Work Text:
Bellamy stands at the gate to Camp Jaha, watching the survivors trickle in. Many are wounded, some limping, others carried by those who are less badly hurt. But even those who walk unaided are marked by the events of the last few days. They carry shadows in their eyes, a darkness Bellamy has watched grow. He once helped it grow. Now, he wishes he could wash it away.
He watches Jasper enter, clinging tightly to his gun, his eyes blank and unseeing. Jasper. He lost more than most of the survivors, a loss Bellamy regrets more than most. He wonders if Jasper blames him, wonders if he blames Clarke. He wonders if he feels grateful, if he hates them, if he understands. Maybe some of each.
Bellamy isn’t sure if he feels more grateful or guilty. He did what he had to. But at what cost?
As the words flicker through his mind, he sees her. Lincoln’s massive form makes her thin frame look even smaller, curled in on herself. Her eyes are open, trying to glare at those around her, but her body is limp.
“O.” It’s barely a whisper, but her head turns, just slightly. Lincoln comes to a stop, his face unmoving as Bellamy approaches. “How is she?” he asks. She’d been injured in the fighting, never one to back away from a challenge or a chance to prove herself, but still so new to real combat. After sixteen years of hiding, of anonymity, he knows how badly she wants to be someone. He knows she needs to be seen. He still wishes she didn’t, wishes protecting her was as easy as hiding her under the floorboards.
Lincoln says nothing, but his scowl deepens just a tad. Normally, Bellamy might think it was at him. But he can see the tightness in Lincoln’s jaw, the way he glances down at Octavia and then away, like he can’t quite bear to look.
“I’m right here,” Octavia says grumpily. “I can speak for myself.” Her voice sounds as weak as she looks, the force and bite that’s usually behind it replaced by exhaustion and pain.
“We’ll take care of you,” Bellamy says. “Abby and Jackson and the others -- they’ll fix it. They always do.”
Octavia’s head dips in an approximation of a nod. “You always do,” she murmurs. “You take care. Fix…”
Bellamy watches as her eyes slide shut and her head lolls to one side. He tries to swallow down the fear that twists his stomach into knots. “Will she be okay?” he asks Lincoln.
Lincoln doesn’t answer. He walks away, into the camp, joining the crowd of people heading for the infirmary.
Bellamy watches him leave until he can’t bear it anymore. Then he looks back out the gate, where the last of their people is walking through the gate. A few feet behind them, he sees Clarke, giving Monty a tight hug before she watches him walk in.
Clarke. She’d been a thorn in his side, but slowly became an ally, someone he could trust to be honest and logical. They might not always agree -- they might often disagree -- but he respects her even when he doesn’t like her.
He walks over to her as Monty enters the camp. “I think we deserve a drink,” he says. He could use a little pick-me-up. Or a knock-me-out. He’s not particular.
Clarke nods tightly, still staring at the camp. “Have one for me.”
“Kay.” He looks at the camp too, everything they built, all they worked to protect. Killed to protect. Almost died to protect. “We can get through this,” he says. He’s not sure if he’s saying it for him or for her. He’s not sure if either of them believe it.
“I’m not going in.”
Bellamy looks at her. She doesn’t meet his eyes, still staring at the busy movement within the gates. He can almost hear her weighing the choices she’s made, seeing the results spread out in front of her. Seeing everyone who lived, who has made it back home to embrace friends and relatives. And seeing everyone who died, still slumped on tables or sprawled on floors.
“Look,” he says at last. He wishes she would look at him. “If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you.” Her head turns slowly, her eyes searching his. He hopes she finds what she’s looking for. “You’re forgiven,” he says, and he means it. He forgives her. He looks at her and sees -- not innocence, but not guilt. None of their hands are clean. Their innocence died months ago, even years ago. But she is not guilty.
She looks away. Bellamy lets out a silent breath, his chest tight. It’s not enough. He knows it’s not enough. He doesn’t know how to make it enough, how to be enough, how to explain -- anything. Least of all the way that their choices today wrap around his throat, twist through his stomach, tie knots in his lungs. Regret for everything he did, mixed with the certainty that he would do it again.
“Please come inside,” he says softly.
She’s silent for a moment, then looks back at him. “Take care of them for me.”
No. He wants to ask how, wants to ask why, wants to ask what he’s supposed to do without her to balance him. He is impulsive, is selfish, is headstrong. She is too, but in all the ways he is not. They balance. That’s why they’ve always worked so well together -- they fight, they argue, but they balance. He opens his mouth, trying to find the words to explain, but all he can say is, “Clarke.”
