in some way, they will be.
They’re both exhausted, skin tacky from sweat and covered in blood.
The world might be ending, too, but with Bellamy on her side, it doesn’t seem so daunting.
Maybe he’s right, she thinks. Maybe they’ll be okay.
iii.
Six years of radio silence and a dead planet with only a child to keep her company.
When his silhouette appears outlined by lights of the rover, an ethereal figure coming to save the day, she doesn’t believe her eyes.
Then he speaks, rough and deep, and she knows that voice, but still doesn’t understand, too scared to hope that it’s really him. For a moment, she thinks she’s gone insane, that the damage from the collar around her neck combined with the isolation she’s been forced to endure for so long is manifesting once again in hallucinations of him.
Her stomach sinks with fear, and she can only hope that isn’t the case.
She doesn’t believe he’s real until he’s in her arms once again, his jacket clutched tightly between her fingers as she buries her sobs against his shoulder, tangible and as solid beneath her touch as he ever was.
"You’re real,” she chokes out, pulls back to look at him, hand roaming upwards to cradle his jaw. The scruff she finds there scratches at the palm of her hand, lights up her nerve endings. He nods, unable to find the words to respond, and then they’re pulling each other in again, tighter this time.
She doesn’t know how much time passes, only knows the racing of her heart and the feeling of contentment, relief unlike any she’s ever felt knowing that he’s here; that she didn’t have hope for so many years only to have been proven wrong.
When they pull back this time, he doesn’t allow her to go too far, keeps her cradled in his arms as he plants a kiss to her forehead, another gently to the crown of her hair as she tightens her grip around him in response.
"God, Clarke,” he breathes against the top of her head, moves to bury his face against her neck. “You’re alive.”
“I’m alive,” Clarke repeats, hand trailing across the top of his back. Her throat is thick with tears, limbs shaking, and she can’t seem to quit touching him—craving human touch whilst simultaneously continuing to reassure herself that he isn’t a figment of her imagination.
She sinks further into his embrace, breaths coming easier now.
Six years apart was enough to feel like a lifetime, and she knows tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, but she’s grateful for right now.
+i.
Shots sound in the distance.
Clarke wrings her hands together in an attempt to still them, to keep from picking at the string hanging from the bottom of her frayed top, the cracked skin of her lip. To keep them from being drawn to the back of her neck, skin aching where it’s been stitched back together, a harsh reminder of what she’s been through the past few weeks. What they’ve both been through.
(They haven’t talked about it, and she doesn’t know whether to be worried or grateful for the fact. The desperation in his voice as he begged her to come back to life, declarations of, “I need you,” and, “I’m not letting you go,” sounding too close to the three words neither of them dare to say — it’s all too much.)
She peeks around the fabric covering the window to look outside, droplets from the sky beginning to sprinkle upon the forest below, and catches a glimpse of him in the reflection of the glass, leaned over the old fireplace. Cracks have made their way into the bricks, falling apart from lack of maintenance. He’s crouched in front of it, dark curls falling forward into his face as he tries to spark a fire, obviously struggling. His shoulders slouch, gray cardigan falling loosely over them, and she longs to hold him close to her again.
The fire sparks, and suddenly, they have heat, both taking a seat on the tattered rug in front of it. There’s a notable distance between them, their bodies close yet far enough they don’t touch. She longs to close it, but doesn’t, and can feel his eyes on her.
When she looks over at him, he looks away, turns his attention to the flicker of the flames in front of them before running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t say anything, but she can tell he wants to, if the way he’s fidgeting is any indication. Her eyes brim with tears, and though she knows he’s aware of her stare, she refuses to look away.
“Thank you,” she whispers, voice weaker than intended. It’s nowhere near enough to express how she really feels, the gratitude and admiration in her heart for the man beside her more than she ever thought humanly possible. Quiet for a moment, she continues, “For saving me again.”
He watches her, his expression fragile, eyes tired from a sleepless night. After a moment, she sees him swallow, his mouth lifting halfway into a smile.
“Somebody had to,” he jokes, but it falls flat. They both know it isn’t what he really wants to say, and after a moment of seemingly fighting with himself, he grows somber. “I thought I lost you.” His jaw clenches, eyes filling with tears. “You were gone, Clarke, you were-”
“Hey,” she says, moving closer until their sides are flush against one another. She can see him getting worked up, thinking too much. He shakes his head, about to start speaking again when her hand moves to cradle his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “I’m alive, Bellamy. I’m alive because of you.”
“Clarke-”
“No, don’t start that, okay?” she whispers. “Gabriel gave up on trying to save me and so did Octavia. They thought I was gone, but you? Bellamy, you refused to give up,” her voice breaks at the end, and there are tears trailing down both of their faces, but she continues. Softer, “You're the one person who's never given up on me. Without you, I would be gone.”
With a gentle hand, Clarke brushes his hair away from his forehead, lets it rest there, and in wishing to comfort him in a way she knows he’s comforted her in the past, leans up on her knees to press her lips against the skin above his brow. He’s shaking, breaths coming in pants as he tries to calm down, and she presses another kiss to his forehead, this time lingering. He freezes under her touch, grips her tight where his hands have come to rest on her waist.
“I’m here,” she says, pulls back to hug him properly. He grips her body tight against his, makes a broken noise as he does so.
Muffled against his shirt, she assures him, “I’m not going anywhere,” and hopes he understands.