“Seeing their faces every day is just going to remind me of what I did to get them here.”
She’s right. He knows she is. He saw those memories in every person who walked through the gate. But they’re his people. That’s why he did it. They’re his. If he doesn’t protect them -- what was it for?
“What we did,” he reminds her. His hand was on hers on the lever. Any blame she carries is half his by right. “You don’t have to do this alone.” He’s not sure he can do this alone.
She stares at the camp like she’s trying to memorize it, or like she’s trying to forget it. “I bear it,” she says, the words echoing with Dante’s voice, with the memories of what followed, “so they don’t have to.”
She sounds steady, resolute. Bellamy wonders how she manages it. Wonders how much of it is an act. Wonders if the weight of the world ever wears her down. He’s afraid of the answers.
“Where are you going to go?” he asks instead.
“I don’t know.” The mask slips, just for a moment, her voice breaking and her eyes growing damp, and Bellamy is almost relieved.
When they were in the Mountain, it seemed like all they had to do was get out, and they’d be free. Everything else would fall into place. It seems naive now, but it was all they had then, all they could do. The goals were simple, the timeline counting minute by minute, racing against death. Now… now they’re out, and he has no idea what to do.
For a moment, he considers offering to go with her. After all, he bears it too. But he can’t leave. He has a duty still. Clarke can take care of herself. He hopes.
“If you figure it out…” He shrugs. “Send word?”
She smiles, though tears threaten to spill down her cheeks. “I’ll try.” She pulls him close, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “May we meet again.”
“May we meet again,” he echoes, ritual phrase turned fervent prayer as he hugs her tight.
And then it’s time. He lets go. She steps back. Takes one last look at him. And she walks away.
She doesn’t look back. He only looks once, then turns to walk into the camp.
~*~*~*~
It’s been three days since Clarke left, and Bellamy is going to lose it. It’s inevitable, really. His whole world is falling apart around him, after he gave everything to try to put it back together. He wonders if this is some sort of cruel karmic punishment for all the lives he’s taken, all the people he’s hurt.
The limp hand clasped in his twitches slightly, and his focus is immediately back to the present. “O,” he whispers, as her eyes flutter open for the first time in a day.
“Bell?” Her voice is thin and reedy, and he has to strain to hear her. “Where’s Lincoln?”
He tries not to feel stung. “He’s sleeping,” Bellamy says, glancing at the still form making use of an empty bed in the next row. Most of the patients have left by now, one way or another. “First time since you got back.”
Octavia manages a flicker of a smile, then winces. She tries to hide it -- tries to be tough, the way she’s been taught -- but pain draws lines on her face.
“Should I get Abby?” Bellamy asks. “Something to ease the pain.”
“No,” Octavia says quickly. “No, I just-” She cuts off with a grunt, her face twisting again.
Suddenly Lincoln is on her other side, his large hand covering her much smaller one. She turns, and her face softens for a moment, smiling at him. “You’re here,” she says.
“Of course,” he says simply. “I will always be here.”
He says it with a certainty that leaves Bellamy equal parts grateful and envious. How could he not be grateful, when the words smooth all the wrinkles from Octavia’s face, even just for a moment? How could he not be grateful, when Lincoln wants Octavia’s safety and protection and happiness every bit as much as he does?
But how can he not be at least a little bit jealous, after so many years when he was all she had -- and she was all he had time to care about?
Octavia smiles at him then, and any thought of jealousy melts away like snow. “You look like shit,” she says.
Bellamy laughs. It’s true. Sleep and showering have been a side thought at best. “Hate to break it to you, sis, but I’m definitely the best-looking of the three of us right now.”
“Gross.” She glances back at Lincoln. “What do you think?” she asks.
Lincoln’s face doesn’t move, and his eyes don’t shift from her face for even a second. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says.
Octavia’s eyes sparkle, and she opens her mouth to speak, but the words dissolve into a pained gasp. Her eyes roll back as her jaw clenches, her back arching as she shakes hard enough to rattle the bed.
Lincoln’s reaction is instantaneous, his hands are gentle but strong as he pins her to the mattress. “Get Dr. Griffin,” he says, but Bellamy is already on his feet. This is routine by now. A terrible, terrifying routine.
Less than a minute later, he’s back, Abby at his side. Abby readies a syringe as Bellamy grips his sister’s arm, holding it steady enough for the needle to slide in easily. Octavia bucks once, twice, then goes still. Her breathing is ragged, her eyes closed. She doesn’t move.
Abby examines her briefly, feeling her forehead, checking her pupils and tongue. Bellamy tries not to watch, tries not to wince as Octavia’s head lolls from side to side under Abby’s hands.
At last, Abby straightens, her lips pressed into a thin line that she tries to soften as she looks back to them. “Another febrile seizure,” she says. “I’ll give her another round of fever reducers. If we can get her temperature down, they should stop.”
The word if hangs in the air, as does the knowledge that the last round of fever reducers did nothing. Octavia’s skin is as blazingly hot as ever, her face damp with sweat even as her hands are as cold as a mountain stream.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” Abby says, heading for the medicine cabinets. Bellamy follows, standing behind her as she looks through shelves full of neatly labelled bottles.
“She’s not getting better.”
It’s not a question. Abby pauses in her search, looking down. “No,” she says softly. “This -- I don’t even know if it’s an infection or some kind of toxin, but whatever it is -- it’s nothing I recognize. And it’s not responding to any of the treatments we have.”
“She woke up for a bit,” Bellamy said. “Before she seized. Seemed completely lucid.”
“Did she?” Abby seems surprised. “That’s good.”
“Is it?”
Abby is quiet for a moment. “Sometimes regaining consciousness is a sign that the body is fighting off whatever is attacking it,” she says. “And sometimes… it lets us say goodbye.”
Bellamy feels his stomach turn to ice. He’d suspected, of course, but hearing it out loud…
“Are you giving up on her?” he says. “After everything she’s done for you -- for all of us?”
“Of course not,” Abby says. “I’ll keep trying. If we can get the fever down, she might…” Abby trails off. She looks tired, Bellamy notices, almost as tired as Lincoln. He wonders if she’s slept.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know this is hard on you.”
Abby looks down. “I’m a doctor,” she says. “Not a soldier. This is the only battlefield I know. But… fighting so many battles is… draining.”
“You’ll try, though?”
“I’ll try,” she promises. “But Bellamy?”
“Yeah?”
“If she wakes up again…” Abby’s face is soft. Pitying. He knows what she’s going to say, doesn’t want her to say it.
“I will,” he says. “I’ll tell Lincoln too.”
He walks away, not wanting to see the apology in her eyes. Not wanting to hear her say the words he can barely stand to think.
If she wakes up again… say goodbye.
~*~*~*~
She doesn’t wake up again.
Perhaps it’s better this way, he thinks, his face stone as he helps lift her wrapped body onto the platform. Perhaps it’s best that her last memories were happy -- as much as they could be. The two people she loved most beside her. Teasing jokes with Bellamy, soft words from Lincoln. Perhaps it’s best that they leave her like that, surrounded by something at least resembling normalcy, instead of wrapped in tears and apologies and trying to say everything perfectly and bungling it all.
He’d rather have his sister back.
Someone stands in front of the platform, says a few poignant words. There’s polite applause, mixed with a few sniffles. Bellamy doesn’t move, can’t move, can’t hear. He stands, fifty feet away, staring at what remains of his family.
A flash of orange, a crackle of flame, and the pyre is lit. He’s a beat behind as he joins in with the crowd’s murmur.
“May we meet again.”
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring at the flames as they rise up, consuming everything they touch, then slowly, slowly sink down to embers. He feels people leave around him, making their way back to the camp, but he stays. He watches the orange glow of the fire flicker and dance, dimly aware of the sky turning the same colour behind the pyre. He almost wishes the fire of the sky would reach down to the earth, burn it all away, leave it clean and new and painless. Maybe it's time for the sun to set on humanity. After all, they've fucked up everything they touched for centuries. Perhaps the world could use a new dawn without them.
“You planning to spend the night out here?”
It takes him a moment to parse the voice. Monty. He tries to speak, but his body feels frozen in place, his throat as locked as his feet and his eyes.
He hears Monty’s quiet exhalation, feels him step into place beside him. “That’s what I thought,” he says.
Bellamy almost laughs at that. Well, not really, he’s still trapped in place, but he at least recognizes the humour. Which is something.
“I’m sorry,” Monty offers after a moment. “I know she meant a lot to you.”
“Everything.” The word feels ripped from Bellamy’s chest, dragged up his throat, leaving claw marks the whole way.
Monty hums in agreement. “She was a special kid,” he says. “Brave. Strong.”
“Too brave,” Bellamy croaks. “Not strong enough.” He wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t save her. When it mattered most… he wasn’t there. So instead, he watched her die in front of him, die slowly, with nothing he could do. He wonders if he'd take it all back, trade everything for a different ending. He's not sure he wants to know the answer.
My sister, my responsibility . But he had failed her.
Lincoln had punched him, when Bellamy had told him what Abby said. Bellamy hadn’t moved, hadn’t resisted, just took it as the fist smashed into his face. In all fairness, he probably couldn’t have done anything if he’d tried, but he hadn’t tried.
Lincoln had every right to be angry.
“It’s not your fault,” Monty says, pulling Bellamy back to the present. Wasn’t it? He was her big brother. He was supposed to protect her. “You can’t save everyone. You do your best, but... there’s always going to be costs.”
Deliverance comes at a cost. I bear it so they don’t have to .
But he can’t. He’s not free. He’s more broken than ever, and he’s breaking. He can’t bear it.
“How do you bear it?” Bellamy asks.
“What?”
“You were there too,” Bellamy says. “You helped us. We pulled the trigger, but you put the weapon in our hands. Don’t you feel…” He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. He doesn’t know how Monty feels. Only that it doesn’t seem to be a fraction of what he’s feeling. Or if it is, he hides it better.
Monty is quiet for a long time. “I guess,” he says at last, “I just figure… we do what we have to. And then… we have to keep moving. Keep living. Because otherwise, what was it all for?” He shrugs, though it feels like his shoulders are heavy with it. “I did what I did. You did what you did. Now we’re here.”
Here. Monty says it like it’s simple. We’re here. But Bellamy has never felt more lost.
“I can’t stay here.” Bellamy isn’t sure what he means by the words, but he knows they’re true.
Monty nods. “I figured as much.”
Bellamy looks at him in surprise. “What?”
“You have the same look in your eye,” Monty says. “The same one she had before she left.”
“She -- Clarke?”
“Clarke.”
Clarke.
He’s barely thought of her since they said goodbye. There was plenty of other things to concern him with, but now -- he understands her more than ever.
There is too much grief here. Too much loss in the faces of these people. Too much they have done, too much he has done to protect them.
Lincoln had left at dawn. He refused to leave Octavia’s side until then, holding her hand through the night as it grew cold and stiff, but once the sun rose, he stood and walked out of the camp without a second glance. Bellamy wonders where he’ll go -- if he’ll return to his clan, if they’d take him back, if he’ll find a new group, if he’ll make his way alone.
It sounds… freeing. To walk away, and never look back. To not have to worry anymore, not have to lead anymore. He’s always felt suspended between the two groups, older than the original hundred in the first dropship, but so distant from those who had sent them down. He’d become a leader to protect himself, to protect his sister, then to protect the other kids, but somehow it kept falling back to him even with the adults around. He’s too young for this, he’s too old for this. He’s too tired for this.
He needs to be free.
“May we meet again.”
Bellamy starts. He’d almost forgotten Monty was there. “May we meet again,” he repeats, reaching to shake the hand Monty offers, but then changing his mind and pulling him into a hug instead. “And thank you.”
“Back at you,” Monty says. “And if you ever need anything -- either of you -- just shout. I’ll -- we’ll -- always be ready.”
Bellamy hopes he won’t need to be.
As he turns and walks away into the setting sun, his footsteps feel lighter already.
~*~*~*~
He finds her trail signs the next morning. They’re subtle, but he knows her touch on the forest. He follows them all that day and the next, and finds her just before dusk, sitting fifty feet up a tree with a gun aimed at his head, wreathed in the red and gold of the sky behind her like a crown of fire. He laughs when he sees her, and she laughs, and half-climbs-half-slides back down to embrace him.
“I wondered if you’d come,” she says.
“I wondered too.”
“I hoped you’d come.”
“I hoped I’d find you.”
She hugs him again, her smile wavering but real.
“Are you okay?”
“Are any of us?”
“Good answer.” She kicks at the ground. “I’m sorry about Octavia.”
He looks at her in surprise. Had she known even when she left how bad the wounds were? “How did you-”
“You’d never leave her,” she says. “But she was the last thing tying you to them.”
He looks down. It’s true. Now he’s unraveled. Adrift.
“Will you ever go back?” he asks.
She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. “Do you want to?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet.” She glances at the sky. “Come on,” she says. “The forest blocks the view of the sunset. But it’s beautiful from the treetops.”